Page 3 of The Mistletoe Dare

“The touch of my hand, as you damn near broke your neck in your haste to run away.”

“I wasn’t running away, you—you merely startled me, that’s all.”

He snorted, and the contemptuous curl of his lip made her too-ready temper spark to life.

“If you go about lurking in dark corners, I wonder you don’t expect such a reaction,” she retorted. “Perhaps you did it on purpose?”

“You think it my habit to linger in the shadows and frighten maidens? Ah, yes. I see what manner of man you have painted me as. No doubt I eat small children for breakfast?”

“I never said that!” Georgie exclaimed in outrage, wondering why he was so damned touchy. She was the one sprawled on her backside and looking like a fool. Oh, what was the use? She scrambled to her knees and got up without his help, brushing her skirts smooth with sharp, agitated movements. Glaring at the big brute, she lifted her chin and hurried past him towards the shelves reserved for novels. Her heart was still beating too fast, but Georgie did her best to calm herself, making a show of perusing the titles on offer but far too aware she was being watched. His gaze seemed to burn her back through her gown, and she lasted precisely two minutes before she reacted, turning to meet his gaze. Instead of looking guilty for staring, or at least looking away and pretending he hadn’t been doing anything of the sort, the arrogant devil just continued to watch her.

“Was there something you wanted, sir?” she demanded, folding her arms. Goodness, but he was a mountainous size, and she was used to being around hulking Scotsmen. She realised now that what she had believed to be a sneer was a scar that scored deep into his cheek and tugged his lip out of line. He wore a beard, the hair thick and dark, and she wondered if he did it to cover his skin, which was badly pockmarked. He was not a handsome man, but certainly compelling.

His grey eyes never wavered from her face.

“Being alone with me is inadvisable. You ought to leave,” he observed coolly. “Or have you no concept of polite manners?”

Georgie could not help the snort of amusement that escaped her. “Polite manners? This from a man who won’t offer a woman his hand to help her up.”

He shrugged, unimpressed. “I would have offered. I was only ensuring you wouldn’t swoon if your dainty hand touched mine.”

“Nonsense. You were enjoying looking down on me and feeling superior.”

“I wasn’t, but I might now, considering I have never in my life met a more ill-mannered, sharp-tongued harpy.”

Georgie’s mouth fell open in shock. She was used to trading insults with her brothers, but for a man she didn’t know from Adam to speak to her so…!

“You should leave,” he said again, his voice firm. “For I’ll not have you ruined and the blame laid at my feet, if you’re considering trapping a rich husband.”

Georgie closed her mouth with a snap before her jaw hit the floor in outrage.

“Trap you,” she repeated faintly, “into marriage?”

She gave a startled laugh before she could think better of it, and then tried her best to smother the next, and then the urge to laugh was so strong she could not help but give into it. Georgie laughed and laughed, clutching at her sides until tears rolled down her cheeks.

She tried to stop. Truly, she did. Except every time she looked up and saw his expression of disgust and the icy glare in his eyes, it set off another bout and she went off into whoops.

“When you’ve quite finished,” he said, sounding as if he’d happily pick her up and throw her out of the nearest window, given the opportunity.

“I beg your p-pardon, sir,” she stammered, doing her best to smother her laughter, but her voice quavered with amusement.

“Your grace,” he said, growling the words with obvious relish.

Georgie blinked, stunned into silence. The word grace and this man did not belong in the same sentence. Wait. Your grace. Your grace? He was a duke? Little by little, the colour leached from her face. She felt it go, along with any vestige of warmth she’d regained since she’d arrived at Beverwyck. Lud. She’d been in town for five minutes and she’d insulted a duke. Oh, good heavens. Her mother would kill her.

“Do run along,” he said, his grey eyes glinting with a look that suggested she ought to do as he said, or else she would not like the consequences.

Finally intimidated, but refusing to be entirely cowed, Georgie turned back to the shelf, snatched up the nearest title, and stalked past him with her nose in the air.

Rochford let out an uneven breath as he heard the library door close. He raked a hand through his thick hair and glowered at the bookshelf in front of him as if it had personally offended him.

Damn her.

He had not expected to feel at home here, in this place of happy families and friends and warm welcomes. Bedwin and his duchess had always acted kindly towards him, no doubt hoping he’d be of use to them at some point, or perhaps in gratitude for saving their son’s neck. To discover that even here they viewed him as a monster, however, was hard to bear. He’d assumed Blackwood’s parents would have warned all their guests of his presence, no doubt apologising and asking them to endure his company as best they could. Well, the warning had not gone far enough for that young beauty.

When she had hurried around the corner, almost throwing herself into his arms, for a moment his breath had caught. It had barely lasted a second, yet he could recall every damned detail. She was glorious. She was extraordinarily tall for a woman, and her skin was impossibly pale, like alabaster. Her dark curly hair had tickled his cheek and the delicious scent of vanilla had invaded his senses. Her long, thick eyelashes swept down over eyes the colour of whisky, and her body… God. Statuesque was hardly an adequate description. Desire uncoiled deep in his gut as he remembered the lush curves of her hips and full breasts. Abruptly, he made himself remember the look in her eyes as she’d seen his face, the shock and revulsion.

Remember that, you damned fool.