Page 35 of The Mistletoe Dare

“Go on, then,” she said, aware that her frustration with him was simmering beneath her skin.

Why couldn’t the wretched man just dance with her once? Because you’re supposed to stay away from each other, returned the voice of reason. She told it to shut up. Rochford was going to have something to say about being too familiar with the staff and she was spoiling for a fight.

“None of my business,” he said, the words spoken through gritted teeth.

“No, it isn’t. Nothing I do is your business. You don’t give a damn, and that’s fine. Well, I shall go to the ball and find someone else to dance with. I suppose there’s the Comte de Villen to look forward to. Perhaps he’ll deign to dance with me more than once.”

“Stay away from him,” Rochford said, his voice hard.

“None of your business,” she replied in a singsong tone. She got to her feet and smoothed down her skirts.

He glowered at her, folding his arms. “It isn’t, but if you’ve a lick of sense, which I’m well aware you haven’t, you’ll stay away from him.”

“Why should I? He’s charming, unlike some people,” she retorted, aware only of the desire to prick at his temper because it was better than being ignored, damn him.

“He is, and as cool as the North Sea. You’ll never know what he’s thinking, for he gives nothing away, and you’ll never reach his heart. He’s not the type. He’s no husband for you.”

His grey eyes were impassive. She wanted to strike him.

Fists clenched, Georgie glared at him. “You can’t judge people that way, Rochford. You don’t know him at all.”

His voice was low and even, emotionless, and yet she sensed the tumult of feeling boiling beneath the surface as he spoke. “I can and I will. I know human nature well enough to judge it. I’ve seen enough to know what’s likely, and I recognise damage when I see it.”

“Damage?”

“Yes, damage. I’ve watched him, the way he holds himself apart. Not all scars are visible, Lady Georgina. That man’s got a past, I tell you. A dark one. The kind that will haunt him and make him a wretched partner in life. Believe me, I know the type. He’ll make you miserable. If he has a grain of decency, he’ll never marry at all.”

“Why must you always expect the worse?” she demanded, shocked by his words, by what it revealed about him as much as the comte. “So what if you’re right? Perhaps he has a dreadful past to overcome. Perhaps he needs someone to love him, to heal him. Maybe if you gave people a chance for once in your life, you’d be pleasantly surprised.”

“I’ve given chances enough and had every one of them thrown back in my face,” he retorted, and there was something raw and unguarded in the words that gave her pause. The kittens stirred, unsettled by the noise and Rochford picked them up, carrying carefully them inside to where their mother had been snoozing with one eye open, watching proceedings. Rochford put them down beside her and stalked back outside.

“Rochford,” Georgie said, hurrying after him.

“Go away.”

“Rochford, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, you never mean to,” he muttered, not slowing a whit.

“Oh, please stop,” she begged, picking up her skirts to run after him. “Rochford, don’t be cross.”

“I’ll be cross if I choose to be, you irritating baggage, and you may follow me about all day if you wish, but it won’t change my temperament. I’m a devil right enough and you’d do well to stay away like we agreed.”

Georgie knew she ought to stay away, and not because of his words. She had a growing suspicion he wasn’t half so awful as he made out, and she knew that gaining that knowledge of him would be dangerous. But surely, if someone attempted to please him occasionally, he’d not be so cross? Of course, she was not a likely candidate for that position, as she’d put him in the devil’s own temper in the first place.

Instead of returning to the house, he diverted to the gardens, obviously hoping to lose her if he walked long and fast enough. Georgie was used to walking miles over rough terrain, though, and in all weathers. After a good half hour of military style marching, he relented. They’d come to a large lake that cut through the landscape in a narrow sickle shape, giving the impression of a river as it disappeared into thick woodland. Large rocks jutted out of the hillside and Rochford sat upon one, staring out at the water.

Georgie glanced at him, noting the uncompromising line of his jaw. He was still furious. She swallowed, wishing she knew what to say, but how could she know? He’d said he recognised damage when he saw it. Well, the reason for that was obvious, and perhaps the answer was the same as the one she’d given for the comte.

She bit her lip, trying to gather her nerve, uncertain whether she would make him angrier still, but it was all she could think of, and it had to be worth the risk. Tentatively, she reached out and took his hand, pulling it into her lap and holding it within her own.

He stiffened for a moment, and she could almost hear the words brewing on his tongue, angry words that would flay her and leave her smarting. They never came. He let out an uneven breath but didn’t move, just stared out at the view. She left him to his thoughts for a while, just holding his hand, hoping perhaps it gave him some comfort, for surely that was what this man so desperately needed, even if he didn’t want it.

“This is one of my favourite places on the estate,” she said eventually. “It’s so peaceful.”

He returned a wry look that made her smile.

“Well, if you don’t come with someone whose tongue runs like a fiddle. I tried for as long as I could. Give me some credit,” she said.