Page 38 of The Mistletoe Dare

“Really? Because Jules looks like he’s ready to demand satisfaction,” he remarked, folding his arms.

Those arms had held her against him just minutes ago. What a fool she was for believing he’d understood she’d been trying to comfort him, to soothe something raw and broken and—and perhaps he’d been right. Some things could not be fixed. Not by her, at least.

“Jules, there’s no need to get all upset about my honour,” she said to him stiffly, her cheeks blazing with mortification. “I kissed Rochford. He took no liberties, I assure you.”

“No, they were handed me on a plate,” he said darkly.

Jules took an angry step forward, his expression murderous, but Georgie put out a hand, staying the motion.

She turned back to the duke, praying she could disguise how much his words hurt her and hold back the tears burning behind her eyes. “Just so we’re clear, Rochford, I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth, and it’s nothing to do with your scars, but because you’re a coward. You’d rather believe the worst of everyone than put yourself at risk of getting hurt. Well, you were right. We ought to stay away from each other. You can rest assured that I will do so from now on.”

Georgie stalked away with her head held high, and managed to get out of sight before the tears began. She paused for a moment, leaning back against a tree as she fought for calm. Fool. You stupid, stupid fool, Georgie. She wept and berated herself until she was calm again.

Then she found her handkerchief, wiped her eyes and blew her nose, and hurried back to the house.

Chapter 11

Dearest Georgina,

I expect you have already written, but the post is so dreadfully slow I suppose I must be patient a while yet to receive it.

I do hope your journey to Beverwyck was uneventful. We miss you terribly, darling, especially your father, who sends his fondest wishes, but with luck you are enjoying all the diversions London can offer you and having a marvellous time. We long to hear everything you have been up to, so write often or your Papa will be on the next carriage south with your brothers. They miss you too, which is evident by the increase of bickering between them.

We have dressed the castle up in its finery for Christmas, and this morning had a thick snowfall. The children have been out making snowmen and having snowball fights, which naturally all the men at Wildsyde felt obliged to join in. A fierce battle was waged here, and I must confess to having done my part to defend our castle.

Papa bids me tell you now that I am a dreadful turncoat and hit him in the back of the head on purpose despite being on his side. (The temptation was too great to deny.)

―Excerpt of a letter to Lady Georgina Anderson from her mother, The Right Hon’ble Ruth Anderson, The Countess of Morven.

13th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.

Rochford watched Jules warily. He might be a deal taller and wider than the young man, but he wasn’t about to underestimate him. He’d seen the devil fight, and he looked as if he wanted Rochford’s head on a platter.

“You bloody bastard,” Jules said, his voice low and unmistakably angry. “It’s bad enough you insult me, but to hurt Georgie like that! How could you, Rochford? Can’t you see the girl likes you, though God alone knows why! Come to that, I’m not sure why I like you, either.”

Rochford snorted. “Perhaps you don’t. Hardly a bloody surprise, that. I got you out of a difficult situation, that was all. It doesn’t make us friends.”

He turned away, intending to leave. He’d leave Jules standing here, the only man who’d ever troubled to be a friend to him. He’d leave Beverwyck, leave Lady bloody Georgina Anderson, and go back to Cumbria, to that monstrosity of a castle that so befitted his wretched title.

Something inside him was bleeding, though. He could feel it. A wound so profound there would be no burying it this time, but he didn’t know what else to do. He made people angry. He made people hate him. It was easier that way. Easier than seeing disgust or distaste or worst of all, pity.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Jules grabbed hold of his arm and stopped him. “You’re not turning your back on me.”

“Want satisfaction, do you?” Rochford said coldly. “Fine. Give me a place and a time.”

“Don’t be an unspeakable arse, Rochford. I will not put a bullet in you, though I’ll admit the idea is growing on me.” Jules glared at him.

“What, then?” Rochford demanded wildly, just wanting this over with. He needed to get away from here, from all of them and their happy, bloody families, before he did or said something truly reprehensible. Oh, wait—too late.

Jules took a deep breath and Rochford got the distinct impression he was praying for patience. Well, he could hardly blame him. When Jules turned back to look at him, the fury in his eyes had dimmed a little.

“You’re right about one thing. I hoped you might make a match with Georgina.”

Rochford’s jaw tightened at the admission.

“Do you know why?” Jules asked him conversationally.

“Because your friend has a fancy to be a duchess, I don’t doubt,” he said irritably, unable to think of any other reason.