Page 66 of The Mistletoe Dare

“What did she say?”

“She said no,” Rochford snapped testily, as if that wasn’t bloody obvious.

Joe pursed his lips and folded his arms, repeating with excessive patience, “What exactly did she say?”

“She said, ‘no, I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m sorry,’ or words to that effect. Then she burst into tears and ran as fast as she could. She’s likely in Scotland by now, she moved so bloody quick.”

Rochford watched as Joe stalked up and down the bedroom, muttering under his breath, no doubt cursing his employer’s stupidity. Rochford didn’t blame him. He wanted to go back in time and make it right, but he’d wanted that before now and nothing ever came right once it had gone wrong, so he might as well accept the fact he’d messed it up and lost her.

“Don’t look like that,” Joe said, scowling at him.

“Like what?” Rochford demanded, reaching for the brandy bottle and pouring a large measure.

“Well, if the next words out of your mouth are, ‘pack my bags. We’re going back to Cumbria.’ I’ll wash my hands of you for good.”

Rochford snorted and shook his head. “I may as well. She’ll avoid me now.”

“And with good reason. You scared the poor girl off.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” he yelled.

Joe raised an eyebrow. Rochford huffed and reminded himself he was trying to behave in a more civilised manner. He reined in his temper… not that there was much bloody point now.

“Right, you cocked it up. Again,” Joe said with a sigh. “But, on the positive side, she let you kiss her again. All is not lost. She likes you. You just overwhelmed her. Though, to be fair, it’s hard to see how you could do otherwise,” he muttered, eyeing Rochford up and down.

“Don’t humour me, Joe,” Rochford said. “If I get the chance, I’ll apologise, but she’ll keep her distance now.”

“Don’t you go falling into one of your black moods,” Joe warned him, hands on hips, his expression mutinous. “I can’t do a thing with you when you get yourself in a tizzy. It’s like you dig a great hole and pull a big black cloud over your head.”

“Probably to escape your nagging,” Rochford muttered, pouring himself out another large drink. “Leave me be, will you?”

“Fine,” Joe said, but he strode over and snatched up the bottle of brandy. “But you’re not pickling yourself too. We’ll find a way out of this. We just need to think. In the meantime, you’re to go down to dinner tonight and make yourself agreeable, and find a quiet moment to tell her you’re sorry you scared her.”

“Right,” Rochford said dully.

Not that he thought Joe could fix it. Joe had made a better job of his appearance than any of his other valets, so at least he did not look like a barbarian in a suit. He also talked to him as if he was a real person and didn’t leap out of his skin in terror when Rochford stomped about like an enraged bull, but he couldn’t mend the past. No one could. No matter how much they wanted to.

Meg stared at her, mouth agape. “Yer aff yer heid,” she said, folding her arms and looking utterly disgusted. “Ye mean to tell me ye could have been a duchess, married to that great big hunk of a man, and you said no?”

“I am not fool enough to marry a man I barely know when I’ve spent half the time I have known him wanting to wring his blasted neck!” Georgie flung back, though in truth she was utterly wretched.

“You could have got to know him, ye great numpty. Just because you didn’t want to marry him tomorrow, dinnae mean you couldn’t keep yer options open.”

“It’s not kind to give men false hope,” Georgie said, but her throat was thick and the idea of going down to dinner made her nauseated. She’d eat in her room tonight. Might be safest.

“I could ha’ been lady-in-waiting to the Duchess of Rochford,” Meg groused, shaking her head sadly. “But nae, ye’ll go back to Wildsyde and marry that gowk who’s always mooning about after ye.”

She picked up Georgie’s discarded coat and muff, giving both items an angry shake.

“He’s not a gowk,” Georgie retorted, pulling the pins from her hair. They were stabbing at her skull and her head was pounding. “He’s very well read. I’ll have you know. He writes poetry,” she added, as if that settled it.

Meg stared at her and made an expressive sound of disgust before stalking off and leaving her alone.

“Oh, Mama,” Georgie said aloud. “Whatever ought I to do?”

She put her head in her hands, staring at the carpet beneath her feet where a tiny slip of paper caught her eye. Georgie bent down and reached for it, knowing already what it was.

Kiss a man under the mistletoe.