Page 67 of The Mistletoe Dare

The words of her dare stared back at her reproachfully as her mother’s voice echoed in her ears.

Trust in the dare, Georgie. It will lead you where you need to go.

Georgie groaned and wondered what on earth she ought to do now?

24th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.

As Rochford had assumed, Georgie avoided him. Oh, not completely. If they were in company, she was scrupulously polite and included him in conversation. She did not look at him directly though, and if there was the slightest chance of being alone with him, she ran like a frightened rabbit with a hound at its heels.

Despite Joe’s nagging and counsel, Rochford sank into despondency. He did not know how to fix what he had so clumsily broken. What did he expect, though?

You great clumsy brute. You ought not be around civilised people. Oh, why did your father have to die of disease and not you?

He pushed the hateful words away and told himself it didn’t matter. So what? Yes, he was big and coarse and ugly, and people didn’t like having him around. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know it. He’d been mad to think Georgie was different. No. She was different, kinder and more compassionate than most, but not fool enough to tie herself to him forever. Perhaps if he’d bothered to be the least bit patient, if he’d treated her with more care, he might have stood a chance, but that was the trouble with him. He did not know how to be careful. A memory surfaced of a smashed porcelain tea service and his mother’s fury, but he buried that memory along with her accompanying words. Not the lesson though. He remembered the lesson. He broke things because fragile, pretty things did not belong in his world. He’d learned that a long time ago, or thought he had. This was just a reminder, that was all. One he had sorely needed.

Well, this wretched holiday would be over soon and his obligation to be a polite guest at an end. He’d go back to Mulcaster, where the great stone walls of the castle were better equipped to handle his particular brand of care.

It was late in the evening now, and everyone had gone to bed. Georgie among the first to leave, hurrying away in case he spoke to her alone. Rochford walked about the house as the servants gave him a wide berth, maids giving him anxious stares of alarm as he prowled about by himself. He would not sleep this night, though, and despite his dejection, he found pleasure in the way the grand house looked, even the way it smelled.

There was greenery everywhere: great boughs of holly and fir and mistletoe, kissing boughs and cleverly arranged wreaths studded with apples and pears and red berries. Christmas roses shone like stars in the glinting firelight, and the scents of cinnamon and exotic spices lingered in the air. This was what some people knew Christmas looked and smelled like. He had known that, but never experienced it first-hand. He wondered if Georgie would have made the big inhospitable castle he called home feel this way, cocooned in festive colours, the very walls of the building infused with the scent of a family at home with itself and its surroundings. You could almost touch the contentment in this place. The Bedwin family was large and powerful and yet, at the heart of it, was a household that loved and cared for each other and those around them.

Rochford moved to the fireplace, studying the beautiful arrangement of greenery, ribbons, and fir cones that adorned the mantle. One large candle burned at the centre, and he watched it flicker as his presence stirred the air, moving closer.

Movement behind him made him turn his head, but there was no one around. He stared at the flame for a moment longer, and then reached up his hand and snuffed it out.

Georgie took the stairs two at a time, reaching her room breathless and with her heart thudding wildly.

Stop it, she told herself, blinking back tears. You cannot marry a man because you feel sorry for him.

But her heart was aching.

She had waited until she was certain everyone must be abed before creeping downstairs to retrieve the book she’d left in her haste to escape the parlour earlier that day. It was the only way she had slept at all these past days, by reading until she was too tired to keep her eyes open. But then she’d seen him, walking about the house in the dark, all alone. She had watched him for a while, seen him touch a finger to the petal of a Christmas rose and stand admiring the decorations. At first she’d smiled at the sight, for he’d seemed like a boy, full of wonder on the most exciting night of the year, except then she’d caught sight of his expression in the firelight and known he was looking upon this as an outsider, curious to know about the world other people lived in.

He’s not something you can mend, Georgie. This is your life. It isn’t your job to fix him because he’s broken. He might break you if you’re fool enough to try.

Except something inside of her did not believe that and knotted up in her belly, tight and anxious. Georgie lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, a small slip of paper clutched tight in her hand.

Chapter 18

August,

If you are looking for a quiet, biddable wife, I suggest you give Miss Anson a wide berth. She is a headstrong female with a mind of her own and ‘opinions’. Your mama would adore her.

Frankly, if a creature as beautiful as that has given you anything resembling encouragement, I should say ‘tally ho’ and ‘Godspeed’. Why on earth would you want to marry a milk and water female when you could have one like that? She’ll lead you a merry dance, I grant you, but it will be a devilish lot of fun along the way.

―Excerpt of a letter to Mr August Lane-Fox from his friend, The Most Hon’ble, Lawrence Grenville, The Marquess of Bainbridge.

25th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.

Georgie surveyed the parlour. The hour was growing late, and everyone was too full to move after the most splendid Christmas dinner imaginable. Jules had given up on being sociable an hour ago and was stretched out in an armchair, snoring softly. His sister Lottie had fallen asleep against her husband, Cass’s shoulder, while he sketched Evie and the comte. They were both intent on a game of whist, their concentration absolute. The children had been allowed to stay up late, far too excited and full of sweetmeats to go to bed yet… except for one-year-old Octavia, who snuggled in the duchess’s arms, blinking sleepily, determined not to miss anything. Her papa looked on fondly and reached out, stroking the baby’s soft cheek and murmuring something that made Aunt Prue smile up at him with adoration shining in her eyes.

Rosamund was doing her best to keep the younger children’s attention on a board game named enticingly, The Majestic Game of the Asiatic Ostrich. From what Georgie could gather, the game itself was less exciting, offering lessons in Ranks and Dignities of the British Peerage, Clergy and Military. Fred and Aggie were most vocal in their demands to play spillikins or another round of charades. Little Harry was sitting on the rug by his mother’s feet in front of the fire, lining up his new toy soldiers in neat ranks.

Octavia finally gave into sleep after being given into her father’s care. The duchess regarded her sleeping daughter with a smile and then reached out, ruffling her small son’s hair affectionately. Harry glanced up from his soldiers and grinned at her before turning back to the war in progress. Georgie looked up to see Rochford watching the boy too, watching the way the duchess’s hand lingered in her son’s soft curls. As if sensing her gaze, Rochford turned towards Georgie, and then looked away. He moved to stand by the window and pulled the curtain back. Large flakes of snow fell outside, soft as down. The perfect Christmas scene.

Rochford pulled the curtain back into place and moved to the duke and duchess.

“Thank you for a wonderful day, duchess,” he said to Aunt Prue. “I shall not forget it.”