Page 7 of The Mistletoe Dare

“Ah, there he is, my dearest pal.” Jules gestured affectionately across the table towards him.

Rochford shook his head in exasperation and returned his attention to his dinner. A moment later, he felt the unmistakable sensation of being scrutinised, one which he would usually ignore. People always stared at him and whispered to each other, and he was past caring what they thought. Yet this time the sensation nagged, and he turned to discover the woman at his side studying him. He glowered back at her.

“Thank you,” she said.

Rochford sat back, surprised. “For?” he demanded, wondering if it was a trick.

“For keeping Jules out of trouble,” she said, and Rochford felt a surge of resentment for the familiar way she spoke about his friend.

He wondered if perhaps there was an understanding between them and had to batter down an unwelcome flood of bitterness. She was beautiful and well-bred, no doubt an ideal bride for the handsome young man. Blackwood had told him she was Lady Georgina Anderson, daughter of the Earl of Morven, though whoever had the raising of her had been wise enough to work the Scottish accent from her speech. The ton did not tolerate such differences, like a face that was scarred and twisted. Irritated by her gratitude, though he did not understand why, Rochford turned to look at her.

“He was a damned fool for going to such a place.”

She stared at him, narrowing her eyes. “Perhaps he was. I was only thanking you for your kindness in helping him.”

“I didn’t do it to be kind.”

Her gaze upon him was steady. He had to give her credit for that, for unless they were whispering about him from a safe distance, most women would not meet his eye.

“Then why?”

“I knew Bedwin would owe me a debt of gratitude if I saved his heir’s neck.”

He watched her, waiting for her contemptuous expression, when she realised he’d done it for his own gain and not out of any sense of fair play.

“Well,” she said, after a long moment. “Whatever your motivation, I am grateful for it.” She returned her attention to her dinner and did not speak another word to him all evening.

Chapter 3

Laurie,

I may well take you up on your invitation—not the one about finding a wife. I’m uncertain my nerves could stand more female company at the moment. If ever I marry, I shall find the sweetest natured, most docile and compliant female that I can. I do not care if she is plain, or fat or thin, so long as she is amiable company and does not create scandals nor make things explode in my face.

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

Evening of the 7th of December 1840, Beverwyck, London.

Evie hesitated at the top of the stairs as she heard muffled voices from below. Footmen spoke in hushed tones before walking off and going about their business. She held her breath, cursing to herself as her stomach rumbled ominously. Drat the thing, if her stomach made a racket and got her caught, that would just be typical of her luck. She’d barely eaten a thing at dinner, which had been utter misery as she’d watched all the mouth-watering courses come and go, but she was determined to do her best. Louis had promised to fix the horrid pink gown she was wearing, or burn it, but if she were just a few pounds lighter, it would make the job much easier, surely?

Evie waited until she was certain the servants had carried on their way, then picked up her skirts and ran down the steps, the material billowing and rustling as she went. She could not help but grin as she ran through the darkened corridors and rooms on the way to the library. There were stunningly beautiful women of all ages who would go to extreme lengths to be alone with Louis César and here she was, plain little Evie Knight, meeting him in private. Of course, there was nothing the least bit romantic in their meeting, but it amused her to imagine their reaction should any of those women discover it. Not that they ever would. No one must ever know, for it would be a shocking scandal and then poor Louis would have to marry her. That would never do, though she wished she could find a nice, kind woman who would love and care for him as he deserved. She had tried, but no one ever seemed to be quite right. Yet, anyway. But surely there must be someone for him. Georgie, for example, was very kind and loving, and the sight of Louis had certainly made an impression on her Evie remembered her friend’s stunned expression with amusement.

She quickened her steps as she reached the library door and, with one last furtive look over her shoulder, she slipped inside.

It was dark, apart from the warm glow cast from the hearth, where a fire burned low.

“Louis?” she whispered. As there was no answer, she moved towards the fire to wait for him. A few minutes later, the ornate grandfather clock that stood in the entrance hall chimed the hour as the door opened silently and a tall figure entered the room.

“Louis!” Evie exclaimed, and ran to him, hugging him tight.

“Evie, you little wretch,” he said with a sigh as his arms closed around her. “You nearly did that earlier in front of everyone and set them all talking.”

“I know, I am sorry,” she said sheepishly. “Only it’s been months and months, and I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, ma petite.” He hugged her briefly before letting her go. “Now, let us have a proper look at this offensive gown and see what we can do with it.”

Evie waited, holding onto a chair as she felt a little lightheaded. She was curious to know what on earth he had in mind for the ugly gown she was wearing. Louis crouched by the fire to light a taper and then went and lit the lamps. When he was satisfied there was enough light, he turned back to her. As they had done earlier, his brows drew together. Well, it was an ugly gown.

“Evie? Are you certain you are quite well?” he asked, moving closer to her.