Page 70 of The Mistletoe Dare

Mr Lane-Fox,

Your company is requested at:

Cavendish House

For the event of

The Viscountess Cavendish’s New Year’s Ball.

Cavendish House, The Strand, London.

―Excerpt of an invitation to Mr August Lane-Fox from The Right Hon’ble Aashini Anson, Viscountess Cavendish.

30th December 1840, Wildsyde Castle, Scotland.

“Georgie!”

Georgie squealed as her father caught her up and swung her around, just as if she were a little girl again, which she most certainly was not.

“Pa!” she laughed, clutching at her bonnet. “I’ve only been gone a few weeks.”

“Dinnae ever go again! Leastways not at Christmastime. Ach, I missed you, lass.” He hugged her again and kissed her cheek.

“I missed you too, Pa.”

“And do you think I might get to greet my daughter, you big ox. Give me some room,” her mother scolded, pretending to push Pa aside, which was about as much use as pushing at the castle walls whether she meant it or not.

“Stop bullying me you dreadful woman. I saw her first,” Pa grumbled, but winked at Georgie and stepped aside so she could hug her mother.

“I’m so pleased to see you, Mama,” Georgie said with a sigh of relief as her mother hugged her. Mama looked up, perhaps noting the anxiety in her voice, though Georgie tried to hide it. But Mama was perceptive and nothing much got past her.

“Yes, I think we’ve a lot of catching up to do,” her mother said, her eyes glinting with interest as she patted Georgie’s cheek. “But first tea. Mrs MacLeod has been cooking up a storm and there’re more cakes and biscuits than we can possibly eat in a sennight, so I hope you’re good and hungry.”

“I’m famished,” replied a deep voice from behind her, and Georgie turned to see her brother, Muir. At three and twenty, he was a strapping, brawny young man, and much like his father, with wild tawny hair like a lion’s mane and hazel eyes. “Back, are ye?” He was filthy, his heavy boots caked in mud as was the rest of him, his kilt sodden and dirty, and his shirt had fared no better. Heaven alone knew what had become of his coat. He looked like someone had dragged him through a ditch.

“Have you been wrestling pigs again?” Georgie asked, because even for Muir, he was in a frightful state.

“Oh, what have you been doing now?” her mother asked, regarding her middle son with a fond mixture of exasperation and resignation.

“‘Twas nae ma fault, Ma,” he said defensively.

“This ought to be good,” Pa muttered, folding his arms.

Muir returned a reproachful expression. “I’m pure done in, an’ me a hero.”

“A hero is it?” his father said sceptically.

“Aye. I pulled young Douglas Macmillan out old Mrs Brown’s well. Little eejit’s been told a dozen times not to play there. Ach, ye should have heard him holler. Reckon I’m deaf in one ear.”

“Good heavens!” his mother said in alarm. “Is the child well?”

“Aye, not the sense he was born with, but nowt but some scrapes and bruises, though his grannie tanned his arse, so he won’t sit easy for a day or two.” Muir grinned, looking well pleased with himself. “See, I told ye, ‘twas not ma fault this time.”

“This time,” his father said with a snort, but clapped his son on the shoulder. “Ye did good, laddie. Now go and clean up. Ye smell like a dead ferret.”

Muir gave his armpit a cautious sniff and pulled a face. “Not that pretty, aye. Good tae see ye, yappy dug.”

Georgie rolled her eyes at the insulting childish nickname her brothers had saddled her with, but replied in kind. “I suppose I missed you too, dunderhead.”