Page 27 of Mistletoe Minx

CHAPTER 8

He was a damned bloody fool.

Twice now, Frances had bravely shared her desires with him. Exactly as he hoped a lover would. And twice now, he had faltered in his reply.

Inwardly seething, Dalton leaned against a fallen tree trunk and watched the other warmly dressed party guests climb out of the large sleighs that had transported them from the manor to this snow-covered clearing about a half mile away.

Being bacon-brained and tongue-tied was new and extraordinarily humbling for a duke who had never struggled with words. Not in the House, not at a dinner or ball or party, and certainly not with a mistress. Yet with his duchess, it seemed words couldn’t possibly encompass the emotions that kept threatening to burst free from his chest like fireworks.

Why was it so different with Frances? Why was declaring himself in precisely the right manner so important?

“Are you…brooding, cher?”

He glared at Juliette, once again looking maddeningly gleeful; a vexatious Christmastide sprite in her ruby-red hooded cloak. “You’re not exhausted after all that meddling in my marriage?”

The countess wiggled her eyebrows. “Everyone knows I possess astonishing stamina. But as your wife is occupied building snow sculptures with the other novices, I shall meddle some more. Have you told her you’re madly in love with her yet?”

Dalton choked on a lungful of frigid air. “I beg your pardon?” he spluttered.

“Oh dear,” said Noah cheerfully as he joined them and slung an affectionate arm around his wife. “Dash wheezed. What did you say, my darling?”

Juliette sighed and nestled against him. “I merely enquired if he’d told a certain novice that he loved her yet.”

“For God’s sake, man,” said Noah, rolling his eyes. “When Frances is nearby, you forget the rest of the world exists. When she’s elsewhere, you watch her like a hawk, ready to swoop and claw. You damned near lose your mind at the thought of her with another chap. Plus, we all know your minstrel’s gallery interlude was spectacularly successful. In summary: you have a bold, beautiful wife who wants to be yours in all the ways you enjoy, who cared enough to beg Jules for an invitation here⁠—”

“And suck practice cocks,” added Juliette pointedly.

“Exactly,” agreed Noah. “So what, pray tell, is the problem?”

Juliette sniffed. “Apart from Dash being an English nobleman. Noah is the rarest of the breed: without a treacle brain and stiff upper lip.”

“Just a stiff something else,” said Noah as he cupped her backside, making her giggle.

Christ Almighty.

“If you are both quite finished,” said Dalton irritably. “I’m not a voyeur. Or sitting accused in the docks. The problem is, I’m no goddamned poet. And now the thought of having children with Frances feels exhilarating rather than a duty…but what if…what if I turn out like my father? I would hate for my sons or daughters to ever feel so…so lonely. So unwanted. That they only mattered for the title or an advantageous marriage.”

“Never,” said Noah, unexpectedly fiercely. “You are nothing like that frigid bastard, God rot his soul. The truth is, none of us know what to do when we first hold those little scraps with the big wail. But I simply thought…what would I have liked as a lad? That was easy. Someone who cared. Someone who cheered and consoled me. Someone who answered questions, took me on adventures and kept me safe. You can do all of that, Dash.”

Juliette nodded. “Oui. And there is no need for poetry, cher. Your wife enjoys blunt words, not flowery ones. Once you reveal your heart, she will reveal her face, then you can both be who you really are. Listen to us. This is the best meddling you’ll ever hear!”

“Amen,” said Noah, leaning down to kiss the top of her head.

Dalton swallowed hard. Put like that, it all sounded eminently possible. Perhaps he could, in fact, do this.

“You are excellent friends, but I have to go and find my minx,” Dalton said abruptly, turning and marching along the beaten snow path toward the group of ten novices.

“Bonne chance!” called Juliette behind him.

As he approached the novices, Dalton’s lips twitched at the three snow sculptures. One was an enormous cock that jutted out of a small rise, another spread thighs complete with leafy bush, and Frances was studiously smoothing what looked remarkably like bound wrists.

How could his wife be so perfect?

“Impressive,” he murmured. “Nothing like some sturdy restraints.”

Frances glanced up and shrugged. “It’s said that Christmastide wishes come true. We shall see.”

“Might I…” said Dalton, pulling his greatcoat tighter as his heart thundered. “Might I have a private word?”