Page 3 of Mistletoe Minx

Stunned at his shocking lapse, Dalton could only blink. And yet in a timely rescue for Frances that could only be called divine intervention, the carriage stopped outside Elliott House, the Marquess and Marchioness of Kyle’s town residence. It gave him a moment to collect himself, and he pulled back, pretending to dust a non-existent speck from the knee of his formal gray breeches. Seconds later, the carriage door was opened by a footman and the steps folded down.

Dalton stepped out, the frigid sting of December night air on his face a welcome relief for his overheated body. Then he turned and offered his hand to Frances.

As she climbed out of the carriage and looked around, Frances took a deep breath. “Look at the decorations! All that greenery around the door—why, it looks like holly and mistletoe. And there are wassailers inside. Can you hear them? How wonderful!”

He hesitated. From someone else, that might have been nervous babble. However, Frances was calm and dignified in all situations; she was probably just eager to see her friends. “Indeed. But we must not linger out here, lest we turn into icicles ourselves.”

“Of course,” she replied, curling her hand around his arm.

As Dalton and Frances walked toward the wide double doors they immediately opened, and the Kyle butler bowed. “Good evening, Your Graces. Please do come this way to join the receiving line.”

Dalton sighed in relief. A crush of a party and hundreds of people to distract Frances from his foolish misstep. Hopefully after several glasses of excellent wine, dancing, and time with her friends, she wouldn’t even remember it.

Hopefully.

After six months of marriage, she had finally glimpsed Dashford the Rake’s lethal wicked charm. Now she understood why women from all corners of the kingdom had fought like barn cats for the chance to leap into his bed, scandal and propriety be damned.

Dashford was indeed dangerous.

Her mind still spinning, her lip and chin still tingling from his touch, Frances tried desperately to regather her composure as they joined the end of the receiving line. But his words kept shrieking through her head.

So obedient. For a moment there I thought you might be a provocative little minx and require discipline.

The way Dashford had near-purred the words, like being a provocative little minx was a very, very good thing. He’d also made discipline sound…enticing. Something sensual. As for that teasing caress of her lip…no, more than teasing. Possessive. Like he wanted to restrain and arrange her for his pleasure. For heaven’s sake, she had almost lost her senses and opened her mouth for his thumb!

But did it mean anything? Anything at all? Or would the Duke of Dashford’s wife merely be another notch in his bedpost before he grew bored and moved on?

“Your Grace, how wonderful to see you. I know Lady Kyle has been greatly anticipating your arrival.”

The words startled Frances from her jumbled thoughts, but she managed to smile warmly at Arran Elliott, Marquess of Kyle, as he bowed over her hand. No rake here, just a stern, serious, ebony-haired man who loved his wife Rachel and doted on their baby daughter, Cassandra. From what Rachel had mentioned, he was most ardent in the bedchamber. “Good evening, my lord. I have been counting the hours.”

A small twinkle lit his gray eyes. “Go on, then. I hereby release my wife from receiving line duty. I’m sure you’ve much to discuss.”

“Dearest Frances,” said Rachel, the brown-haired, petite and lusciously curved Marchioness of Kyle, her exotic hazel eyes gleaming like golden guineas. “It seems your gown hem needs a little repair. Would you like to accompany me to the powder room?”

“Yes. Please. Er, blasted hems,” Frances mumbled, linking her arm with the other woman’s before turning to her husband and bobbing a curtsy. “Excuse me, Dashford.”

With only a small detour to collect Rachel’s sister-in-law Lady Celia Jarrow, who was with her husband Harry at the refreshment table, the three women were soon barricaded in the elegant gold-and-cream withdrawing room. While it had no fireplace, there was a large metal tray of gently steaming hot bricks in the corner for warmth, several padded stools, a large gilt-framed looking glass, and a bowl with a pincushion of needles and various colored threads for actual hem emergencies.

Rachel perched awkwardly on one stool, her ruby-red ballgown fluttering around her ankles. “I know you have an important tale to tell. Please proceed.”

Tall, sleek, auburn-haired Celia whipped out her fan and leaned against the wall, a portrait of finery in her violet gown. “Yes, tell me or I’ll explode. This is so exciting! Harry will just have to pine for me for a while.”

Frances hesitated. Rachel and Celia were both so wonderfully broadminded and plainspoken, but they were actually married to men who loved them dearly. Bedding had never been a grave disappointment, just endlessly pleasurable. Because of her smiles and evasions, both women assumed she enjoyed the same.

Everyone assumed that. She was Fortunate Frances after all.

“I…I’m not quite sure how to begin…” she admitted.

“Have mercy dearest, my backside is still tender from a cropping I received earlier. I cannot perch for long,” said Rachel with a dreamy, thoroughly contented sigh.

Celia hooted. “You confessed to our pleasure toy shopping trip, didn’t you?”

“I did! My husband had no choice but to administer correction for such mischief. Now, don’t you dare say what you purchased for Harry, my delicate ears cannot hear of my brother’s bedchamber activities.”

After moving to place her hands over Rachel’s ears, Celia glanced over her shoulder at Frances, grinned, and mouthed cock ring.

A near-hysterical giggle escaped Frances. No two people in the world could advise her better. And they had complete privacy in here.