Page 4 of Mistletoe Minx

“I must start by apologizing, for I have been lying to you both,” she began.

Both women stared at her, obviously confused.

“Lying? About what?” said Rachel.

Taking a deep breath for courage, Frances met their gazes. “My marriage isn’t a love match. And…and…my wifely duties have been a terrible disappointment. Everyone calls me Fortunate Frances but Dashford visits once a week and it’s rather perfunctory and I’ve never…I’ve never had an orgasm…” she finished on a whisper.

Celia gaped. “Are you saying London’s Legendary Lover is…bad in bed?”

“No. Bad in bed with me,” muttered Frances, humiliation heating her cheeks. “I thought he loved me but he never wanted this. I’m a duty, nothing more, only chosen because I had the correct lineage and manners and the promise of fertility. Except I’m even failing that; I’m still not with child.”

“Oh, Frances,” said Rachel softly, reaching out to take her hand. “What a heavy burden to bear.”

“Dashford isn’t being cruel, is he?” asked Celia, her gaze narrowing. “Because six months is no time at all. Why, Harry and I were wed a year before I fell pregnant with Matilda, and we are frequently intimate. In fact, we are trying for another babe, but have no expectations for how long it might take because no one knows!”

“No,” said Frances swiftly. “Never cruel. Just…distant. Even without love, I thought at least the bedding part would be enjoyable. All those scandal sheet stories couldn’t be wrong!”

Rachel tilted her head. “But something happened. You were flustered when you walked in the door, and you are never flustered.”

“In the carriage, Dashford asked about a dance this evening. When I said yes, he…uh…”

“He what?” shrieked Rachel and Celia, almost in unison.

Frances whipped out her own fan in a futile effort to cool her face. “He took my chin in his fingers and rubbed his thumb across my lower lip and said, ‘So obedient. For a moment there I thought you might be a provocative little minx and require discipline.’ Dashford has never said or done anything like that before. Ever.”

Celia clapped her hands together. “That is wonderful news!”

“It is?” said Frances uncertainly. “But then we pulled up outside and it was like it never happened⁠—”

An impatient knock sounded at the door.

“Oh bloody hell,” growled Rachel, before calling out sweetly, “just a moment!”

Then the marchioness stood and smoothed her gown. “We must return to the party, but let’s continue this very important conversation tomorrow. Eleven o’clock in my parlor. A successful plan will require all our best thoughts as well as tea and apple tarts.”

“What do you mean by plan?” asked Frances, hope dawning just a little.

Her friend beamed. “Last December at a country inn I made an outrageously bold decision that led to true bliss, in the bedchamber and out. Now, it’s your turn. This Christmastide, Frances Dashford, you are going to seduce the seducer!”

CHAPTER 2

The party was indeed a crush; the fickle ton conveniently forgetting they had collectively flapped and squawked for months at the eminently eligible Marquess of Kyle marrying a maid, who was also the illegitimate daughter of a viscount, back in January.

In truth, since Lady Kyle and her sister-in-law Lady Jarrow had so warmly welcomed Frances to the hospital fundraising committee and proven to be loyal friends rather than sly gossips, Dalton made a point of attending their soirees and cutting those who spoke against them. A kindness to his duchess was a favor to him; the ton well knew that a duke held far more power than simply lands and wealth.

Besides, he rather liked the young marchioness. Her difficult upbringing had given her great courage and she didn’t tolerate nonsense. Not to mention he actually envied Lord Kyle, for the way his wife gazed up at him like he was the sun, the moon, and the stars, was something to behold. Apparently love matches could be found in real life and not just in the pages of novels.

Dalton clenched his jaw, annoyed at himself for even conjuring the unruly thought.

No doubt he was suffering the effects of too much pre-Christmastide cheer and not enough fucking. The Kyles had spared no expense in the seasonal decorations and entertainment; their ballroom looked like a rustic country inn complete with roaring fireplaces, a makeshift pub serving ale and mulled wine, wreathes of holly and mistletoe, wassailers singing carols, and a refreshment table that included miniature plum puddings and gingerbread. Also, instead of the usual string quartet, musicians dressed as old-fashioned jesters were skipping about playing violins and fiddles and flutes. Even the most notorious sticklers were whooping and clapping and stomping their feet to raucous country dances.

“What do you think, Dashford?”

Dalton tapped his chin, as though carefully considering the young buck’s question and not feverishly trying to recall what the group of gentlemen were actually discussing. He’d been far too distracted by the sight of a pink-cheeked and giggling Frances dancing a lively reel to truly pay attention, and if her partner continued to grip her waist like that, he would shortly lose a hand…

Napoleon’s life on Elba. That was it.

“I would be far more reassured were the Corsican imprisoned in the Tower rather than gadding about a delightful island off the coast of Tuscany, complete with his own small army and navy,” said Dalton, before taking a sip of excellent brandy.