Page 6 of Mistletoe Minx

“Should the lovely Fortunate Frances wish to let her hair down in all ways, might I suggest securing an invitation to Lord and Lady Warenne’s annual Christmastide house party? It is a decadent feast for the discerning senses⁠—”

“Her Grace’s hair will remain as it is, refined and secure.”

Frances froze. The voice to their left was Dashford’s and yet…decidedly not. Usually, her husband used one of three tones: cool courtesy, languid amusement, or persuasive summary of facts. Yet those words had been nothing short of menacing fury.

Was she about to witness fisticuffs in the Kyle ballroom? Pistols at twenty paces?

Frances’ heart thundered in her chest, but the viscount swiftly stepped back and inclined his head, an immediate concession of defeat. “Of course, Dashford. Humblest apologies. Good evening.”

“Good riddance,” muttered Dashford, his lips twisting and emerald gaze almost black as he watched the other man hurry to the safety of a group including the Prince Regent.

Astonishing.

Her husband never swooped in like that, and she’d danced with many other men at balls. When some kissed her hand, he’d not so much as twitched!

Was it because the viscount had mentioned that house party? Judging by Dashford’s reaction, he did not deem the Warenne Christmas soiree an acceptable topic of conversation. Was it particularly wicked? Scandalous? Her husband might even have attended. A decadent feast for the discerning senses certainly sounded like the stage for London’s Legendary Lover.

Frances deliberately bit her tongue to halt the flood of questions. It was highly unlikely her husband would reply…but Rachel or Celia might know, and they would provide full and frank answers. She could ask them tomorrow.

Instead, she smiled sunnily at Dashford. “Is something amiss, Your Grace? Do you not like his lordship?”

For one staggering moment, her husband scowled. Then his face cleared and he smiled politely, like they were acquaintances meeting on a stroll in Hyde Park. “Let us retire to the refreshment table, Frances. I hear the gingerbread is exceptional.”

Irritation burned at the blandness of it all. That cool ducal mask was the bane of her life, but the accompanying impersonal courtesy made her want to hurl something. “No, thank you,” she replied shortly.

Dashford actually blinked. “No?”

Frances almost laughed. Indeed, only a brave soul said no to Dashford. But tonight she flew on wine-wings and her words would not be constrained. “I prefer to dance and it sounds like the next tune is to be a waltz. Apparently, there are many gentlemen who yearn to hold the Duchess of Dashford close. Excuse me.”

A sharp inhalation was her only warning before her slender wrist was shackled by one large ducal paw. “I forbid it,” he growled.

Inexplicably, the sensation of restraint caused heat to pool at her core and Frances quivered. Yet his unwarranted scolding made her want to rebel, and once again, the wine imp unleashed. “Do you? Oh dear. Someone should alert Fleet Street. Halt the presses, the Duke of Dashford hath made a proclamation!”

Now, Dashford’s eyes flared at his duty wife openly challenging him.

Eventually, he inclined his head. “I believe you promised me a dance. We shall waltz. Come, Your Grace.”

Before she could even protest, Dashford expertly turned her toward the other dancers and that large ducal paw was anchored at her waist. Burning through her white satin gown like a brand that ventured achingly close to both her backside and the underside of her breasts, yet not nearly close enough.

Damn him!

Frances looked away, willing her body not to respond as he moved her effortlessly around the ballroom in perfect harmony with the music. But it was no use. With a dance as intimate as the waltz, she was surrounded by his scent, that intoxicating blend of heat, brandy, a little peppermint, and the herbed water his valet used after shaving. Far more humiliating, her husband touched her so rarely, even in bed, that when he deigned to do so, she bloomed like a flower in the sun. Right now her skin was tingling and warm, her nipples hardening into points, and light perspiration dotted the back of her neck.

Blast. She had not considered this sufficiently at all—Dashford, dancing, and mulled wine was not a sensible combination. For heaven’s sake, all she wanted to do was rub herself against him like a cat! Rub and rub until the ache eased…

“Frances?”

She almost stumbled at the sharpness of his tone. “Yes?”

“The dance has finished,” he continued curtly. “But you are clearly unwell, so we shall take our leave. Wait here, I’ll make our farewells to the Kyles.”

Confusion swirled. She wasn’t the slightest bit unwell, apart from the cruel malaise of being unwillingly aroused by a husband who didn’t love her.

Frances sighed glumly. Naturally, a mostly enjoyable night would end early. But at least she had tomorrow with Rachel and Celia to look forward to.

That was something, at least.

Who was this woman calling herself Frances Dashford?