Page 32 of The Mistletoe Dare

“You mean I don’t know nearly enough,” she retorted. “You don’t tell me anything anymore.”

“I ought never to have told you a damned thing in the first place,” he said darkly. “I am not a good friend to you, Evie.”

Evie reached out and took his hand. “Don’t say that. You are the best friend, Louis. My best friend. Please… don’t stop being my friend. I could not bear it.”

Louis didn’t look at her, but squeezed her fingers before he withdrew his hand. “Non. I won’t stop, though I ought.” He returned to his work and then straightened, standing back to look at her. “Lovely.”

Evie smiled, knowing he was being kind, but confident that it must look a good deal better than the horror she had given him. “Thank you so much. I don’t know how you did it, but I won’t feel such a fright now stood beside all the beauties.”

“Merde, stop speaking of yourself so, Evie!” he said, his voice hard and his eyes flashing with irritation. “You are forever doing that. It is they who should compare themselves to you, and don’t you forget it.”

Evie looked at him in surprise, taken aback by the vehemence of his anger. “Yes, Louis,” she said meekly, uncertain once again of his mood and deciding it was best simply to agree with him. “Would you undo me, please?” she asked, turning her back on him.

She waited, but he didn’t move. Evie glanced over her shoulder at him. “Well, I can’t do it by myself, so unless you want me to sleep in it—”

“Dieu ait pitié,” he grumbled, but began deftly undoing the dress.

Evie held her breath until the bodice sagged and then scurried behind the bookshelves again. She had just unlaced the corset and put it aside when he spoke.

“You can manage now, I think. I had better go.”

“Oh, no, wait!” Forgetting herself entirely, she went to stop him and then realised she wore only her shift as Louis swore violently and turned his back on her. “Putain! Evie, for the love of God!”

Evie gave a little shriek and disappeared again. “Sorry, I forgot!” she said, mortified as she stripped off the shift and dressed again in her nightclothes.

“I think you forget a great deal, Evie,” he said, and he sounded really cross now. “You forget just who and what I am. I’m not another damned debutante, you do realise that? I’m a man, and an unmarried one. I think sometimes you want us to be caught so you’ll be ruined!”

“I do not!” she retorted, for really, that was dreadfully unfair. “I would never do that to you, Louis. You know I wouldn’t. I know you don’t wish to be married, and it would spoil everything and make us both wretched.”

“Yes,” he said, his voice tight. “It would. So have a care.”

“Yes, Louis.” She peeked around the bookshelves at him. He still had his back to her, his shoulders set. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you,” she added contritely, though as an inexperienced virgin she could not help but find his outrage somewhat entertaining in the circumstances.

Louis snorted and let out a breath. “Oui, I know. Now give me the wretched gown. I’ll have it sent to you once it is finished, but you must take the shift and corset now.”

Evie nodded and gathered up her things, hugging the box to her chest. She gave him an awkward smile, unsure if he was still angry with her. “Thank you for everything, and I am sorry for being such a trial to you.”

He smiled then, and she thought he looked tired, though his expression was warm, the first proper smile she’d had from him all evening, she realised. “You are not a trial, ma puce, but a joy, and I am unworthy of your friendship. Forgive me for being so cross and unkind.”

“You’re never unkind, Louis,” she said honestly.

“Ah, but I am,” he said, and though she did not understand his words, some sixth sense told her she had better not question him. Instead, she bade him goodnight, and hurried back to her room.

Chapter 10

Jules,

I’ll be in town for a couple of days after your mother’s ball. We should go out. It’s been an age. I seem to remember you still owe me for our last little adventure.

―Excerpt of a letter to The Most Hon’ble Jules Adolphus, Marquess of Blackstone (Eldest son of Prunella and Robert Adolphus, Duke and Duchess of Bedwin) from his friend, The Right Hon’ble Philip Barrington, Earl of Ashburton (Son of Lucian and Matilda Barrington, The Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu).

13th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.

Georgie woke early once again. She had not slept well. Forcing herself out of bed, she washed, splashing her face several times with cold water to rid herself of the gritty eyed feeling from lack of sleep. Despite her tiredness, she felt restless and irritable.

“You’re in a bad skin this morning, aye?” Meg observed as she brushed out Georgie’s hair. “Yer lookin’ a bit peely-wally.”

“Aye,” Georgie muttered absently. She simply could not stop thinking about last night. What was wrong with her? Of all men to get herself all in a dither over, it had to be Rochford. Honestly, why could she not get herself in a lather over a nice, even-tempered fellow?