Page 41 of The Mistletoe Dare

“But?” he asked gently, a smile in his eyes.

“But if you married and—”

He shook his head, the smile vanishing. “Never, Aggie. You may be easy on that point.”

Aggie nodded, reassured.

“I need some fresh air,” he said, though the weather outside was cold and grey. “Would you like to come for a walk before tea?”

Aggie nodded, leaping up to take his hand. “Yes, I’ll come, but may we have crumpets when we come back?”

He chucked her under the chin and winked at her. “You may eat crumpets and jam until you burst.”

Aggie grinned and followed him out of the room.

Chapter 12

Dearest Aisling,

I hope you are having a marvellous time at Rowsley Hall. It is a shame I won’t see you this Christmas.

I would be having a lovely time here at Beverwyck if not for the presence of the most vexing man who ever lived. If you didn’t know already, that title belongs to the Duke of Rochford. Oh, how I hate him!

Except I don’t hate him half as much as I should, which is horribly frustrating. Why must men be so difficult? It’s like they are an entirely difference species. If only I could talk myself out of liking a man I dislike so much and please do not write back to tell me that doesn’t make the slightest bit of sense, for I am very well aware of the fact.

Oh, I shall run mad!

―Excerpt of a letter to Lady Aisling Baxter (daughter of Luke and Kitty Baxter, The Earl and Countess of Trevick) from Lady Georgina Anderson (daughter of Gordon and Ruth Anderson, The Earl and Countess of Morven).

14th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.

Rochford glowered as his valet laid out evening clothes on the bed.

“I never said I was going to the bloody bedamned ball!” he barked at the young man, who didn’t bat an eyelid. But then Joe Browning didn’t bat an eyelash at much at all, which was the reason he’d got and kept his job for almost a full year, unlike every valet who had come before him. At best, they usually lasted around six months before they decided enough was enough.

“No, you just stomped about all day with a face like a slapped arse,” Joe remarked, a comment which would have earned him instant dismissal from most employers, if not the nearest heavy object flung at his head.

Rochford, however, wasn’t most employers.

Joe hadn’t even wanted the position as valet, protesting he didn’t know the first thing about it. But he’d spent much of his life working on making costumes for a big London theatre and he knew clothes. Rochford had been desperate, and at the time Joe had no better options. He’d warned Rochford that he’d speak his mind and if he didn’t like it, he could lump it. Strangely, Rochford had discovered he preferred someone who wasn’t merely polite because he was paid to be so and told him when he was being a bastard—which was most of the time.

“Now,” Joe said, clearly striving for patience. “Why don’t you sit your bottom down in that chair and let me trim your beard. You’re looking more like an angry bear with each day that passes.”

“To the devil with you!” Rochford muttered crossly, feeling increasingly like an angry bear.

Joe sighed and folded his arms. “You’re being a big baby. She asked you to go, didn’t she? She wants you dance with her.”

“Asked. Wanted. Past tense,” Rochford bit back.

Joe’s lips took on a pinched expression as he made a little moue of displeasure. “Well, so you cocked things up. Don’t we all? Now, get yourself prettied up and go and apologise to the lady.”

“Prettied up?” Rochford repeated, incensed.

Joe rolled his eyes and waved a delicate hand. “Yes, yes, you’re a big strong fellow who could snap me in two and you’re not the least bit pretty. A great, ugly devil you are. There, better now? You still want to look your best, don’t you?”

Rochford snorted and folded his arms.

“Oh, I swear I don’t know why I bother,” Joe threw up his hands and flung himself down in the nearest chair. “Why I gave up my work at the theatre for this, I truly don’t know.”