Page 65 of The Mistletoe Dare

His mouth trailed ardent kisses down her neck, returning to nip at her earlobe until she was panting and desperate. Something hot and demanding throbbed in her blood, pulsing in the private place between her thighs as his body fit snugly against hers, as if he’d been made for her, and she knew it would be far too easy to give in, to let this feeling rule her and take her choices away.

“I want you, love, so much, and it seems you’re not entirely repulsed by my touch either,” he added, something in his voice between amusement and wonder.

Georgie gazed up at him, staring into his eyes, seeing his hard features gentler than ever before, despite the harsh glare of daylight that did not treat him kindly, highlighting his flaws. Most might turn away, might call him ugly, but she could not. He was compelling, yes, but so much more than his scars and his damaged exterior. She did not see the scars anymore, not as flaws, at least. They were simply a part of him. He was Rochford, big and intimidating and bad-tempered and gentle, and thoroughly overwhelming. Georgie gasped as his hand cupped her breast and squeezed. Despite the layers of clothing under his hand, his touch sent a jolt of lust through her that made her moan with pleasure. His breath caught, and he kissed her again, deeper and more insistent, and Georgie wrapped herself tighter about him, vibratingly aware of his arousal between them, of how it made her feel to know how badly he wanted her. As badly as she wanted him.

He stared down at her, his face intense, a desperate look in his eyes that made her heart jitter with agitation. “Ah, Georgie, marry me and have done with this. Why wait? You want me too, by some miracle. Be my duchess and I’ll treat you like a queen. You’ll have anything you want, anything at all. You need only name it. I’d give you the world if I could.”

Panic rose like a hot tide, smothering desire. No. She couldn’t. It was ridiculous, far too fast. This connection to him was too intense, too terrifying, and based on little more than physical lust. He was overwhelming her, with his hopes for what she would give him, with his desire for her and his domineering ways. She’d not let him rush her into a decision she’d have a lifetime to regret. She did not give a damn about the damage she could see. It was the damage inside him that made her shy away.

She pushed at his chest, shaking her head. “No. No, I can’t. I’m sorry, Rochford… I can’t.”

He rolled aside, letting her up at once and loss of his heat made her shiver, the removal of his powerful body leaving her weak, and uncertain of everything but her need to get away from him.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, and fled.

Chapter 17

Bainbridge,

Tell me what you know of Miss Vivien Ashton. I think your wife is friends with her. I met her today and cannot get the image of her beautiful face out of my mind. She is simply stunning, and I may be an arrogant devil, but I think she took a shine to me.

I only ask because she strikes me as the kind of woman who—well, who causes mayhem of the same variety as my mother and sisters. Lord help me, Laurie, but I do not need another female in my life that likes excitement and sets off explosions whenever her feet touch the ground. I want to put all the inappropriate behaviour and folly of the past behind me and live in a peaceful household where I can wake up each morning without being thrust into somebody else’s drama.

Unless you can write back and tell me I have misjudged, I believe I must ensure our paths do not cross again.

―Excerpt of a letter to The Most Hon’ble, Lawrence Grenville, The Marquess of Bainbridge from his friend, Mr August Lane-Fox.

19th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.

Joe took one look at Rochford’s face and thankfully refrained from making the obvious comment.

He’d cocked it up.

Not just a little either, but badly. He was so bloody furious with himself he wanted to hit something. Hard.

Joe sighed and went out of the room, returning not long after with a decanter of brandy and a glass. He poured a large measure and handed it over.

“Want to tell me about it?”

“Not really.”

“Right you are.”

Joe took himself off the adjoining room, where Rochford could hear him doing some aggressive tidying.

“I asked her to marry me,” Rochford said miserably, before downing the brandy in one large swallow and setting the glass aside.

All movement ceased in the adjoining room. A moment later, Joe looked around the door. “You great pillock.”

Rochford put his head in his hands and groaned.

“What on earth made you do such a thing?” his valet demanded.

“I don’t know. She was there, in my arms, and it was so bloody perfect and… and I panicked. I knew in that moment there was not another woman alive who’d want me like that, who could put up with me and give as good as she got. I had to have her.”

“So you proposed.”

“Yes.”