Page 73 of The Mistletoe Dare

“There’s no secret,” Rochford said, meeting her father’s eye. “Morven, I should like to court your daughter.”

Her father stiffened, his eyes narrowing. “I did nae know you’d met my daughter.”

“Who is he?” Hamilton demanded of Lyall, in a far too audible whisper.

“It’s the Duke of Rochford, ye stoter. Do ye ken anyone else with a face like that?” Muir returned before the eldest could reply.

Lyall smacked the back of his head and gave Muir a warning look to hold his tongue.

“Is Georgie to be a duchess?” Hamilton asked, not taking the hint.

“Not today,” her father said darkly, narrowing his eyes. “Rochford, come to my study.”

Rochford nodded, apparently undaunted, and followed her father across the hall. Georgie sent an irritated glare at her brothers and hurried after him.

“Rochford,” she whispered, making him turn his head, though he did not pause. “Don’t mention the ribbons!”

Rochford’s face creased in confusion, and she suspected he believed he’d misheard her. Ah well, it was too late now. The door of her father’s study closed behind him. Georgie turned back to see her mother watching her with sympathy.

“He looks like the kind of man who can hold his own,” she said reassuringly, before turning her attention to her sons. “Where are your manners?” she demanded of Muir and Hamilton.

Hamilton looked indignant, folding his arms and scowling. “What? I only asked who he was,” he protested.

“Numpty. A giant with a ragged scar splitting his cheek nigh in two. Who the bloody hell else could it ha’ been?” Muir demanded. “You’ve heard the talk of him. We all have.”

“Language!” Mama said, exasperated now. “Lyall, keep them out of the way until we know what’s happening, please.”

Lyall simply nodded and herded his brothers down the hallway. He never flapped his gums if he didn’t need to.

“Mama!” Georgie pleaded. “Won’t you mediate, please? I might not be certain I wish to marry him, but I’d like the chance to decide for myself before he’s frightened away.”

Mama patted her arm and smiled. “He does not strike me as a man who frightens easily, darling, but yes. I will see what I can do.”

Georgie sighed and had to be content with that, so followed her brothers down the hall.

Rochford looked about the large and comfortably furnished study. It was a very masculine room, with dark wood panelling and the walls painted a rich deep green. There were bookshelves crammed with titles that looked both loved and well read, rather than merely bought for decoration, and several landscapes, both of the castle itself and the surrounding landscape. From what Rochford had seen of it so far, it appeared as hard and uncompromising as the man before him, but that was fine. He was ready to fight for what he wanted. His gaze drifted to a large stag’s head with a fine rack of antlers, and then he blinked as he saw… pink satin ribbons. Someone had adorned the antlers with pink ribbons. Tied in pretty bows.

“Whisky?” Morven demanded.

“Yes,” Rochford replied, still staring at the ribbons.

“Well. What do you mean by turning up here without a by-your-leave?” Morven demanded, handing him a generous measure in a crystal glass.

Rochford dragged his gaze from the antlers with difficulty. “I’m a duke. I do not require a by-your-leave,” he replied dryly. He took a sip of whisky, appreciating the smooth, slow burn as it travelled to his stomach. After a cold and uncomfortable carriage ride, it was welcome indeed.

“Ye do if ye turn up at a man’s house intending to steal his daughter away,” Morven replied, his eyes glinting.

They were the same shade as Georgie’s, Rochford realised. Was this where she’d inherited her fierce nature as well? Her mother had not exactly appeared a shrinking violet either, though her eyes had been kind despite the steel he’d seen there.

“I don’t think I mentioned running away with her, though as we’re in Scotland, it would be an easy enough thing to wed her with no worries about licences and such. Impulsive people, you Scots.”

“Marry in haste, repent at leisure,” Morven muttered irritably. “I’ll nae have my Georgie repent her choice of husband.”

“Neither would I,” Rochford said, turning the whisky in his hands. “I said I mean to court her. I meant it. I’ve a place at Wick. It’s not exactly on your doorstep.”

“An hour and half, if the weather’s fine,” Morven agreed.

“I’ll visit twice a week, at your convenience, if Georgie wishes me to.”