The Duke Beneath Her Mistletoe, page 2
Georgie knew the history of her village as well as she knew her own name. In 1811 when workers broke machinery, soldiers had to be called in to stop the riots. This time, she would make sure the demonstrators made their point before soldiers intervened.
“I am of the opinion that everyone should read,” Georgie declared. “And as for the paper, many of the villagers can barely afford to eat.”
Her grandmother blanched. “It was disastrous. I had to appear at court in a gown I had previously worn because the modiste could not obtain the lace for my new one. Sylvia Beaumont has reminded me of it every season since.”
“Horrors,” said Georgie, sarcasm oozing.
She should grab the old woman by the shoulders and shake sense into her. On a positive note, at least it hadn’t occurred to her grandmother that her flesh and blood had penned the “rubbish.”
Georgie pulled her shoulders back. “Father allowed me to read in the library with my brothers. No books were off limits.” He had also allowed her to write tales of terrifying monsters and bloody battles that would cause the older woman’s heart to cease beating.
“It has been too long since a woman has influenced you. My dear son did try his best,” the countess said.
Georgie missed her father so much that his memories knocked the wind from her. Unfortunately, she barely remembered her mother since she had died when Georgie was four.
The dowager countess shook her head, but only slightly. As she often reminded Georgie, “a lady never moves quickly.” Unless it was to dramatically fan herself or fall to the ground in a heap of silk and satin. If the latter, she could plummet to the ground like a boulder rolling downhill.
“’Tis a good thing that I am here. I shall school you in the intricacies of behaving like a lady. I will keep you so busy you will no longer concern yourself with radical notions.” Whenever her grandmother played God, she lifted her chin until it seemed as if it might reach the ten-foot-high vaulted ceiling. “And, I plan to stay until you receive a worthy proposal.”
It would take a massive dose of Christmas spirit to save the holiday.
“Oh, bollocks.”
“Georgiana!”
Since the speed of the countess’s fanning fingers rivaled hummingbird wings, her prostate body might soon splat on the chamber floor. Unfortunately, if the countess went down, two strong individuals would be required to lift her sturdy frame.
Thank goodness, the door opened, and Millie, with her impeccable timing and crisp blue livery, tip-toed across the carpet and bobbed a curtsey.
“Millie,” said the countess in her authoritative voice. “Prepare the pink and silver dress for dinner this evening.”
Georgie’s nails dug into her fisted palms. “I asked Millie to prepare the royal blue.”
Her grandmother held up a long finger. “We are to have an important guest, so you will wear the pink.”
The countess—two. Georgie—zero.
Georgie plopped her rump on the mattress. She would wear the pink, but she would not spend another season in London being paraded around with a gaggle of ninnies. She would not marry some arrogant man and sire his heir. And she would read and write. She would hide her habits when in her grandmother’s presence. But she was engaging in them, by God!
Her grandmother exhaled, sat on the bed, and placed the confiscated items outside Georgie’s grasp. Her tone and expression softened. “The Duke of Astleyshire will dine with us tonight.”
Georgie leaped from the bed. “But Christmas Eve is for family. We have the Yule log, dinner, decorating, and the party.”
“The duke met with Alistair earlier today, and he will be staying for a sennight.” Her grandmother stood slowly, as if lead filled her veins. “’Tis a good thing he arrived when he did, for the weather has taken a turn for the worse.”
Georgie rushed to the window. Fluffy flakes fell from the sky, landing on about six inches of fresh snow.
“If he leaves now, he could make it home before the roads become impassable.”
She would clear the path herself if she had to. The old wrought iron shovel in the barn should do the trick.
The countess’s eyebrows almost reached her gray hairline. “What kind of lady would abandon a duke to the snow?”
Georgie raised her hand.
The older woman tsked. “With the poor crops and the unrest at the factories, your family requires His Royal Highness’s favor, and His Grace is said to have his ear.” She tsked again. “Do not embarrass your brothers or yourself. I will leave you to your preparations.”
How utterly gluttonous! Despite the summer without rain, Georgie’s family ate until their bellies were full. They had so much land and money that her brothers and grandmother spent frivolously with little regard for anything. And there were the lavish parties and balls they attended, especially while at their London home!
Halfway to the door, the countess halted her gliding steps. “Millie, please tie Lady Georgiana’s hair in the silver ribbon. Make sure to show off her neck and shoulders. She has such lovely shoulders. Just like mine when I was young. I was once quite a beauty.” Her grandmother’s green eyes looked into the past, and she sighed.
“Yes, my lady.” Millie curtsied.
The countess halted before the hearth and tossed Georgie’s powerful prose into the roaring fire. The edges turned black, crinkled, then disintegrated.
“I will return this book to the library.” With her nose in the air, the countess carried away Fanny.
Once the door closed, Millie reached into her pocket and removed folded papers. “Christopher wants to know what you think of the cover.”
Jackson Valiant stood tall, aiming the point of a sword at a corpulent man on his knees. Maria Seraphina’s long, brown hair blew about her as if she stood in a windstorm and the hilt of her sword glimmered from above a leather belt cinched around her tiny waist.
Georgie groaned. “I love it, but do they have to make Maria so voluptuous? Speaking of which, I look like a cherry confectionary in the pink. And it makes me—” She waved her hand in front of her bosom, indicating her own overflowing cleavage.
“My lady, this edition is colorful, and Maria looks beautiful.” Millie put a hand to her heart and sighed. “And I think pink looks lovely with your red hair. Let us add your pearls.”
“The countess is not in the room, so you can stop calling me my lady. And do not lie to me. I am dreadful in pink.”
Millie opened both doors of the wardrobe to move aside decadent gowns so that she could caress the pink.
Another unfortunate child had probably been sacrificed to the flesh-eating machinery in order to provide the glittery lace adorning the bodice and hem of the absurd frock.
“The countess is not evil. She just wants you to behave like a fine lady so that you make a good match,” said Millie.
“Bluck.” Georgie’s tongue popped out and she rolled her eyes. “I hope she does not think the duke has designs on me. Once he is done sleeping with all of the married women in the ton, he will marry a simpering fool like Arabella Beaumont.”
Millie’s face contorted into one of her disapproving grimaces. “You can’t run around in breeches, wrestling with your brothers forever.”
“Not with her here filling Alistair’s head with nonsense.”
Georgie stopped waving her arms to lift them overhead. Millie helped her out of her mourning dress. Then, bracing her elbows against a bedpost as thick as an oak tree, Georgie prepared for the torture of being imprisoned in her stays.
“The earl asked to see you in his study before dinner,” Millie said as she tugged on the laces.
“I wonder what it could be about?”
Millie tugged again.
Georgie spun to face her maid and trusted friend. Yes, her friend. Society be damned.
“Do you think he got me the present I requested? I gave so many hints.”
“Jimmy said the earl took him to look at a litter a few days ago.” Millie pressed on Georgie’s shoulder, turning her back around so that she could tie the final bow. “Mrs. Teague told Cook that the duke looks exceptionally handsome today.”
Georgie stepped into her petticoat and wriggled as Millie tied it in place. Pompous William Harrington the Second would not ruin her Christmas eve or sidetrack her from her mission. She and Cook’s grandson, twelve-year-old Jimmy, had puppies on the brain.
“Alistair probably has the puppy in his study. What color do you think it is? White? Black? Brown? Short hair or long hair?”
“I could not even guess,” said Millie as she deposited satin and lace over Georgie’s head and guided it into place.
Georgie plopped down at her dressing table, cringing every time Millie stabbed her with hairpins. Eventually, she relaxed her neck and shoulders and placed a hand on her throat.
“Jackson lifted his sword high and—” She swallowed and spoke from deep in her diaphragm. “—lifted his sword high and swung.” Lowering her pitch even more, her fingers absorbed the reverberation “Swung. Blood trickled.”
Millie stopped tugging hair to clap. “Lady Georgiana, you sound like a man and I think this tale is the best yet.”
“I need another copy since mine is ash.”
Millie bent so that her gaze met Georgie’s in the mirror and her cheeks bloomed pink. “In the next story could Jackson kiss Maria?”
Georgie grunted. She had never kissed a man, so she was not certain what all it entailed. Besides, she preferred to think about an adorable bundle of fluff.
“What should I name him? Her?” She turned, knocking her cheek against her maid’s hand, sending the silver ribbon fluttering to the ground. “Millie, I just thought of something. If my present is a girl, maybe we will have puppies by next Christmas.”
****
Wearing dainty slippers tipped with pink bows, her arms swinging wildly, the normally coordinated Georgie careened down the hall. Light from the sconces reflected off the gilded portraits of her ancestors, giving the castle a warm feel despite the frigid temperatures.
When she reached the stairwell, she exhaled. She gracefully descended three steps. Hopefully, her grandmother was not about because, by the fourth, she hopped like an excited kangaroo.
Plowing into her brother’s study, she called out, “Alistair!”
The earl sat behind the ancestral mahogany desk. The firelight cast shadows over his frowning face. Evan, Georgie’s younger brother, reclined in a leather wing-back, a glass of whiskey in one hand and a lit Cheroot in the other. Stunningly handsome, with thick, brown hair and bright, green eyes, his regal posture made him look older than his twenty years.
Although also handsome, Alistair’s green eyes did not have the same devilish twinkle. And since his jaw had been clenched since their father’s death the previous fall, frown lines had set up permanent residence on his brow.
“Please sit, Georgiana,” he said with the stiff formality that seemed to have increased tenfold since inheriting the earldom.
Georgie searched the room for her present. Ceiling-high shelves filled with books. Four reclining chairs with carved arms and fine damask cushions. Rich green draperies hanging to the floor. No puppy.
Alistair cleared his throat. “Georgiana.”
Before looking at her older brother, she met Evan’s serious gaze and her heart tripped over itself. “Is Stephen well?”
“Stephen? Why would you ask that?” Alistair asked.
“Because Evan looks miserable,” she said.
The normally fun-loving Evan snorted. “I am fine. And we have had no news from Stephen. Good, bad, or otherwise. I suppose his regiment is still in France.”
The only thing Georgie wanted more than a puppy was for her twin to come home safely. She climbed into the largest chair and swung her legs over the arm. Her feet dangled in the air as she made herself comfortable.
“The three of us need to talk quickly. Grandmother will be joining us any minute,” said Alistair.
The back of her neck prickled at the warning. “Proceed.”
“Georgiana, your season was a disaster,” Alistair said.
So that was the cause of her brothers’ long faces. Georgie chortled as her feet fluttered.
“Her last three seasons were disasters.” Evan winked at her and chuckled.
Alistair scowled. “Do not encourage her, Evan.”
“I had nothing to do with Miss Beaumont’s punch-covered gown or Kingsley’s injured toe,” Evan said.
Georgie had only meant for the red drink to destroy her own gown so she could leave the ball early, but accidentally ruining Arabella Beaumont’s in the process was a bonus. And since Lord Kingsley would not stop staring at her décolletage, she had used the tip of his walking stick to relocate his gaze.
Alistair groaned, then stood and walked to the window. “The Duke of Astleyshire arrived earlier this afternoon. I asked Mrs. Teague to prepare a room, and I have extended an invitation for him to stay for a week.”
“Bollocks,” Georgie grumbled, even though she was already privy to the information.
Evan huffed. “Bloody hell. I thought dinner tonight was bad enough.”
Alistair turned to glare at his siblings.
“He thinks he is the most handsome man in all of England. In all of the world. I would like to punch him in his nose,” Georgie said.
“I would like to knock his high and mighty lordship on his arse. He bilked me last I played cards with him,” said Evan. “He was foxed and wore that damn grin the entire time. And then he fucked—”
Alistair cleared his throat.
She was not one for gossip, but Georgie detested the arrogant man. “Whose skirt was he under?” she whispered in case her grandmother was near.
“Enough, both of you. And Georgiana, stop saying unladylike things.”
“Oh, bother. Evan can say whatever he likes—”
“No. Evan will refrain from ungentlemanly conversations.”
Silence settled over the room.
Eventually, Alistair focused his gaze out the window again. He stood stick-straight, his hands clasped behind his back. “Understand that the countess will stay until Georgiana has a suitable proposal.”
Evan took advantage of their older brother’s turned back to mouth, “Lady Hemmingsworth.”
“But Lady Hemmingsworth is widowed and at least four-and-forty?” Georgie said.
“Georgiana!” Alistair rubbed his temples.
It had to take a lot of effort to constantly reprimand her. Georgiana, do not do this. Georgiana, do not do that. Georgiana, behave like a lady. She sighed and tapped Evan on the forearm. He handed over the cigar.
She was attempting not to choke on her puff when Alistair faced them.
He stomped to her, grabbed the Cheroot, and shoved it into his mouth.
“Bloody hell. That is mine. Get your own,” Evan grumbled.
“I am trying to talk to you two about something serious,” Alistair said.
“Is it my Christmas puppy?” Georgie asked.
“Puppy?” Confusion mingled with Alistair’s intense glare. “No.” He shook his head. “I have suggested that Harrington spend time with you, Georgiana. With a chaperone of course. Mayhap there will be a spark, and he will propose.”
Georgie’s feet hit the ground, and she sat up straight. “What?”
“Georgiana, I have given my blessing for the two of you to court.”
“No,” she cried, leaping from the chair to rush to him. Looking up into his eyes, she pleaded, “Alistair, please, do not do this to me!”
He placed a hand on her shoulder, and his sad eyes met her gaze. “William has matured. Both of us have left the days of women and drink behind us.”
Evan snorted.
“Well, he is less arrogant since his father’s death. In fact, he insists we keep our dinner this evening informal and act as if he is not a duke. And, if he does propose, mayhap the countess will return to High Pavement.”
For the first time in her life, Georgie thought she might require her grandmother’s smelling salts.
Chapter Three
Christmas Eve, December 24th, 1816
Twelve slobbering wolves surrounded Goldcount.
“Bollocks!” How was he to get to his gold and sausages?
From Tattle’s Tales
Despite the heavy tapestries and the plush rugs, the damn parlor was frigid. The steaming soup on the table before him did nothing to warm William. Neither had the fire built in his chambers.
Why did the damnable Eaton family have to live on the outskirts of a village so far from everything and everyone? At least his ancestors had the decency to build Hockley Castle in the center of the East Midlands.
Trent Castle was an absurd name since the Eatons lived in a stately two-hundred-year-old home with a faux turret. The building did not even possess a dungeon or a moat. To reach its non-existent curtain he had trudged through the city, the countryside, and the village. He had frozen his balls off while the winter precipitation turned his nose into an icicle. And, now, the dowager’s lifted chin and puckered lips made the dining room colder than the rare blizzard outside.
If angry huffs contained fire, then Alistair Eaton could have heated the large room from his seat at the foot of the table. His brow furrowed as he gulped from his wine glass. “Astleyshire—”
The proper old woman gawped at her oldest grandson.
Alistair sighed. “Your Grace, please forgive Lady Georgiana’s absence. My sister is not feeling well.”
William’s plan was almost on track. He had done his research and all evidence indicated that Winkentattle was an educated man, living near Trent. One credible source reported that Evan Eaton recently left Trent Castle in the middle of the night and was seen conversing with a known Luddite.
He did not give two shites about the libelous rubbish distributed on flimsy folded paper. However, he gave ten million fucks about Evan accusing him of cheating. He may have been a womanizing rogue, and he occasionally drank too much. But he never cheated.
