The Duke Beneath Her Mistletoe, page 4
“Am I interrupting?” asked a deep baritone from the doorway.
Millie and Mrs. Teague fell into curtsies.
Evan grumbled under his breath and cleared his throat. “Georgie and I were racing. An Eaton tradition. ’Tis good luck to sit on the Yule log before you burn it.”
Holding her breath, Georgie looked over her shoulder at the powerful presence filling the doorway.
Singeing her corneas with his sapphire-colored eyes, the duke strolled into the room. “I thought Lady Georgiana already lit the Yule log.”
So what if he knew she had lied? Perhaps he would get the hint, and realize she had no desire to know him. Wait. She did not want to know him, did she? Hell no. He needed to return to Hockley Castle.
“We burn two Yule logs at Trent Castle,” Evan said.
Foiled. Now Georgie had to play along unless she wanted to make her brother out to be a lying scoundrel.
“Yes, two,” she said so quietly she could barely hear her own voice.
“My lady, my lord, Mrs. Teague, Your Grace.” Jimmy Clayton stood in the doorway with his arms folded. Looking quite self-conscious, he tucked the stub attached to his left elbow under his right arm.
No one pointed out that the sweet boy had addressed them in the wrong order.
“The gingerbread and syllabub are ready for us in the dining parlor,” Jimmy said.
Cinnamon, nutmeg, and cream.
“Mmm.” Georgie salivated.
“To the parlor,” sang Evan with a raised fist. “We will meet you all there. Georgie, help me toss this thing into the fire.”
The staff filed out the door, chattering away. Georgie hopped off the log and prepared to lift her end.
The duke’s eyes were so wide that they resembled Damson plums. “Let me.” He attempted to step in front of Georgie.
Evan choked back a laugh.
“I beg your pardon.” When she pushed the duke to the side, the mere second’s touch left her breathless. She gasped and checked herself. She would not succumb to being a ninny. Scooting low, she tucked green velvet between her knees, and hefted. Seconds later, flames consumed the log.
Georgie swiped her hands together to brush off the dirt, then smoothed her unblemished skirt. “Perfect!” She stepped around the gawping man and headed for the door.
Evan followed.
“Lady Georgiana,” William Harrington called after her.
She cringed, then faced him. Firelight illuminated stunning eyes and dappled over thick, dark hair.
“Mayhap I could escort you to the parlor,” he said.
So that he could ruin her evening by ensconcing her in his many different smirks? There was the puffy lipped one. The crooked smile to the left. The lip down on the right. The slow spreader. The twinkle in the eye with the lip bite… Good Lord. He must practice them in the mirror.
“I’m sure you can find your way. And if not, Evan is an excellent guide,” she said.
Turning her back to the men, she feigned a nonchalance she didn’t feel. Firstly, if her grandmother got wind of her rude behavior, she would renege on her promise to get Georgie that puppy.
And secondly, William Harrington the Second smelled of tantalizing citrus and cedar and stood beneath her mistletoe.
Chapter Five
Christmas Eve, December 24th, 1816
The bed creaked and the mattress sagged beneath the baron. But he did so love sleeping with his gold.
From Tattle’s Tales
Damn Thomas Merrick and his bloody wager!
Why in the hell was he furious? Since he did not want to court Georgiana Eaton, and he had Evan Eaton’s undivided attention, his plan was almost going perfectly.
Still, who did the confounding woman think she was? Being disinterested in men was one thing, flat out rudeness was another. Besides, all women adored him; not one had ever turned him down. Perhaps slamming Evan against the wall and smashing his whirlygigs up his arse would relieve some fury.
“Come on.” Evan motioned for him to follow.
William hesitated for a second before catching up to the back biter.
“Forgive Georgie,” Evan said. “She grew up with a family of men and has never quite embraced feminine nuances.”
She better damn well develop some quickly since she looked like a woman and oozed passion.
“Once she cut off all of her hair and showed up at our private fencing lessons. She stole my clothes and shoes since I was the youngest and Father almost sent her away. But after she outmaneuvered Stephen and me both, he let her stay. Although, he did eventually make her grow her hair back.” Evan slapped William on the shoulder and chuckled. “Duke, do not annoy her near something sharp.”
William’s sister was partial to her needlepoint and art lessons, as were most women he knew. Georgiana Eaton was not just infuriating, she was also fascinating.
“And the countess’s presence has us all on edge. Our grandmother means well, but she feels we have lacked a strong female presence for the past two decades. Mrs. Teague mothers us, and Cook treats us like her grandchildren. But still…” Evan shook his head. “Well, we are a bit spoiled and unruly, leaving Alistair with his work cut out for him.”
William fought his urge to say, Hear, hear. “Alistair has changed from our school days.”
Of course, inheriting a title and responsibilities had also turned William from a carefree rogue into a parcel of twisted nerves.
“I fear the poor chap will be gray and wrinkled within the year. I must also confess that we are worried about our brother. He has not yet returned from France.”
“He was quite the hero at Waterloo,” William said.
Evan’s chest lifted. But only for a moment. Then his pride left him with a woosh. “Hopefully, our grandmother won’t swoon when she has to sit beside a groomsman?”
“What?” William asked as the men navigated a galley of portraits.
“She hits the floor with even a hint of impropriety and another of our traditions is that everyone at Trent Castle celebrates Christmas Eve together. From scullery maid to earl.”
“Interesting,” William murmured.
“My mother held the first gathering almost thirty years ago, and Georgie ensures that we carry on in her memory. ’Tis actually quite fun.”
As they descended the main staircase, resplendent with fresh greenery, the smell of citrusy pine permeated the air. “That boy—what happened to his arm?”
“Jimmy?” Evan asked.
“Is that the boy who was just in the drawing room with us?”
“Aye. Great lad. That is Jimmy Clayton. Cook’s youngest grandchild. He cut off his arm so the working class could spew propaganda.”
What in the hell did that mean? Perhaps an uppercut to his jaw would knock Evan Eaton out cold.
William unclenched the fist hanging beside his thigh and shook out his fingers. Even before his ducal responsibilities hung about him like a necklace of cast iron cannonballs, he had worked hard to put his fighting days behind him. Besides, all gazes were on Evan and him as they strolled into the room.
In less than two hours, the cold dining area had been transformed to a festive party and at least four dozen people milled about the room. Like the drawing room and stairwell, a plethora of evergreens, red bows, paper flowers, and apples adorned the great room. Candles flickered in every window, creating an illusion of warmth despite the snowy night outside the castle walls. Trays of gingerbread, miniature cakes loaded with currants, biscuits, and sugared pears filled the table.
Jimmy scooped a creamy liquid from blue Delft china. Alistair and the older Lady Eaton chattered with the white-haired butler. Georgiana Eaton and three maids stood near the fire.
For the first time, William witnessed Lady Georgiana’s sincere smile and it pummeled him in the stomach.
Her cheeks were pink, and the firelight brought out the golden highlights in her red hair. When she looked his way, her lips turned down at the corners, and her skin bloomed crimson. Her gaze dropped to the floor briefly. Then, pulling her shoulders back, she returned her attention to her companions.
He wanted nothing more than to stand near that fire with her by his side as he watched the rise and fall of her perfectly pale bosom. He ran a tongue over his top lip.
“Hmm,” his companion murmured.
Bloody hell. Had Evan just caught him fantasizing about the chit?
Perhaps not, because Evan inclined his chin to the boy they had just been discussing. Jimmy Clayton balanced the cup on his stump, picked up a plate, then headed toward William and Evan. He stepped carefully, watching the punch all the while.
“Your Grace, Grandmum says you are the guest of honor. Would you like some? ’Tis made of brandy and cream.” The cup lifted a fraction of an inch.
“Take it, Astleyshire,” Evan said.
William accepted the offered treats. “You are a fine server,” he said, in all sincerity.
The care the boy had taken not to spill a drop was impressive as hell.
“Thank you, Your Grace. But I want to be a physician someday.”
Grinning, Evan ruffled the boy’s hair. “Dream big, my boy. Dream big!”
From the armless grandson of a cook to a physician? Probably not, although deep in his heart, William hoped that the boy defied his class and handicap.
“Hello, Merry Christmas,” someone called from the entranceway.
Three soldiers in the red uniforms of the 1st Life Guards stepped forward.
Lady Georgiana sprinted across the room, then leaped into one of the men’s outstretched arms. Her feet lifted from the floor and her skirts swished as he spun her in a circle. Her giggles found their way to William’s core.
What the hell? The man had the same green eyes and red hair as the woman warming his cheeks with her palms and wore the three stars and red coat of a captain.
Within moments the three visitors held drinks and plates of food and had become the focus of the gathering.
“How lovely. We will have quite the ensemble for Christmas day.” When the dowager countess smiled, she wasn’t nearly as intimidating. “I will have rooms prepared for you all.”
“Your hospitality is most appreciated, but we will quarter with our men,” said the distinguished-looking man wearing the crown insignia of a major.
“We can put your regiment up in the old chapel. ’Tis not being used right now,” Alistair said.
“We will have the fire started and Cook can send a warm meal right away,” said the countess.
Georgie brushed a finger across the captain’s cherry-colored nose. “You look dreadfully tired, and you are frozen to the bones.”
William could not identify the foreign sensation rendering him addle-brained. He wanted to stomp across the room and pull Georgiana Eaton from the man’s grasp.
Instead, he made his regrets and retraced his steps to his chamber.
He threw open his door, slamming it behind him. He tramped to his mirror, tugged off his cravat, and grumbled to his reflection, “Merry Bloody Christmas, you damn fool.”
It seemed he had been unwittingly infected with a severe case of redheaditis. The bloody symptoms included inane jealousy, pangs in the chest cavity, and a hard-as-stone prick.
He groaned. Add stupidity to the afflictions. He hadn’t seen him in a few years, but the captain in her arms had to be Georgiana’s twin, the heroic Stephen Eaton.
Hell and damnation. The chit turned him inside out.
Chapter Six
Christmas Day, December 25th, 1816
Maria Seraphina grabbed the sturdy vine and swung across the Trent River. She landed in front of the baron. “If you even look at Jackson Valiant with your beady eyes, I shall remove them from their sockets.”
From Tattle’s Tales
Georgie awoke Christmas morning with a warm heart. The fire crackled and she snuggled under her blankets. If only she had a puppy to cuddle with.
“Don’t be so spoiled,” she whispered.
One of her wishes had come true. Stephen had three days’ leave, so it would be the best Christmas ever. Well, as long as her grandmother was not too unbearable, it would be the perfect holiday. Hopefully, entertaining their visitors would occupy the cranky countess.
However, if William Harrington did not keep his distance and tried to court her, it would ruin everything. His sapphire-blue eyes and thick, black lashes added to the problem. And, oh, that arrogant grin.
The previous evening, she had been convinced he would walk across the parlor and talk to her as she visited with the maids. And she had wanted him to. So much so that her toes had tingled. Shoving her face into the pillow beside her, she muffled her absurd whimpers.
Toe tingles? Preposterous.
Her chamber door creaked. “Merry Christmas.”
The door clicked into place.
“Are you feeling well?”
“Bollocks.” Caught behaving like a simpering fool, and over a man. Georgie peeked out from under the pillow and deflected. “Merry Christmas, Millie. I shall go with you tonight to meet Christopher.” She pushed herself to sit and leaned against the headboard.
“My lady…Miss Georgiana…Georgie… But with so many visitors you will be seen.”
“Not if I am in my disguise.”
Millie pulled the draperies wide. When she faced Georgie, the light shining into the room settled into her creased brow. “That sounds dangerous with the soldiers here.”
“Not at all. They are on Christmas leave, and I will be unrecognizable.”
Millie’s nose crinkled so much that she could have been smelling a chamber pot.
“Do you think we will be able to get to church this morning?” Georgie asked.
“Yes. The men have been working since dawn to clear a path to the village.”
“Why did you not wake me to help?”
Millie tsked, sat on the end of the bed, then grasped Georgie’s hand. “I know how you feel about the Duke of Astleyshire. But consider what marriage to him could do for your causes. You might even gain an audience with the queen.” Millie held her hand to her heart. “And he is so handsome.”
Georgie groaned. The man was devilishly good-looking.
“I know he was a scoundrel in his youth, but they say he has matured since inheriting the dukedom. And the way he looks at you…”
Firstly, how much maturation could a man undergo in two months? And secondly, he had gawped at her like she was a filthy rodent when she appeared at dinner covered in grime. That was precisely what she had wanted, so why did his grimace hurt her heart? Although that was nothing compared to how his twisted grin indicating he knew that she had played in dirt on purpose made her feel.
“He cannot take his eyes off you,” Millie said.
Something fluttered in Georgie’s chest and her gaze fell to her lap. “Because I am making such a spectacle of myself. Millie, I truly do not want to court or marry. I would have to leave Jimmy, Cook, Mrs. Teague, and my brothers. A husband might not allow me to read and write and fence.”
Georgie shuddered at the thought of a man crawling on top of her to plant his seed. Or maybe it was a pleasurable shiver? Whatever it was, it was foreign and unsettling.
“I will go with you to Hockley Castle, and you will make new friends. ’Tis not that far. You can come back and visit.”
“But ’tis not as wonderful as Trent Castle.” At least she suspected that to be the case since her home was the most incredible place in the world. Georgie exhaled frustration as she crawled out from beneath her warm covers. “I should like to wear my royal blue dress to breakfast and church.”
Millie rubbed her hands together. “Splendid. You look lovely in that gown.” Her lady’s maid skipped to the wardrobe.
“Millie, whatever shall we do about your silly notions?”
“Lieutenant Calhoun is also quite handsome, and he is taken with you.”
Millie may have been beyond help when it came to romance, but she was perceptive. Stephen’s young second lieutenant had tracked every one of Georgie’s movements the previous evening. The man was gentlemanly and heroic and had once helped Stephen save their company from an ambush.
On second thought, perhaps she should have chosen the orange dress with red flowers. It clashed with her hair making her resemble a glowing lobster.
Millie cradled the blue dress as if it were her lover. She waltzed arm in arm with it until she reached Georgie’s side.
Although she adored breakfast in the parlor with her brothers, Georgie opened her mouth, intending to ask for a tray to be brought to her room. All of the male attention left her on edge. And, if William Harrington were not in the same room with her, they would not have to spend time together. She did not have time for this toe-tingling and chest-fluttering nonsense.
However, there might be honey cakes. She clamped her lips tight as Millie fussed over her.
****
Georgie entered the parlor to a round of Merry Christmases. Seven men and a smiling dowager were seated at the table. She beamed at her brothers, acknowledged Major Blythe and Second Lieutenant Calhoun, and ignored the duke, her gaze settling on a middle-aged, balding man with the jowls of a hound dog.
How dare the man sit at their breakfast table.
“Georgiana, do you remember Sir Gerold Handershane? Handershane, my sister, Lady Georgiana,” said Alistair.
There was no need for introductions. They knew each other well since Georgie had once defended herself against his inappropriate leering with a finger flick to his bulbous nose.
“’Tis Christmas morning, and you find yourself at our table instead of with your wife and children? Does anyone else wonder why?” Georgie asked.
Her grandmother brought a hand to her heart and gasped. Someone choked—probably Alistair. Georgie turned her back to the wide-eyed party and busied herself at the sideboard in search of the largest honey cake.
So what if she had been rude? The man had earned his title and wealth by working the townspeople to death. He was responsible for Jimmy’s injury. And if the rumors were true, he often visited a brothel and took the drip home to his poor wife.
