Compromised for Christmas (The Jennings Family #1)

5. Georgiana

5

Georgiana

G eorgiana ambled down the hallway at Thornfield Hall toward her fiancé’s study, a lightness bubbling in her chest. Because surely marrying Mr. Fitzwilliam Jennings was better than the man Mother had been pushing her towards at the ball—the feeble, donkey-toothed one who seemed a waltz away from the grave. She winced. Not very nice, Georgiana. But the gentleman had wanted her for breeding. He had measured her hips. She glanced at said hips and shuddered. Lords desperate for an heir took one look at her wide hips and instantly saw an advert with a large womb for hire splayed across the top.

Instead of that unsettling, albeit most-likely short future, she was looking at a long, uncomfortable one filled with painfully awkward moments. Yet, there was potential. Or she was determined to find some potential…somewhere. It had appeared as though Mr. Jennings had been doing his bloody damnedest to avoid her since the incident. He was either holed up in his study, working on his translations, or seeking out the farthest corner from where she stood in a room.

Georgiana had learned from Lady Felicity that Mr. Jennings worked on Italian translations. If her fiancé had deigned to speak with her at all over the past few days, he would have learned that Georgiana was fluent in Italian as well.

Mother was from Northern Italy. Not that Mama would ever let that fact get out. She had done everything in her power to eradicate any trace of her accent, and no one would assume her heritage based on her light features. But some of Mama’s favorite artisans were Italian, so naturally when it served her, she broke out her Italian—including her doe-eyed daughter’s Italian. It was amazing how much a price could be haggled down when you let a sweet little bambina loose in a fellow Italian’s shop.

She trailed her fingers along the edge of one of the many hall tables, humming. Goodness, there were an incredible number of hall tables. Lord Bentley sure did love collecting bric-a-brac.

Georgiana couldn’t help but think that perhaps she and her husband could bond over their shared linguistic proficiency. There was that potential. Common ground in a marriage was a good thing. At least, she thought it was. Georgiana didn’t have any glowing examples of marriages, so what could she possibly know?

She thought conversation was typically a part of marriage, though, based on the short, stilted ones she grew up with. But in any moments she and Mr. Jennings were near enough to converse…he just didn’t. Most likely couldn’t. So she had taken it upon herself to study him. She had learned a couple of things about her soon-to-be husband in the past week during her observations.

She paused outside his study. Once again, her fiancé was sitting behind his desk, spectacles resting on his nose, quill scribbling frantically across parchment.

First observation: he was, in fact, dreadfully handsome. When he didn’t resemble a tomato trying to cave in on itself. He had a habit of hunching his shoulders, almost like he wished he could make himself smaller and disappear. But when he stood tall? When there was a rare moment he wasn’t consumed by nerves? Like now, unaware of her presence. He brushed back an amber curl that had just fallen over his brow. He was dashing.

She thought she might be developing an affinity for spectacles. Who would have thought? The woman who wanted a man to tie her up, bend her over, and tell her she was a whore—wanted said man to be wearing spectacles while he did it. She nearly groaned.

And then the other day, he had smiled when speaking with his sister. Smiled . Georgiana’s legs had almost given out. Her knees had astonishingly vanished, departed on holiday. His grin was lop-sided and soft, like an uncertain puppy. Be still her heart. There was a hidden, handsome man inside her soon-to-be-husband. Which fueled her hope.

Mr. Jennings set his quill down and stretched his neck from side to side while rolling his shoulders. Oh dear. That jaw. Georgiana wanted to trace her tongue all over those hard edges. And then down the cord of muscle peeping just above his cravat. Yes, Georgiana most definitely was lusting after her fumbling fiancé.

And for her second observation: she made said fiancé very nervous. More-than-normal-for-him nervous. She had seen him interact with his siblings when no one was around. Shame on her for spying, but what was a woman to do when forced to marry a stranger? And said stranger couldn’t even form sentences around her. She couldn’t exactly get to know him if all he did was grunt and gurgle at her.

But he spoke like a normal human being with his siblings. Her parents made him flustered, but he still managed relatively well. Yet with her—Georgiana? She feared he was going to have a fit of the vapors. She had thought that was something that only pertained to females, but now she wasn’t so sure. Perhaps she should start carrying smelling salts on her person to be safe. Just in case her future-husband fainted.

Georgiana squared her shoulders. Enough spying and sleuthing. They were going to have a conversation finally. With words. She was determined. She wouldn’t take no—or whatever he managed to gurgle—for an answer. She put the friendliest, most approachable smile she could on her face, and entered his study.

“Hullo, Mr. Jennings.” She stopped just inside the threshold, her lavender skirts fluttering around her, the familiar scent of ink and parchment…and something woodsy greeting her nose. “I was hoping we might become better acquainted.”

She had chosen the lavender dress, despite her mother’s objection because— gasp —how could one wear lavender in winter? But she thought it brought out her eyes, and it made her feel pretty. And one was supposed to look pretty for their husband, were they not? But with the way her fiancé was staring at her—like she had left off her dress altogether—perhaps that hadn’t been the best tactic. Perhaps she should have donned a sack. Over her head.

“Divine,” he breathed, his quill stilling, gaze roving over her.

She blinked. Then glanced around the room. Had that been directed toward her? She must have misheard, because it sounded like her fiancé just called her—

“Another time!” He abruptly jumped up, and she jumped back.

She opened and closed her mouth, but her mind couldn’t even form words, let alone her mouth. What did one do when their betrothed unexpectedly shouted at them?

He cleared his throat. “A-apologies. I meant to say we can speak another time. I am quite pressing with occupied matters.”

She cocked her head. His eyes widened briefly when what he said finally registered.

“Occupied with p-pressing matters,” he said in a garbled voice. “Things of import.” He waved flippantly and let out an awkward, strained laugh that ended in a wheeze. “Cannot afford to waste time on inconsequential chatter.” He sent her a tense smile, one without teeth and without a touch of warmth. Then sat and picked back up his quill, effectively dismissing her.

She backed out of his study, jaw slack, his words ringing through her brain.

Things of import. Not her.

Inconsequential. Her.

When the loose-limbed shock finally faded, all that remained was an all-too-familiar hurt . She dragged her feet back to her room, tail between her legs. Blast and damn . Why did she think of that metaphor? Because it was only an aching reminder that there would be no wagging tail to greet her in her chamber. With Bernie gone, she was well and truly alone.

That hope bubbling in her chest earlier? Popped.