Compromised for Christmas (The Jennings Family #1)

8. Fitz

8

Fitz

F itz had truly thought he wouldn’t make it through the ceremony.

Miss Georgiana—no—Mrs. Fitzwilliam Jennings. Dear Lord. His wife. His wife was breathtaking, standing before him in a red velvet gown borrowed from his sister. Some sort of white puffiness lined the bodice and sleeves, and ivory buttons trailed down the front. And the fit. Dear Mary, Joseph, and the Holy Ghost, the fit. His willowy sister and Georgiana were most definitely not the same shape. Which meant his wife’s abundance of bosom and tempting curves were on glorious display, even with the alterations done to the gown. The dress did things to her breasts that in turn did things to Fitz’s anatomy that really shouldn’t happen when in a chapel.

He should never have looked at her. He had avoided looking at his little wife all the way up until she had stepped in front of him at the altar. But then he had glanced down at her and promptly swallowed his tongue. Fitz appreciated a woman’s figure. He liked breasts just fine. And bottoms. But Georgiana’s figure? Let’s just say he was only capable of inarticulate noises. What a surprise.

With her rich crimson gown and round, forest-green eyes, she was Christmastide incarnate. And he wanted to unwrap her like a Christmas present. Her hair was done up in some sort of elaborate hair-style-thing—whatever women called them—with a few curls trailing over her shoulders into the crevice of her bosom. A bosom he was already very familiar with. Tonight, he would get to touch those perfect breasts. His eyes flashed wide. Dear God, he would have to touch them. His breath sawed in and out.

As he had said. He hadn’t thought he would make it through the ceremony.

Well, he made it through—somehow. He even made his mouth form the necessary words. But now he was stuck at the altar.

“Mr. Jennings…” Georgiana looked up at him from beneath furrowed, blonde brows. His gaze clashed with her evergreen one, and everything inside of him stopped. Stilled. Suspended in an endless, timeless void. His lungs no longer worked. The blood in his veins no longer flowed. Sound disappeared. All that was left was her. Was that verdant green gaze that had him trapped.

She was saying something. Her tempting lips were curling around syllables. Work, blasted ears, work.

“Mr. Jennings, are you well?”

He almost laughed. He almost cried. Instead, he said, “Pine.”

She blinked twice.

Fitz cleared his throat. “I mean I’m ferfect.”

His eyes slid shut. He was hopeless. This woman somehow managed to make a typically witless Fitz even more witless.

He opened his eyes and met his wife’s kind gaze, her deep-pink lips tilted in a soft smile.

“Well, ferfect husband. Shall we make our way back to the estate?” She proffered her hand for him to tuck into the crook of his arm, like any gentlemen would do.

But Mr. Fitzwilliam Jennings? No, no, he couldn’t possibly touch her. And still breathe. Especially when with every breath his lungs drew in her sweet scent. She smelled like freshly baked biscuits. Or a creamy, frothy, vanilla syllabub spiced with cinnamon. Which had his mind going places it decidedly shouldn’t. Like burying his face between her thighs in search of other creamy delicious—

His eyes widened. “Y-you go on ahead,” he stammered. He needed to get himself and his cock under control before everyone in the chapel was aware of where his thoughts had wandered.

A flash of hurt wrinkled her brow before she replaced it with a sad smile. Which really wasn’t any better. Because now, as his wife walked away from him, he not only had enough anxiety tumbling about his insides to fill a circus tent with acrobats, he also felt bad for hurting his wife’s feelings.

He longingly watched her retreating figure. “You smell too delightful,” he said softly, sorrowfully.

She turned and tilted her head. “Pardon?”

Fuck. He snapped straight. Had she heard him? Oh God.

“Nrrumph.”

Not better.

“I said you smell frightful!”

He winced. Dear Lord, that was most definitely not better. Why hadn’t he just gone with the compliment? That would have been the totally normal option. But no, he went with you smell frightful. Welp, in for a penny, in for a pound.

“Urm. Yes. I’d recommend you request a bath upon your return. With haste.”

Her eyes rounded and her cheeks grew pink. “O-of course, sir.” She turned and hurried over to her family.

He groaned inwardly, mentally smacking himself over the head with a very large tome. You bumbling idiot, Fitz. This moment was like an incredibly painful repeat of their interaction in his study earlier in the week. If he were being honest, every interaction with her since the moment they met had been painful in its awkwardness.

But his very new wife continued to surprise him. She’d marched up to that altar, chin lifted high, determination glowing in her green eyes. A ferocious little warrior. Fitz had actually been a mite frightened. If she’d had a weapon, he probably would have fled. What must it be like to have such resolve? Assurance? And resilience—considering he had been nothing but a bumbling bear to her since they met. But she had not once wilted, not once given any indication she was anything but strong and fierce.

Her beauty was remarkable, but so it would seem was the woman beneath.