Compromised for Christmas (The Jennings Family #1)

9. Georgiana

9

Georgiana

G eorgiana feared for her wedding night. And that had been before her husband had showed up at her chamber. Having one’s husband say you smell frightful wasn’t exactly what one hoped for on their wedding day. Georgiana had done a discreet sniff of herself in the carriage, and she didn’t think she was particularly malodorous, but she had requested a bath, regardless.

She had said her quick goodbyes to her mother, which had included an alarming number of reminders that Georgiana needed to copulate with her husband with haste. Repeatedly. Her father had been typically absent, so she hadn’t even managed a goodbye to him. Apparently, he had been dealing with some business matter with Lord Bentley. She wondered if he would even care if he ever saw her again. She blew out a breath. Not a time for those gloomy thoughts. Right now, she had bigger problems.

Like the husband who was standing dead-center in her chamber, looking everywhere but at her, hands fisting and unfisting in the fabric of his loose-fitting gray trousers. His face was slowly turning his typical fifty shades of red, and his forehead was developing a sheen.

The sweating was starting.

Georgiana was a little heated herself. Because Fitzwilliam Jennings in a state of undress? Buon Dio. She fanned herself. The V of his shirt gaped open, exposing a dusting of amber chest hair, and his unruly mahogany curls were tight and wet from his bath—well, what she hoped was his bath and not sweat.

She giggled. He gulped. Oops . That wasn’t going to help the poor clam.

She slowly approached him, her cotton night dress—nothing especially seductive, but she hadn’t been planning on having a wedding night any time soon—swishing around her legs.

“Are you going to look at me, Mr. Jennings?”

“Urm, I…I… You know, I believe it m-might be for the best if I don’t.”

Well, she was going to look her fair share. He wasn’t wearing stockings. Her gaze caressed his calves, flexing and unflexing. She supposed that was one benefit to his tension. His muscles were tense . Glorious. His biceps hardened and softened under his thin linen shirt with every fidget. There was surprising lean strength to the bookworm. If she could just get him past his bumbling, there might be some promise here. There was most definitely attraction on her end. She wasn’t sure if there was attraction on his end. But the way she made him nervous had her hoping that just maybe…he was nervous because he was attracted to her?

She reached him and rested her palm on his chest—his gloriously hard, muscled chest—and he sucked in a breath. And never released it. Her shoulders slumped. She should accept right now that this night was going to be torture for them both.

“Breathe, Mr. Jennings.”

A breath burst from him, and he broke into a fit of coughing.

“Should I douse the lights? Perhaps if you cannot see me, if we leave our clothes on, we will be able to get through this.” Her words came out with more bite to them than she had intended. But disappointment was wading its way up her body until it nearly consumed her whole. She was trying not to be frustrated with him, with her circumstances, especially since technically this was all her fault. But she was only human.

His gaze flew to hers. Finally. “Are you cross with me?”

“No, I’m not cross, sir. Just resigned.” She tried to smile, but her lips refused to tug upward.

Her husband tugged at his cravat, only to realize too late he wasn’t wearing one and instead just jabbed himself in the throat. “F-Fitz will do, or Fitzwilliam, if you prefer.”

Oh! That seemed like progress. She opened her mouth to test his name on her tongue—

“Y-you don’t need to be resigned. I promise I’ll make it as painless as possible. There might be some pain, I’ve been told. I—I did some reading. And you see, there is something called a hymen…”

Her eyes nearly bugged out of her head. Oh my God . He was not speaking of her hymen, was he?

“…a pinch, or so I’ve heard,” he was saying.

And then his rambling and his admission that he had done some reading , and all their prior interactions came rushing to the forefront of her mind.

“Have you never done this before?” she blurted. She’d had the thought before, but she hadn’t believed it would actually hold any truth.

The incessant rambling stopped, and silence settled thick and suffocating over her chamber.

“No…” he said slowly.

Oh God, they going to be a pair of fumbling, stumbling virgins. Heaven, help her. She should just douse the lights, he could stick her with his prick, and have this done with.

He opened his mouth, but words didn’t come. He closed it and tried again. “Or at least, I don’t believe I have ever bedded a virgin before.”

His shoulders sagged. Phewf. All right. He would at least know where to put it. “So, you have bedded a woman before?”

“I…had a m-mistress,” he said carefully. “I know it is not something typically discussed between husbands and wives. I dismissed her upon our betrothal.”

She pursed her lips and examined him. A confusing mix of gratitude and disbelief settled over her. That he dismissed his mistress was quite thoughtful and not very common amongst the ton, nor the wealthy. But also—he had a mistress?

“You. You had a mistress?”

Whoops, that had come out rather rude. But she couldn’t see it.

He pursed his lips back at her. His lips looked soft.

“Is that hard to believe?” he asked her, but his eyes were somewhere in the evergreen canopy that hung over her four-poster bed. He looked adorably befuddled.

“Yes, I do find it hard to believe. You couldn’t even bear to look at my breasts. You can’t even look at me right now. And I’m to believe you had a kept woman. A woman solely for bedsport. Or did you not hire her for those kinds of services?”

His gaze found hers again, amber brows scrunched together. “You know of such things? And of course I had s-sexual congress with her.”

Sexual congress. Sexual. Congress. A little part of her died inside. As did her fantasies. She wanted a man to tell her she was a bad wench. To discipline her. Perhaps throw in a few good girl s too. A delicate balance of punishment and praise. A man who said sexual congress would never.

His forehead lines deepened. “I’ll have you know, she was very pleased with my performance,” he said tightly. “It’s not as if I need an instruction manual.”

Interesting. There wasn’t one stammer in that sentence. So, he was capable of conversing with her. Apparently, if he was distracted enough, he could speak. She noted that.

“Excellent. I’m glad you don’t need a manual. Shall we get on with the consummation?”

She gripped his hand and walked backward toward her bed. He was back to gulping, and she had to tug him with more force than should ever be necessary when bringing a man to bed. But eventually her backside hit her bed, and she hopped up on the mattress.

His breaths came short and shallow, sharp mint and soft cedar wafting to her with each breath. His gaze flickered toward her, only to quickly dart away, like he wanted to look at her, but couldn’t quite handle it. He wrenched his hand from her grip, and ran it through his curls, his lips moving in what looked like silent prayer.

“Is there anything I can do to make this easier for you?” She was fairly certain that was not the question the bride asked the bridegroom on their wedding night. But nothing about life this past week had come close to resembling something that could be deemed normal.

He was still praying.

She let out a frustrated huff through her nose. “Fitz?”

His gaze flew to her mouth, and his lips parted, his lids lowered. He liked that. Excitement thrummed through her veins. Progress!

“Unghy.”

The excitement fizzled out.

“If you had a mistress, or so you said…”

His mouth flattened. “I did,” he bit out.

“Then why could you bed her and not me?”

He blinked at her. “Well, I was paying her.”

He said it like she was a simpleton. Maybe she was? Because she didn’t think that made a lick of sense.

“Yes… And you get to bed me for free. You can do what you please with me. Shouldn’t that make you the opposite of nervous?”

His lips quirked in a half-smile, and he let out a little huff-of-a-laugh, assaulting her senses with more of that tempting peppermint scent. “I was nervous at first with her, too.”

Georgiana’s gaze locked on that self-deprecating half-smile. Oh, if only this man could get past his nerves. She’d very much like to try a taste of her freshly tooth-powdered husband.

“But I became comfortable over time. And until I did…”

Silence.

“Until you did…what?” she prodded. These were the most words they had exchanged, probably even if one tallied up all their conversations over the past sennight. And they were very helpful words. Insight into the anxious mind of her husband.

“She was a mistress. She was well-versed in these matters. She took control, so I didn’t have to.”

Oh. An uncomfortable knot formed in her stomach. He wanted her to take control? Even if she had done this before, that wasn’t very appealing to Georgiana. She wanted to be controlled. A tightness snaked around her chest. Oh dear. That might be overwhelm cinching around her.

Up until now, she had been doing very well, considering.

Considering she had just married a veritable stranger, been thrust to an altar, and then thrown into a new home with a new family. Not to mention that it was the Christmastide season. Christmas was in a few days. And she wasn’t spending it with her family. She wasn’t spending it with anyone remotely familiar. Granted, Christmas wasn’t all that jolly a time in the Hartley’s household. But she had always celebrated with Bernie. Until this year. Her first Christmas without him.

Her heart lodged itself in her throat, making it impossible to swallow. Christmas always fell flat, filled with material items that meant nothing, all for show. There was no laughter, no joy, no hope—like right now.

Oh dear, that was definitely overwhelm she was feeling, it was spiraling around her, tighter than the threads in a weaver’s loom.

And now… Now she had a husband who she needed to take charge with. In all things. Conversation and copulation.

She took a steadying breath. One of them needed to breathe normally. And it was definitely not going to be her husband. She hadn’t let life destroy her yet, she wouldn’t now.

He needed her to take control. She would try.

“Why don’t we start with a kiss?”