Compromised for Christmas (The Jennings Family #1)

13. Georgiana

13

Georgiana

G eorgiana scrambled after Fitz as he trudged through the nearly ankle-deep snow toward a copse of trees off to the side of the manor. Cold air stung her face and was sharp in her lungs. The blasted man was on a mission.

They had quickly changed into warmer attire and then met back in the entry, both Fitz and Lord Bentley’s faces grim masks of determination. This family. She shook her head. Competitive was too tame a word. Lord Bentley and Felicity had gone left out of the front entry, and Georgiana and Fitz had gone right. The thing was, her husband had much longer legs than she did. And they had walked at least the distance of two large ballrooms already. She could barely keep up without huffing and puffing about like a portly pug.

Fitz reached the edge of the copse and halted. Thank the bloody gods . He spun on his heel to face her, axe resting over one shoulder, hatchet in the other hand, brows set in a hard line.

He opened his mouth and hesitated.

Georgiana hesitated.

He glanced away.

She glanced at the snow.

This was awkward.

She didn’t know what to say to him. Not after last night. And the uncomfortable kissing and the fleeing. The tree debate had been a welcome distraction before.

“Shall we pick a tree, then?” she ventured, toeing the snow.

“Yes, I suppose that is our aim. Urm, since you are so familiar with the Queen’s Christmas tree, perhaps you choose what makes a good tree?”

He spoke to a random patch of snow to the left of her. One day, she would get her husband to look at her. The more he struggled, the more determined she became. She had no idea why she made him nervous. She was a nobody. A nobody whom nobody wanted.

She inhaled a breath and blew that undesirable thought right out of her, gloomy white cloud and all. It was a beautiful December day, with clear skies and snow-covered countryside. An opportunity. This was going to be fun. Fun with her new husband.

With a new bound in her step, she strode toward the small wood, eying the evergreen options. “How big does it need to be?”

“The bigger the better.”

She stifled a giggle. Yes, well, she supposed that was true of most things in life. She glanced back at her husband. He was a large man, taller than average, but lean. She liked that fact about him. She wanted to feel small. At a man’s mercy. Her gaze dropped to his hips, hidden behind his large wool overcoat. The bigger the better . Would she ever find out?

She shook away her lascivious meanderings and continued her march. She paused before a towering evergreen, its branches stretching wide, the bottom ones easily spanning two of her wingspans. Generously spaced limbs, leaving about a half-foot of space between each tier, ascended the tree, creating the perfect canvas for draping ribbons and beads and whatever other festive adornments Felicity and Lady Bentley could conjure up.

“Do you think we will win with this one?” She scanned up the tree, her head tilting back.

It must be twenty feet. Granted, she was a horrible judge of such things. For all she knew, it was actually fifty feet tall. She turned to Fitz, who was sizing it up.

He gave a decisive nod. “I think the odds are good.” He tossed the axe into the snow by the tree, dropped his hatchet at his feet, and shrugged out of his large wool coat. His gaze flicked to her, and he held out his coat.

“Would you mind holding this for me, please?”

She hurried forward. “Of course.”

She shot him a smile, and his cheeks, already rosy from the cold, bloomed a deeper pink. She gathered his coat to her chest. He glanced away and began attacking his cravat until he pulled it free and handed it to her.

“This, too, please.”

She blinked, staring at his exposed neck. He had a nice neck. Was that a thing? She hadn’t realized it could be. But her husband most definitely did. Corded muscles led down to more muscles where his neck met his thick shoulders and disappeared into the collar of his linen shirt.

Fitz cleared his throat. “Urm… Georgiana?”

She shook herself out of her daze and quickly took his cravat. “Apologies.”

She clutched his items to her and stepped back while he gathered his hatchet and set up at the base of the tree. He rolled up his sleeves, exposing even more tempting sinew and strength: firm, clearly delineated, muscled forearms dusted in amber hair. She sucked in a breath. And promptly found herself enveloped in the scent of parchment and ink and cedar. She brought his coat even closer to her nose. Her eyes fluttered shut. Shite . Her husband smelled delicious, like reading a book while wrapped in evergreens. And he looked delicious.

Georgiana hadn’t thought of how torturous this tree competition would be. She hadn’t realized there would be exposed necks, and rolled up sleeves, and—her eyes stretched wide on Fitz’s first swing with the hatchet—bulging biceps. Oh heavens. How was there snow out here when it was this hot? Because Fitz with a hatchet? She fanned herself. Which only wafted more of her husband’s scent into her nose. He was all bumbling and blushing and brawny. And she liked it. Very much.

The muscles in his arm and back pulled his white linen tight with every swing, his breath labored. He grunted. Georgiana’s breath caught in her lungs. Another hack at the tree. He grunted again. And again. And Georgiana nearly expired on the spot. Expired from lust. Because each time that hatchet connected with the tree, her core throbbed. Lord, those were sex grunts. Or at least she could imagine them being sex grunts. And he was sweating—this time in a delicious way—sweat born from exertion, not anxiety. She wanted those muscles, those grunts, that sweaty exertion—all directed toward her.

“I’m close,” he grunted out.

Oh, dear.

“Just a little harder,” he panted out, his voice strained.

Heaven, help me.

She needed distraction. Now. Before she jumped on her husband and shagged him right here in the snow. Which probably wasn’t advisable. Especially when her husband was holding a sharp object.

She glanced at the tree, its branches shaking in time with Fitz’s grunts. It was awfully tall.

“Right there.”

Yes, right there between my thighs, please and thank you.

Oh, God. Distraction. “I’m nervous it’s not going to fit,” she yelped out.

He paused in his sex-grunting and glanced back at her, his ragged breaths clouding the air in front of him. He peered at her through furrowing amber brows. “Won’t fit?”

She let out a relieved breath, some of the lust tightening her muscles, fading away. She had been one grunt away from rucking up her skirts.

“Yes. I’m worried it’ll be too big,” she said, albeit a touch breathlessly.

He cocked his head at her. She cocked hers right back. What was he not understanding?

“We’ve never done this before, correct? Which means we have no idea if it’ll fit.” She gnawed on her lip. “I’m afraid we won’t be able to get it inside.”

Fitz gaped at her. “I-I-I assure you it will fit.” His face was turning an alarming shade of red. Especially considering it was already a deep blush from his exertion. His gaze skittered across the snow, and his throat worked frantically. Why was he so nervous speaking of the size of trees?

“I suppose if you’re sure… I wouldn’t want it to get damaged in the process of forcing it inside, though.”

A strangled sound escaped her husband. “I promise you that you’re-you’re-you’re… you’re ”—he waved a hand in front of her—“won’t damage it. These th-things are made to accommodate each other. Regardless of”—he swallowed—“s-size.”

She blinked at him. What? And then it dawned. Her eyebrows shot to the top of her head. Oh, oh, oh. She choked down a laugh. He thought she was talking about penises? A breath burst through her lips, and she broke out in a grin. Oh, that was bloody fantastic. And potentially very fun .

She schooled her expression and tapped her chin thoughtfully. “That is good to know. I suppose if we had to, we could coat it with something and see if that helped us get it inside. Would that be odd? Perhaps we could cover it in cooking oil. And then give it a good ole shove.”

He stared at her in horror, jaw nearly in the snow. A laugh bubbled up in her belly, and she clutched her stomach, pressing her lips together. Phewf . Almost let that one escape. But she had one more jest to torture her precious husband with.

“Though I suppose this will all be a moot point potentially. If Lord Bentley’s is bigger.”

“If-if Felix’s is bigger?” he sputtered.

She bit her lip painfully hard to prevent the laugh creeping up her chest. “Yes,” she said, her voice strangled from suppressed laughter. “If his is bigger, then his is the one we’ll use, isn’t it?”

“Why would you ever think that?” His face twisted in alarm, eyes growing wider by the second. “Y-you want to—Y-you want Felix’s?”

Her laughter promptly faded. At the hurt filling his wide eyes and the despondency thick in his tone. She hurried toward him, dropping to her knees in front of him. “No! No, no, no, Fitz. I was talking about trees, Fitz. But I picked up fairly early that you had taken my words to mean something else entirely. I was merely jesting, teasing.” Her words tumbled over one another. “I beg your pardon. I meant it in good fun, but I think I pushed the jest a tad too far.”

Lord, she was bungling this. Georgiana saw how he and his siblings teased each other. She had just wanted to join in. She was out of her element—the one where there was banter and merriment and love.

He frowned, staring down at the hatchet he was turning over in his hands. “Trees…” He nodded and glanced up at her, then let out a long exhale before a sheepish smile slightly curved his lips. “I misunderstood—not unusual for me. Though, my blunders are not usually that bad.”

She smiled softly, her heart melting a little at the sight of her bashful husband. “I’m happy you made the blunder. You should have seen the look of horror on your face when I—” She broke out in a fit of giggles.

Fitz huffed out a laughing breath, a lop-sided grin breaking out across his face, his gaze tracing over her. “I will admit I was a mite alarmed when you said you wanted to coat it in cooking oil.”

Her giggles turned into full-blown, belly-racking laughs. “I knew that one”—she sucked in a breath—“was a stretch with a tree”—another gasp—“but I just had to.”

She waved a hand in front of her face. Get a hold of yourself, Georgiana. Before her husband determined she was dicked in the nob. Which she probably was.

She gathered a bit of powdery snow with her gloved fingers, fluffing it. She had spent more of her time with her own thoughts or talking to her dog than actual people. Georgiana wasn’t entirely certain what was considered normal. Though she knew laughing like this—and most definitely jests about penises—were not permissible in a ballroom. But were they with one’s husband?

Georgiana glanced at Fitz from beneath her lashes and stilled. Her husband no longer smiled, the lop-sided grin from before gone, the twinkle in his amber eyes doused.

She squirmed, her skin prickling. He stared at her like she was an oddity—or maybe a curiosity. She finally had her husband’s undivided attention, and she wasn’t entirely sure she could handle the intensity of it, the weight of it almost too tangible to bear.

“What?” she whispered. “Is something amiss?”

“Nothing,” he murmured. “Nothing at all.” He shook his head, his gaze clearing, breaking the heady spell. His lips tilted up. “Shall we get back to it?”

Back to the sex grunts? God help her.

“Let’s.”