Compromised for Christmas (The Jennings Family #1)

14. Fitz

14

Fitz

F itz strode into the entry, Georgiana at his side, toward where his brother and sister waited for them, still bundled in their overcoats, gloves, and scarves.

Felicity arched an overconfident brow. “Here to congratulate us?”

“Not a chance, sister,” Fitz said. “I’m confident once the servants are done measuring, that haughty grin will be wiped right off your face. My wife was set on choosing the biggest one she could find.”

“Then why on earth did she choose you?” Felix threw back.

Felicity chortled. “Now, now, Fifi”—Felicity patted Felix’s arm—“you know what they say; it’s not the size that matters, but how you use it.”

Whaaaat? Felix and Fitz spun to their sister in unison, Fitz’s eyebrows vanishing somewhere in the two-story ceiling above him.

“Where on earth did you—”

“How would you-you-you—”

They sputtered together, staring aghast at their little sister. Which only had her doubling over in laughter. Small giggles floated to Fitz from his side. Georgiana’s eyes, crinkled at the corners, danced with delight, her hand covering her mouth in a failed attempt to stifle her laughter.

His shock at his sister’s exclamation faded, and a smile pulled at his lips. His wife was beautiful—no, that was too tame a word. There was something about her tinkling laughter, her twinkling green eyes, the way her rosy cheeks bunched as she smiled. She was joy, unabashed, untainted by the world they lived in. She was a glimmering, freshly fallen snow before the mud and muck of conveyances and everyday life disturbed it. And he would be content to sit in his study with his Italian translations, staring at such a scene for the rest of his days.

An odd warmth settled low in his stomach. He pressed his gloved hand there, as though that would settle the somewhat fizzy sensation. Perhaps what he’d had for breakfast hadn’t agreed with him. But the longer he stared at her, at those large, genuine forest-of-green eyes, the worse it became. He prayed she truly was genuine. It wouldn’t be the first time Fitz had been made a fool.

God, when she had jested about Felix earlier, when Fitz had thought she was implying she would rather bed his brother. It was like he was eighteen all over again. Every part of him had gone cold, like he’d shucked off all of his layers and buried himself in the snow he had been sitting in. Everything disappeared, and all he could see were soft brown eyes, matching glossy brown curls, furtive glances, secret smiles. Little did he know, the secret wasn’t for him. The secret was he was just a pawn in a grasping young woman’s attempt to get to his brother. He rubbed at the tightness in his chest, at the wound the dagger Miss Eloise Browning had thrown had left, a wound that hadn’t ever fully healed.

A decisive clap rang through the entry, wresting him from his past.

“We have measured and have the winner,” Mrs. Smith, their rosy-cheeked buxom housekeeper, announced.

The silence was deafening.

Fitz, Felix, and Felicity all leaned forward.

Mrs. Smith, the cruel bawd, drew out the announcement. The Jennings’s competitiveness was no secret in this household, and the servants enjoyed the revelry just as much as Fitz and his siblings did.

“The winner is…”

Silence.

Dear God, woman!

Felicity growled.

The housekeeper’s lips twitched, and she slowly lifted her eyebrows.

“…Mr. Fitzwilliam and his lovely new wife!” Mrs. Smith broke out in a smile.

Felicity’s face fell, Georgiana squealed, and Fitz gave Felix a consolatory clap on the shoulder. The fizzy sensation in his stomach intensified. They had won!

“We won?” Georgiana exclaimed, hopping up and down. Her hands were clapping so fast they were nothing but a blur. “Oh my goodness, we won?”

Felicity’s upset was short-lived, and she was grinning now, eyebrows lifted in a bemused expression as Fitz’s wife did a victory lap on an imaginary horse around the entry.

“I’ve never won anything before! I think I see why you lot love competitions so much. Victory is thrilling,” she said, her voice an excited squeak.

Good Lord—and were those?—yes, she was making clip-clopping noises. He snickered. Well, this proved it: His wife was adorable. How unapologetically she lived her life, not a single reservation about galloping around her new family’s entry like—well, like a fool. What did it feel like to be so comfortable in one’s own skin? To be surrounded by others and be free—from apprehension, unease, panic.

His wife halted her imaginary horse back at Fitz’s side and beamed up at him. “Congratulations, husband. You did most of the work, after all.”

He snaked an arm around her and pulled her tight to his side. “Congratulations, wife.”

He gave her a small squeeze. His pulse thrummed, a lightness spreading through him. Something inside him shifted as he stared into her bright green irises, so open and honest. How could one pair of eyes contain so many shades of green?

Georgiana’s smile faded. Her lips parted, and she blinked up at him, all signs of elation gone, replaced by flared pupils and a glossy, far-away look. Oh, God. He was touching her. And she was looking at him. And her lips looked so soft. And little puffs of peppermint drifted from them. He could almost taste the minty sweetness. His skin heated, and not just from a blush. Shite. Lust. A flood of lust surged through him at an alarming pace.

He dropped his arm as if stung and put a safe amount of space between them. Which for Fitz would have ideally been a wheat-field sized amount, but he’d have to settle for a foot.

“I-I realize I have left my translations unattended for far too long.” He took a large step backward, nearly tripping over his feet. He glanced at his siblings. “Another splendid competition, brother, sister. Jolly-good fun.” Their wide, side-eyed expressions spoke volumes: Fitz appeared to have lost his mind. “Must be going. No need to wait up for me.” A strained laugh fled his lips. “Georgiana, I mean. That was meant for Georgiana. Since she might—It’s typical for a husband…” He cleared his throat and addressed the ceiling as he started shuffling backward. “My work will keep me detained into the late hours of the night.”

He hurried from the hallway.

Dear Lord, where was an axe when one needed to lop off one’s head?