Compromised for Christmas (The Jennings Family #1)

16. Fitz

16

Fitz

F itz was desperate to sink his cock inside his wife.

And he was going to do it. Tonight. He marched to her chamber, eyes narrowed in on his target. He would not fail. Fitz stopped in front of his wife’s chamber door and rolled his shoulders. He had chopped down a bloody tree today. He could fuck his wife.

When he had tucked Georgiana to his side earlier, it had felt so right . She fit there. Not the most eloquent way of putting it, but he translated other people’s words for a living; he didn’t make up words himself. And then she had looked at him, plush lips parted, cheeks and the tip of her nose rosy from the cold, pupils blown wide in her round eyes. He was nearly as confident as he was in his ability to translate Italian that his wife’s expression was one of lust. Lust. For him .

As usual, he had gone and ruined it. He had calmly removed his arm from her person. Well, jerked it away in a rather ungainly manner. Then muttered a polite excuse. He grimaced. More like stammered a stream of stupidity. And fled with dignity.

Yes, so much dignity, Fitz.

But she had lust shining in her eyes, and he had panicked . His body had reacted, blood racing south. He had almost kissed her. Right there in the middle of the entry, surrounded by his siblings, servants, and trees, of all things. Of course that would happen. He’d finally found the ability to kiss his wife—properly, because he would have done it quite thoroughly—and it was the exact worst time for it.

The only option had been to get as far away from her as possible. Before he rutted with his wife on the marble floor. He had never in all his life felt such a powerful pull toward a woman. He didn’t understand it. He wasn’t a stranger to lust, and he was usually quite adept at controlling those urges. Because he was Fitz. Doing anything without thinking led to disaster. But there had been something elemental about his need for her back in the entry. Like he needed her like he needed breath. Which was ironic—because often times around his wife, he struggled to breathe.

So, he had fled to his study, collected himself, and now he was ready. Prepared with as much confidence as a man like him could muster. He straightened his shoulders, drew in a deep draught of air, and lifted his hand to knock.

“Hullo, Derek. It looks like it’s you and me tonight, darling,” a muffled voice drifted from inside his wife’s chamber.

His breath exploded from him, and his fist froze mid-air. What? Who was Derek? And what was he doing with Fitz’s bloody wife!

A hand slapped down on Fitz’s shoulder, and he jumped.

“Everything well with you, brother?” Felix asked. “You’ve been staring—and now scowling—at your wife’s bedchamber door for quite some time now.”

“I—I—” Come on, Fitz. Form words.

“You are working up the courage to bed your wife?” Felix arched a brow at him.

Fitz’s gaze darted from the dark-wood chamber door to his brother’s concerned visage, an understanding smile tilting Felix’s lips. This wasn’t exactly the best time for a supportive brotherly chat. Another man was in that chamber with his wife.

Felix squeezed his shoulder. “I know it is easier said than done but try not to worry overmuch. To be frank, first times are often awkward. But I’ve seen the way she looks at you. Most wives don’t look at the husbands they chose like that. When someone looks at you like that? Regardless of if you hit some bumps along the way, you two will find your, ah…harmony.”

Fitz cocked his head as his brother’s words sank in. The way she looked at him? At him ? He looked around the hallway. Him, Fitz? Inept, stilted, and clumsy Fitz?

His brother chuckled and cuffed him on the shoulder. “Yes, you, brother. Your wife must find your nervousness charming. I hated that you were forced into this predicament. But I think, perhaps, this was actually a blessing in disguise.”

A blessing in disguise. Was his wife with Derek a blessing in disguise? Shite, Derek. The man currently with your wife.

“Do you know anyone named Derek? A servant, perhaps?”

Felix’s chin jerked in, and he studied Fitz under scrunched amber brows. Yes, Fitz realized the timing of that question made him seem like he had gone mad. Which was exactly how Felix was looking at him.

“Not that I am aware of… The only Derek I know—and not well, I might add—is Roderick Blackwood, the Marquess of Dunmore.”

“Roderick Blackwood,” Fitz muttered, turning the name over in his mind. The Marquess of Dunmore.

“Are you sure you are well, brother?”

“Yes, yes,” Fitz said, distracted. He shot his brother a smile. “I am fine.” He inclined his head toward the door. “I should get to it.”

Felix chuckled and started walking backwards. “Good luck, Fitzy.” He turned and lifted a hand in farewell.

Fitz spun toward the door, hand reaching for the handle. Derek better be ready for a muzzler, because Fitz’s fist was about to greet the man’s face with a hearty hullo .

Oh God. Those were definitely moans coming from her chamber. Every muscle in his body went whipcord straight, and it wasn’t nerves. It was searing. Savage. Fury. If he had more presence of mind, he’d wonder where this possessive, primal rage had come from. But if another man touched her? The man was dead. Deceased. A corpse. Food for the worms. A growl ripped from him. Touch her, and I will strangle you with my bare hands.

He burst through the door and kicked it shut behind him.

“What the fu—” His roar died a quick death.

His wife screamed. And then scrambled to cover herself. He slapped a hand over his eyes and bolted out the door. Well, that had been his aim.

Thwack!

Urghhhh .

Right, he had kicked the blasted thing closed. He really needed to stop doing that. He rested his throbbing head against the very hard, very solid door. At least he hadn’t fallen on his arse this time.

Unfortunately, the pain distracted him for…well, not at all. Dear God. Dear Lord. Dear Almighty. Dear Mary, Joseph, Lazarus, and Barnabas. He swallowed and gulped and, blast and damn, he couldn’t breathe. He had just walked in on his wife. She was—Georgiana was—

“Fitz?” His wife’s small voice came from behind him.

“I must beg your pardon,” he said to the door, his voice strangled. His neck burned, fire racing up it to cover his face. “I sh-should have knocked. I-I promise it won’t happen again.”

“Fitz…”

But he was already out the door. He raced to his room nearly as fast as his brain raced in his head. His cock was hard as stone. Because—bloody hell—he had just walked in on his wife fucking herself with-with-with— with a sexual implement. How had she even procured one of those things? Sodding hell, that was the most erotic thing he had ever witnessed. Granted, Fitz wasn’t exactly a conjugal aficionado. He wanted to go back and ask her to continue, to let him watch. Until she came.

He groaned and slipped into his room, then walked up to his bed and fell flat on his face on the mattress.

Thwump.

His heart constricted, each beat painful and sharp. Yes, that had been a glorious sight. But Georgiana hadn’t been thinking of him. She has been fucking herself thinking of a man named Derek. Apparently, Fitz was destined to end up with women who didn’t want him.

He thought back to Felix’s words. Roderick Blackwood, the Marquess of Dunmore. Fitz tried to think of what he knew about the man. Could Georgiana know him? He was thick as thieves with the Duke of Iron—Fitz froze. Dunmore and Ironcrest were best mates, nearly brothers. Both known for debauchery and dark desires. Like his wife. Like his wife, who had been trying to have an assignation with the Duke.

Apparently, Dunmore would do just as well. And Derek—his Christian name? Had she already been intimate with the man? Fitz didn’t truly know much about his wife. Relatively typical when the first time you met your wife was the night you compromised her. He had assumed she was a virgin. Which probably made him beetle-headed, because what virgin arranged for assignations?

God, Fitz, you’re a bloody idiot.

His cock was completely deflated now. As was his heart. He didn’t even know why he cared. It wasn’t like he held any sort of tendre for his wife like he had for Miss Browning. If anything, whenever he was around his wife, he experienced intestinal distress.

He would never be the man a woman preferred. He had thought he’d come to terms with that. Apparently, he had somehow let some hope slip into his heart.

Foolish Fitz.

He slammed his fists into his mattress. His marriage was like a curricle heading straight for a stone wall. And Fitz had never been adept at driving curricles.

Crash.