Compromised for Christmas (The Jennings Family #1)

17. Fitz

17

Fitz

C rash!

Fitz started at the sound of a slamming door echoing through the hall. He was sluggish this morning—after a night of little sleep, a confusing mix of desire and disappointment over his wife plaguing him. But even that loud bang had made it through his exhaustion-fogged skull. That couldn’t be good. It had come from up ahead, from the direction of his brother’s study. Which meant—

“That bloody hog grubber! The nerve of the presumptuous prick.” Expletives exploded from his sister as she stormed down the hall in Fitz’s direction, amber hair flying about her face as her violent movements tore it from her chignon. “He deserves a swift kick to the tallywags. The nerve .”

She barreled past Fitz, mutiny written all over her face.

He shot an arm out and grabbed her wrist. “Flick, easy. What happened?”

Felicity looked at him, cheeks flushed in apparent rage, and the fire in her eye instantly doused, replaced by rapidly forming tears. A sob tore through her chest at the same time she brandished a scandal sheet in front of Fitz.

He knew what that meant. Her fiancé was at it again, then.

Fitz pulled Felicity into his chest, and she broke down. She shook against him, and he tightened his arms, his chest just as tight for his poor sister.

“I hate him.” Her muffled, watery words drifted up from his waistcoat.

Despite the fact the scandal sheet she had just shaken publicized yet another amorous encounter of her fiancé’s, he knew who her words were actually directed at: Felix.

“Yes, I know Flick. But you also love him,” he said soothingly.

“N-no, I don’t. He has lost my love. He is nothing but a pile of dung on a hot summer’s day to me.”

Well. That was a visual.

“Maybe I’ll fill his boots again—”

“Why don’t we indulge in a glass of whisky,” he hastened to suggest and divert his sister from her vengeful thoughts. It wouldn’t be the first time she had planted manure in Felix’s boots. Or Fitz’s. His little sister was a termagant. A hoyden. And hilarious and loyal and loving.

“Indulging in a bottle of whisky sounds just the thing,” Flick mumbled against him.

He frowned. “I had said a glass …”

But she was already stepping away from him and grabbing his hand and dragging him to the library. She strode straight to the sideboard, snatched the decanter of whisky, popped off the top, and took a healthy swig.

Oh dear.

He hastily took it from her. “My turn,” he said gruffly. Then proceeded to pour them each a finger of whisky and managed to herd his sister to the couch.

She snuggled into his side and drew in a wobbly breath. He rested his chin atop her head. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She slowly spun her whisky glass in her hands, and he gave her time. Finally, she drew in a large breath, steadier this time, her head lifting and falling under his chin.

“Felix is the most boorish boor to ever boor.”

Her voice was soft and sad, and it twisted Fitz’s insides. And just like his stomach was tied in knots, so were his hands. There was nothing he could do to help Felicity. He hummed in agreement with his sister’s statement. Truthfully, Fitz sometimes struggled to understand Felix’s adamancy that Felicity marry Lord Wessex. The man was to be a duke, but the man was constantly written about in the gossip columns cavorting with women of ill-repute, cuckolding husbands, gambling recklessly, drinking to excess—he was caught pissing in a potted fern at a ball once. In view of everyone .

“Felix believes he is doing what is best for you, Flick. Lord Wessex may be a prig—”

Felicity scoffed.

“Agreed. That is putting it lightly. But marrying him will give you security and immense influence. It is no secret within this family that we share progressive views, views that are looked down upon, shocking to many. With that sort of influence, you could conduct change.”

If anyone could change the world, it was his little sister. Fumbling, stumbling, stuttering Fitz? Not so much.

“I suppose I just have to sacrifice myself in the process,” she said sullenly and then downed the rest of her whisky.

He winced. Felicity had always had dreams . Fanciful dreams of a knight on a white steed coming to save her, a man slaying a beast for her—though in Fitz’s eyes it would be much more likely that Felicity slew the beast.

Fitz had never understood it because he had never given a thought to marriage. Lie. He would have been happy never marrying. Lie .

He had wanted to marry once. Back when he was a foolish, even more awkward young man of eighteen. But Miss Eloise Browning had taken swift care of that. After that painful experience, marriage was the last thing Fitz wanted in his life. He hadn’t been lonely. He hadn’t secretly longed for a companion, someone to quietly share a space with in comfortable silence. Not at all.

But here he was, married anyhow. The disaster that was his marriage settled heavily over him. He supposed his sister was justified in her upset. A disaster of a marriage wasn’t a minor quandary.

“Have you spoken with Lord Wessex? About your concerns, I mean.”

She leaned back and cocked a brow at him. “Have I spoken to him about cramming his cock in every chit he saunters past?”

He choked on his spit. When he could finally breathe again, he said, “Yes, urm…that. Just with a modicum more tact.”

She huffed out an amused snort.

“I mean it, though, Flick. Talk to him. Perhaps he will be faithful once you marry. Or perhaps he doesn’t realize fidelity is something you desire. It is not exactly en vogue . You two are not a love match. Maybe he hasn’t thought to even try at one. If that is what you want?” He glanced at his sister, but she gave nothing away, just contemplative. “Communication is important.”

“Mmmm,” she hummed.

She still sounded sad, but she wasn’t crying, and he could practically hear the gears turning in that mischievous head of hers. His lips curved. He would consider that a success. He didn’t always know how to handle his sister, but he thought he might have just done a fine job.

“I suppose that is sound advice.” She looked up at him and grinned. “For a prat.”

He rolled his eyes at her.

She gave him a playful shove. “You know you’re my favorite prat.”

“I’m not sure that makes me feel any better.” But his smile and the warmth inside his chest said otherwise. He struggled to belong in this family, as different as he was from the confident, cool-and-collected Jennings. So, he’d bask in this small moment of belonging with his little sister.

“Speaking of marriage…” she said slowly. “How are things with Georgiana?”

Or perhaps he wouldn’t bask in it. Because all warmth fled his body like water through a sieve.

How were things with Georgiana? Was there a word worse than horrible? Terrible? Catastrophic?

“I quite like her,” Felicity added.

That was the problem. Fitz thought he might, too. But his wife quite clearly didn’t like him . She liked Derek . He bristled, and a growl fled from his lips before he could stop it.

Felicity shot up and looked at him with eyes as wide as melons. She thrust a finger at him. “ What was that? Did you just growl? Fitzwilliam Jennings?” A sly, knowing look that only a sister could make slid over her face. “Are you all growly over your wife, Fitz?” She bounced her eyebrows. “That can only be a good thing.”

A sigh burst from him, and he threw back the rest of his whisky. “It is decidedly not good. The marriage is a mess, and I muck it up at every opportunity.”

“But you don’t want to muck it up,” Felicity said, her eyes gentling. “You want to un-muck it.”

He dipped his chin stiffly.

“I don’t think she minds your awkwardness.” She tipped her head back, studying him. “She is nothing like your Miss Browning,” she added softly.

Heaven, he hoped that would hold true. But right now… Fitz wasn’t so sure that was the case.

“I think you might have gotten lucky with this match,” Felicity added thoughtfully.

Why did everyone keep saying that? “Is it lucky that my wife wanted someone like the Duke of Ironcrest and got saddled with me—a bumbling imbecile—instead?” he grumbled.

Felicity shrugged and bopped him on the nose. “Eventually you’ll stop bumbling and babbling and blushing. Before you know it, you’ll be just as comfortable with her as you are with us. It will just take time, Fitzy. I think you should heed your own advice. Communicate with your wife.”

Yes, because that was so simple for Fitz.

His sister hopped off the sofa and bounded toward the door. She turned in a swirl of skirts at the threshold and arched a brow. “Perhaps you’ll find it’s not the Duke of Ironcrest she wants.” With that cryptic statement, she left.

He highly doubted that. And even if Georgiana didn’t want the Duke, she assuredly didn’t want Fitz.