Compromised for Christmas (The Jennings Family #1)

18. Georgiana

18

Georgiana

G eorgiana stood just outside the door of her husband’s study. He had requested her presence in his study whenever was convenient for her, so here she was. Delaying. Her skin prickled, nerves skittering over her like an army of insect legs. Most exchanges with her husband were uncomfortable, but the one they were about to have was sure to elevate that discomfort to a whole new degree.

She feared last night’s incident had ruined everything. She wasn’t sure what everything was because their marriage—their entire acquaintance—had been fraught with blunders. Yet, her husband seemed to possess some mysterious quality that had Georgiana longing for things she really had no right wanting. Wanting only led to disappointment. But, blast and damn, Georgiana wanted her husband badly.

She took a deep breath and glanced over herself—and winced. Crumbs dusted her bodice, and she hastily brushed at them. She tended to be a nervous eater, and the cook’s spiced biscuits served as the perfect distraction. Satisfied with her appearance, she stepped into her husband’s dark, earth-toned study and quietly closed the door. What she had once deemed a room perfect for seduction now loomed…ominous.

“Fitz…” she said, hating the uncertainty lacing that lone word. She was bold, damn it, not wilting.

He didn’t respond, didn’t look at her. Just continued to stare down at his hands, fingers drumming against the desk he stood behind. Warmth bloomed over her cheeks even though he wasn’t looking at her. Wouldn’t look at her.

Georgiana did not embarrass easily, but having someone walk in on her while she was…her eyes slid shut. The rapid tapping of his fingers roared through her head, like he was drumming inside her skull instead. She had never been more embarrassed and horrified in her life that someone had seen her while she was—well… she had been fucking herself. There was no delicate way to put it. She didn’t have anything against being watched. The idea actually appealed. But when she was fully aware it was going to happen. Planned. That was a very important factor. Not barged in on unexpectedly by an anxious husband.

She drew in a deep breath and walked up to her husband’s desk, infusing herself with a boldness she didn’t feel in the slightest with each step. It wasn’t much, but it kept her standing and not fleeing from the room.

“Fitz, please say something. Have I completely horrified you?”

God help her. Wives, respectable ladies , didn’t do such things. There was a reason the woman she purchased her dildo from posed as a bread seller. Goodness, there was a poem— Signior Dildo —about how much men scorned women’s use of dildos. Granted, that was back in the 1600s, but attitudes had changed little. Masturbation was considered a sin. She thought women might have been committed for things like this. The blood in her veins froze. Did her husband fall in with that way of thinking?

“Horrified?” he croaked out. He finally looked at her, and he didn’t look angry. He didn’t look disgusted; he looked…broken. His jaw tensed; his throat worked. “The only th-thing I’m horrified about is the fact that I barged in and interrupted what was a-a-a”—he stumbled and flailed for a moment—“a very private moment. I’m so unbelievably sorry.”

The light flush on his cheeks deepened. “I would never be horrified that you did such things. I don’t adhere to that nonsense, that women shouldn’t know… That s-s-elf”—he swallowed—“p-pleasure is a sin.” He paused and took a breath so deep his chest and shoulders visibly lifted and fell. “I realize you wouldn’t know that about me.”

The uncomfortable dance her stomach was performing settled slightly. She hadn’t known that about her husband. There was quite a bit she didn’t know. She twisted her fingers in her skirts, and they stood in silence.

He let out a slow, careful breath, his shoulders relaxing, and extended a hand out to the side of him. “Would you come here?” he asked softly, his features just as soft, amber curls falling over his brow. And here was another moment where her husband’s handsomeness ascended to harrowing heights.

She wound her way around his desk and took his hand. He didn’t flinch; he didn’t jerk back. He closed his fingers around hers and pulled her forward, pulled her heart right to him. Her stomach was dancing again, but it wasn’t nerves. It was like her husband possessed some secret ability. He stumbled around under the facade that he was a walluping sort, an awkward, clumsy cove. But underneath it all, he was the most dangerous of rum dukes. That it wasn’t something he flaunted made it that much more formidable.

He gently placed her between himself and his desk, drawing in measured, methodical breaths. If she wasn’t mistaken, she thought she heard him counting on each inhale and exhale. She leaned against the desk behind her and gave her husband the time he clearly needed to keep his composure. She hadn’t realized how much taller than her he was until this moment. Georgiana had always been on the shorter side, but her husband, who had at least a head on her, was very much on the taller side. He may be lean, especially compared to Georgiana’s curves, but goodness he towered over her. She liked that. A lot.

And that was when his attire finally registered. She cocked her head and studied his waistcoat. It…it had tassels on it, large, curtain-sized tassels. And pompons. And was that actual greenery? “What in the world are you wearing?”

A bead of sweat dripped down his forehead, but he broke out in a semblance of a smile, the tension in his jaw easing. “This is my ugly waistcoat.” He withdrew a handkerchief and mopped his forehead with an only slightly trembling hand.

“Your ugly…waistcoat?” She glanced back at the disaster. It was white and lumpy from the tassels and pompons. The pompons varied in size from berry-sized to—she wrinkled her nose—egg-sized. There were horribly executed snowflakes embroidered on it. And on each half of the garment was a half circle of—yes, it was the actual plant—holly, red berries and all. And when viewing the two halves together, well, her husband was wearing a lumpy snowflake waistcoat with a holly wreath on it.

“The Jennings family has an ugly waistcoat competition every year,” Fitz said by way of explanation. “My father suggested we do it for fun one year and, well, we Jennings don’t really need much of an excuse to turn something into a competition. So, each year, we make our ugly waistcoats and the most offending one wins.”

Of course, they would have an ugly waistcoat competition. Only the Jennings. And her husband’s attempt…well it looked as though a snowman had vomited all over it and decked a festive wreath on top. It was hideous.

“Urm, next year you are welcome to take part,” he added belatedly. “We make them ourselves and it takes quite a bit of time, so there really wasn’t much opportunity this year. And none of us were really expecting…” He looked over her shoulder and worried his lip.

Her.

This Christmas was much different from what she had been expecting, too. She reached out and ran her fingers over a lop-sided snowflake. He stilled.

“Does that mean you embroidered these yourself?”

The breath he had been holding burst from him. “Yesssss,” he hissed out to the space over her shoulder. “That is the number one rule. You must make the entire thing yourself.”

A silly, fluttery reel picked up in her breast. Why was it so charming to think of her awkward, blushing, Italian translator of a husband bent over a waistcoat, feverishly embroidering, all in a bid to win an ugly waistcoat competition amongst his siblings? Truly, could there be anything more heart-melting?

But they were not here for ugly waistcoats. They were here because he had walked in on her last night. The flutter in her chest turned into a rampant, agitated ticking.

“You asked to see me…Fitz.”

His gaze finally shot to hers. He shifted on his feet, his throat bobbing frantically in time with his swallows. The nerves were back.

He cleared his voice, but even so, when he spoke, his words came out like he had a frog stuck in his throat. “So. Urm. I-I thought it was time we talked. Became acquainted. I realize I haven’t made that easy—possible at all—this past week. But I was reminded how important communication is.” He hadn’t looked at her for any of what he just said, but his gaze latched onto hers now, sincere, vulnerable, beautiful. “And I really want to converse with you.”

Georgiana’s heart bloomed, bloomed like new life in spring. She really wanted to converse with her husband, too.

“I would like that, Fitz,” she said, whisper-soft.

His gaze dipped to her lips and then back to her eyes. His amber gaze seemed tortured, those mahogany striations dark and stormy, and she didn’t understand why.

“Perhaps we should start with what we want this marriage to be,” he said, his voice choked. “D-do you want a marriage in truth or just in name?” His fists clenched, and her attention shot to the movement.

“In truth,” she said instantly.

She hadn’t even deigned to hope for such a thing under the circumstances. But if there was hope? Pardon a moment while she gathered her grit in one hand and determination in the other, because she was going to take that hope and turn it into reality. Georgiana was a fighter. She fought every. Blasted. Day. To smile, to maintain optimism, to find the beauty in a life that sometimes seemed determined to strip every bit of it away.

His shoulders relaxed an infinitesimal amount, and he blew out a small breath. “So you want to bed me? When I work up the nerve, that is.” He glanced at her through thick amber lashes, that sheepish tilt she was coming to know and adore curving his lips.

Did she want to bed him? Good Lord, she had just fucked herself quite thoroughly imagining that exact thing.

She reached for his hand and squeezed. “Yes, I want to bed you.” She shot him a gentle smile. “As you might have guessed after last night, I am not your typical blushing and ignorant virgin. If you’d prefer, we can start small and work up to a proper shag.” She winked at him, and it earned her a quiet chuckle.

And somehow—that small chuckle?—was the most beautiful gift she’d ever been granted.

“So…urm…you are a virgin, then.”

Her brows pinched. “Yes…” Though she supposed given what he saw last night, she couldn’t blame him wondering. “I have never had…penetrative sex with a man.”

Oh dear, now she was blushing again. Why was she blushing? She was always confident, flippant. But speaking so plainly about such matters, especially with a husband who just sucked in a sharp breath at the word penetrative, had her nerves jumbled.

He was nodding. And not saying anything. The nodding wasn’t stopping. That was probably not good for his head. She reached up and gently cupped his cheek, stilling him. He opened and closed his mouth, but, as was to be expected, nothing came out. There was a question in his eyes—concern, doubt?

She searched his gaze. “Is there something you wish to ask me, Fitz?”

“Is Lord Dunmore your lover?” He blurted.

She dropped her hand and blinked at him. Her brain went silent. It stopped working. “Lord Dunmore…” She wrinkled her brow and stared at her nose. What on earth? Lord Dunmore? The Duke of Ironcrest’s best mate? “I’ve barely spoken to the man.” Let alone had any physical interactions with the man. Unless one counted when he nudged her into the Serpentine. But she didn’t blame him. She had wanted to jump in herself after her mother’s antics.

She looked up at her husband, who was wringing his hands in front of him. “Why would you think such a thing?”

“I-I overheard you last night speaking of a man. I assumed your lover. Urm. Derek.”

Oh. Oh. She giggled. Oh, oh, ohhhh. That was actually quite hilarious.

“Derek is my dildo, Fitz.”

Fitz’s face burst into flames. Red as hot coals and just as searing. She could practically feel the heat pouring off him.

“Purely named for alliterative purposes, I might add.”

He was nodding again. “I see,” he said in a garbled voice.

She bit her lip as he struggled to rein in his embarrassment. Apparently, she was the debaucher in this relationship. It wasn’t her preference. When it came to amorous activities, she wanted to be ordered about, tossed around, dominated. But, staring at her husband—whose eye was twitching slightly—she found she didn’t mind the thought of being the corrupter nearly as much as she originally thought. Because corrupting her husband held a potent appeal.

And perhaps… “If you ever want to, urm”—she took a steadying breath and lifted her chin—“if you ever want to watch me use him, like last night, I wouldn’t be opposed…”

All right. So she needed a bit of work when it came to her sexual demands. But one didn’t go from wanting to be controlled to confidently being the one in control in the span of a day.

His eyes widened and his breaths came faster. “You-gurrh-you-you.”

Her lips twitched. Her poor husband.

He sucked in a breath. “You would want me to watch? Y-you would be all right with that?”

That sounded a tad like interest. “Yes. I…” Georgiana licked her lips. “I like the idea of watching and being watched,” she managed.

Her husband’s pupils flared, and he groaned. Oh dear. That groan was way too reminiscent of the other day. Visions of a grunting Fitz with an axe flooded her mind, and heat flooded her core.

He was much closer than before, his hands gripping his desk on either side of her, caging her in. When had that happened? His breath puffed over her lips, his eyes locked on them. The scent of whisky danced over her skin with each warm breath. Sharp, sweet, astringent. She could almost taste it.

“I’d like to kiss you again, wife.” His voice dropped to a deep, rich velvet. “And this time I’d like to do it properly.”

Georgiana trembled. Yes. Yes, yes, yes. She should probably say that out loud. “Yes.”

“All right. I shall.”

But he didn’t. He rambled.

“I promise it’ll be better than the last time—not that the last time really counts. I’m not sure that could even be considered a kiss. I panicked, you see. I don’t think I’d ever been so nervous, and I’d never been with a virgin, and then I was worried, what if I couldn’t make you orgasm? Did you even know what an orgasm was? Obviously, after last night, I know you know. I mean. You do. You know . Obvious—”

“Fitz?” Goodness, she couldn’t get her husband to speak for the life of her, but now, now, when she wanted silence, she couldn’t get him to shut up.

“Yes?” He swallowed audibly.

“Hush already and kiss me.”

He nodded succinctly and finally, finally, her husband closed the distance. And unlike the last time, he didn’t freeze. Soft, warm, sure lips passed over hers.

A hand slid up her back, guiding her flush against the solidness that was her husband. A soft rumble left her. Had she just purred? But who wouldn’t purr when pressed into a hard, chiseled man.

Fitz’s other hand nestled into her chignon and cradled her skull. He took full advantage of that leverage and slanted his mouth over hers. Over and over. Overwhelmed her with open-mouthed kisses.

And then he angled his head and sank inside her. She moaned at the contact, of the slick glide of tongue against tongue. There was no hesitancy this time. He filled her, devoured her with almost a feral need. Something had changed in her hesitant, apprehensive husband, and she was at a loss to know the reason why. Perhaps, like her, the need had stretched too taut and snapped. Allowing for pure, unadulterated hunger. Two people desperately hungry for each other, the barrier of discomfort and anxiety that usually existed between them gone. Blessedly gone.

And then he was gone.

No!

She chased him, but then froze. Large hands skimmed over her ankles. He was touching her. Up over her calves, knees, to settle above her winter wool stockings on bare skin.

There was a great chance she’d expire on the spot. If her lungs started working again, she’d be fine. Come on, lungs, blast and damn. She couldn’t expire now. Not when her husband’s fingertips were skimming lightly over her thighs. And thank all that was holy because she sucked in a blessed, life-saving breath.

He slid his hands up and down, each time closer to where she ached. His dark eyes bore into her, the bright amber gone, a murky mahogany left in its wake. His mouth was soft, lips parted, hovering close but not close enough. Heaven, help her, that stare. It gripped her like a hand wrapped around the nape of her neck. Helpless and completely at his whim. It was torture—his presence, his teasing touch—building a need in her core at a dizzying pace.

Up and down.

Closer.

Advance and retreat.

Closer.

So close to where she needed him. But always denying.

He slid back up and paused, his thumbs just below where she burned, throbbed for him. His fingers dug into her inner thighs.

“May I?” he asked hoarsely.

She whimpered at the coarse rumble of his tone, at the firm, possessive hold of his hands, her flesh only too happy to be at his will. It was delicious. Unexpected. Curious. A curiosity that was imperative she explore.

“Yes, anything. Just, yes.”

His thumbs slipped over her center, and a soft cry left her. He watched her. And she watched him. Warm brown eyes nearly black, lips swollen, still wet from their kiss. A choked sound left him, almost like a half-sob. A desperate noise.

“Così bagnata. Così calda,” he murmured against her lips. “So wet. So hot. For me?”

Oh, mio Dio . Did this man speak Italian in bed? Because if so, Georgiana was in very real danger of coming on the spot.

“For you, Fitz. It’s all for you.” The words were nothing but a whimper, barely coherent, because his thumb was destroying her.

He slid softly over her, spreading her wetness across swollen flesh. Gliding up and circling over where her body pulsed with a delirious want. Then he sank two fingers inside. Georgiana’s hips bucked. Fitz groaned. She moaned. Apparently, her husband hadn’t been lying when he had said he didn’t require an instruction manual. Her body clenched around him, demanding. More . She needed more.

Their lips dragged over each other, neither able to muster an actual kiss, just a frantic skim of mouths, breathing each other in. And, as though he knew, he gave her more. He sank another finger inside, thrusting in a painfully sweet rhythm. He curled his fingers and swirled his thumb over her. The anticipation from the past few days had her blood heating to near unbearable extremes, fever hot. Every touch heightened, charged. Her mouth dropped open, small cries she couldn’t control coming from deep in her throat. And each cry elicited a hitch in her husband’s breathing. Like her pleasure gave him pleasure.

Lord, this man should write his own manual. Her husband knew exactly where all the right places were. Like that place deep inside that had even taken her a while to find. But Fitz knew. Oh, he knew . Another breathy cry left her.

“Micetta mia. Adoro come fai le fusa per me.”

Her husband definitely didn’t know she could speak Italian. Because—she whimpered—oh heavens. Fitz calling her his kitten? I love how you purr for me . He would never if he knew. And like hell was she going to tell him and have him stop. Her chest threatened to crack open. She was feeling too much, the pleasure pulsing through her veins too potent.

“Così bella, bellissima. Non ce la faccio più.”

She couldn’t take it either. She was so close. Just a little more pressure, just a little more—

Knock, knock, knock.

Click.

“Fitz, I need to speak to you.”

And that was how Georgiana found herself unceremoniously shoved underneath her husband’s desk.