Compromised for Christmas (The Jennings Family #1)

33. Georgiana

33

Georgiana

T his week was not going how Georgiana had hoped it would. She most certainly hadn’t expected it to include herself abandoned, bent bare-arsed over her husband’s desk.

If you’ll excuse me. I forgot about a prior obligation.

She shook her head as she sifted through the correspondence at the escritoire in her bedchamber. Un-bloody-believable. Who said such a thing when their cock was pressed against one’s quim?

Georgiana dropped her head to her desk with a thud. She had been near fanatic when he’d kissed her back, when he’d kissed her back with need . Need for her. Want for her. She so desperately wanted him to want her. To love her.

She froze. Oh, God. Was that what this overwhelming feeling was? The one where her heart was fit to explode at any moment. Where her entire body warmed like she was basking in sunshine even though it was the dead of winter. Where a simple smile, a huff of laughter, a soft amber gaze, was all it took for an ordinary day to turn into the best day of her life.

Her hand went to her stomach. Stop! She sat up and scowled down at her belly. The butterflies or grasshoppers or frogs or whatever they were would not stop hopping around in there. Bloody hell. She’d fallen in love with her husband. And she had no idea where she stood with him.

After their almost amazing encounter ended in disaster, she had barely seen him. He had taken a dinner tray in his room and—shocking—hadn’t visited her chambers that night.

So, ever the strong, resilient woman, Georgiana had attempted to visit him instead. Her eyes closed on a groan. That had been a resounding failure.

Georgiana! Here. Something, isn’t it? Surprise. He had laughed nervously and wiped the back of his hand over his brow. I m-mean. Live here. Of course. Why wouldn’t you? Business calls. Must get to it back. Burning the midnight oil. And then he promptly shut the door in her face.

She had stood outside his room for a good five minutes, stunned. Partly trying to make sense of the words her husband had just blubbered and partly not believing he had just shut a door in her face.

She turned the letter she was holding over in her hands and unfolded it. A lovely note from Lady Rutledge, whose supper party was tomorrow evening.

Dear Mrs. Fitzwilliam Jennings,

First, please allow me to offer my warmest congratulations on your recent nuptials! Your husband and his family are cherished guests and have graced our table many times. We are truly delighted to have the opportunity to meet the newest addition to the Jennings family. I am sure we are going to get along fabulously!

Yours sincerely,

Lady Rutledge

A supper party sounded like an excellent distraction from the toils of her marriage. And she wanted to speak with Lady Rutledge about the foundling home. She’d like to help in some way. Perhaps there was some way she could convince her father to donate textiles to the home. More than anything, she’d like to visit with the children. She’d been so lonely as a child. All she’d ever longed for was company. Her heart vibrated happily in her chest at the thought of going to see the children.

At least she could have something that gave her purpose, brought her joy. She might desperately need that based on the current state of her marriage. No. She wouldn’t think such things. Her marriage was new, two strangers forced together. The fact that they had had any positive moments together must be a good sign. She just had to avoid pushing their relationship in the wrong direction. Like scaring her husband off by asking him to spank her.

She groaned.

Perhaps she should let Fitz know she had no qualms if he didn’t want to spank her. And she would be careful not to request anything else. Definitely not restraints. She blew out a breath, a tendril of hair in front of her face fluffing upwards. She could only imagine her husband would have run all the way back to Kent if she’d asked him to tie her up. But he had fulfilled her in so many ways thus far, and he did get rough with her—though she wouldn’t complain with rougher —so overall she was quite satisfied. Extremely so.

She didn’t want him to do anything he wasn’t comfortable with. Her desires were just that—desires. They weren’t needs. She thought all she really needed…was him. Her heart clenched.

Terrifying.

Georgiana fiddled with the letter. She craved the closeness, the conversation, the comfortable quiet moments that she had gotten small hints of with her husband…more than the carnal moments.

Terrifying.

She didn’t think that was normal to want in a marriage. Or at least not normal to expect from one. For as long as she could remember, she was paraded around as a womb for sale to the destitute lords of London. That was the way of things. Women were for breeding. Her parents certainly hadn’t displayed any signs of affection. They reminded her more of how her father acted with his business associates. Amicable . Blech.

And she was also fairly certain her father had a mistress. Georgiana knew that wasn’t a good sign. If one’s husband was sleeping with someone else, she highly doubted there was any closeness happening. Thank goodness her husband had dismissed his. She would hold on to that. A sign, a glimmer of hope, for a marriage in truth.

It was just…things were different since they arrived in London. Even before he’d abandoned her in his study. He couldn’t even speak to her anymore. How did she get back to the man who had held her in his arms on Christmas Eve?

This marriage felt impossible to navigate. What did one do when a relationship appeared to be stumbling? She knew what her parents did. They put on fake smiles and filled dinner with empty conversation until they could curl up in separate bedrooms and forget the other existed. She had thought sex might be the answer, but she had clearly made it worse with that.

Georgiana stood and headed for her door. She would start with conversation. She didn’t even care what about, she just wanted to speak with him. And for him to speak back. When they had been in Kent, he had said how badly he wanted to converse with her. She lifted her chin. Well, bugger and damn, she would make it happen!

With resolve flowing through her veins, she nearly bounded all the way to her husband’s study. She stumbled to a stop just before his door and took a calming breath. Best not to fly into Fitz’s study and frighten the poor man. He was as quick to startle as a skittish hare.

She casually stepped into his study. And froze. Fitz lounged in one of the armchairs in front of the low-burning hearth, one leg slung over the arm, a whisky dangling loosely in one hand. He had a book in his lap, spectacles perched on his nose, brow puckered softly in concentration. He looked so relaxed, so at ease. She glanced at his stockinged foot, toes wiggling as he read. Her lungs grew tight, and air was suddenly very hard to come by, scarce.

Her eyes burned. Dear God, were those tears forming? She hastily took a step back and pressed up against the wall. It was just…it was almost painful to see him that way—because it was how she so desperately wanted him to be with her . Curled up together while they both got lost in a book. Just each other’s comforting presence enough. The longing—it hurt. She focused on drawing breath in and out until the burning behind her eyes receded. They would never get there if they didn’t speak.

She shook out her arms, stepped back into the doorway, and knocked softly on the open door. He glanced up from his reading, and scrambled to standing, slamming the book shut. He tucked his hands, book and all, behind him and rocked on his heels.

“Georgiana.” He managed it without stuttering, but a blush was growing on his cheeks.

She smiled at him, hopefully in a way that was encouraging and not startling. His gaze locked on her lips, and he ceased all movement. She thought that might be a good sign.

“May I come in?”

“Of-of course.” He strode over to his desk, tucked his book and spectacles away, and then gestured back to his armchairs.

They settled into the leather chairs. She pushed off her slippers and folded her calves beneath her. The rapid tapping of Fitz’s fingers against the arm of his chair filled the room. Perhaps speaking of a topic he enjoyed would be a good start.

“What are you reading?”

“Nurrghle.” He glanced away and pulled at his cravat. “Urm, apologies. Nothing. I mean something. Maybe t-translations.”

The poor man’s ears were lobster red. All right. Different topic, then.

“I’m quite looking forward to the Rutledge’s supper party.”

He blinked dumbly at her. “A supper party… With the Rutledges. Yes. Of course. How could I forget? We go every year. I mean, my family does. Which now you are. My family. A part of. I mean.” He let out a strangled laugh. “You are looking forward to attending?”

“Yes,” she said softly, glancing at him from beneath her lashes.

He gifted her a half-smile. A glorious half-smile with a dimple popping in his cheek. He was almost a normal color again, too. “Their supper parties are nearly bearable. For me, I mean. I can usually find another awkward academic to blather on with, so it is never too bad.”

She arched a brow at him. “Another academic? No one else?”

He blinked slowly at her, beautifully befuddled.

Her lips quirked, and she leaned forward, snatching his whisky off the side table between their chairs. “Did you know, Fitz, an advantage to having a wife is you can blather on with her during such parties?” She winked at him before taking a sip of his drink. She hummed appreciatively, her body giving a small shudder as the sharp burn of alcohol slid through her. That first sip always had the biggest bite.

His lips curved up in the softest semblance of a smile. “I think you are aware I don’t always do so well blathering on with my wife.”

She shrugged and took another sip. “Perhaps we need to converse more often. Practice.” She paused and chewed her lip. “Back in Kent, you said you wanted to become better acquainted. I know you have been quite busy since we’ve returned…” She let out a long, slow breath, trying to calm her twisting stomach. “Would you perhaps have time now? To sit and talk with me for a while?”

There. She asked. Her fingers tightened around the whisky glass, and she threw the rest back. The worst that would happen is he said no. He didn’t have time for her. And that would be fine. She would be fine. It would be—

“I’d like that.”

Her gaze shot to his. And relief flooded her lungs like that first breath of country air after leaving the smog of London.

He extended his arm toward her, palm up. “Would you care for a refill of my drink?” His grin turned lop-sided, and Georgiana swore the floor beneath her did, too. Had her husband just teased her? And with that bloody lop-sided smile?

Now she might be thankful he was a bit awkward. Because he’d be fighting off petticoats left and right if he let that charm loose. And no other woman would lay a hand on her husband. This clumsy cove was hers.

She leaned forward and placed the glass—and her heart—in his hand. Time to get to know her husband. And for now, she wouldn’t bring up any of her worries, bedroom related or not.

She didn’t want to risk ruining this moment.