Compromised for Christmas (The Jennings Family #1)

34. Fitz

34

Fitz

F itz prayed he wouldn’t ruin the moment. He made his way back from the sideboard with two glasses in hand, a finger of amber liquid in each. He was conversing with his wife, who was snuggled up in the armchair next to his. He wasn’t stuttering, he wasn’t sweating, and he wasn’t scared.

“So, I take it you enjoy whisky then?” he asked.

She accepted her glass with a smile. “Yes. You’ll laugh, but I actually would filch my father’s whisky when I was younger. I thought it was so rebellious. I’d sit there with Bernie, coughing and sputtering down the horrible stuff. But”—she dropped her voice low—“tough men drank whisky.” She huffed out a laugh. “I wanted to prove I was tough. And now I’ve developed a liking for the stuff.”

“Bernie?” Something hot and acidic turned over in his gut. Who was this man she was so familiar with? Imbibing with.

Her smile grew fond and sad and small. “Bernie was my Bloodhound,” she said quietly. She took a small sip of her drink, rubbing a hand over her bare arm.

His stomach settled, and his heart clenched. A pet, not a man. He’d never had a pet, never lost one. But by how little and lost his wife looked just now, he could tell it had been—was—hard on her. “Will you tell me about him?”

She shivered and nodded. He reached into the basket below the side table and snatched up a blanket. He stood, shook it out, and settled it over her lap. “Here,” he murmured. “I run as hot as the coals in the hearth, so I have the servants burn the fires low. I’ll be sure to inform them to keep them hotter going forward.”

He hadn’t thought of that fact. He hadn’t thought to have a tray sent to her last night for dinner. God, he was blundering terribly as a husband.

He leaned over her now, hands resting on the arms of her chair. Only about a head of space separated them, her green eyes glued to his. Her presence was so potent. It drew him in, pulled him in like a dangerous tide. Every. Bloody. Time.

He moved a touch closer. Her lips parted, and she sucked in the sweetest little breath. Just one kiss. And then he’d back away. He thought he might need to prove to himself he was capable of kissing his wife—without things escalating, without doing something humiliating. He wanted to be able to kiss her any time he wanted. Wanted the press of those soft lips on his randomly, scattered throughout the day.

He slid his hand over her jaw and tilted her face up. He hovered for a moment, their gazes never breaking, and then slowly, slowly, he closed the distance. Warm, supple lips greeted his, and it was the best welcome he’d ever received. His fingers tightened on her, and he gave himself just a bit more. Lips passing over lips. Her breath hitched, and he knew he needed to back away. Back away before she completely broke down his restraint. One more drag of his mouth over hers, then he retreated.

She stared at him, evergreen irises glassy and glimmering. He swiped his thumb over her bottom lip once and pushed off the chair. By the time he settled back in his, her eyes had cleared, and a twinge pulled in his chest, already missing the way the lust had clouded her gaze.

“Thank you,” she said, plucking at the blanket on her lap. She tucked her chin to her chest and fidgeted with the material, her gaze avoiding his. She almost looked bashful. Her. Not him!

She cleared her throat. “I had Bernie for just over ten years.”

Right. Conversation. Goodness, he was horrible at this.

“Bloodhounds…are quite large. What made you decide on one of those?” Bloodhounds are quite large? Clever, Fitz, really bloody clever. Lord, he wanted to smack himself in the face.

She huffed out a laugh and met his gaze. “It was one of the few breeds my father approved of. They’re not the most common or popular any longer, but some exceptionally wealthy aristocrats, who have deer parks still, have them. The rarity, the notion of extreme wealth that the breed hinted at, was something my father liked immensely.

“For me…”—her smile turned wistful—“I saw Bernie’s long floppy ears and smooshed, wrinkly nose, and had to have him. He came bounding up to me, jumping all over my skirts. Chose me, I think.” She giggled softly, her gaze falling to her lap, faraway. “Goodness, his ears were so long, I had to tie them up. They were always falling in his water dish whenever he took a drink.”

She looked at Fitz, her gaze watery. But her grin nearly split her face in two. And it was breathtaking and mesmerizing and impossible not to return. “He was the strangest dog. Every time he greeted me when I came home, he’d rub his face all over my slippers and stick his wiggly bum in the air, demanding scratches on his bottom. And he was obsessed with my stockings.” She chuckled lightly. “But only clean ones. Wouldn’t dare touch the dirty ones.”

She let out a weighty sigh. “Normally he was so noble and dignified. I called him King Bernard. He truly was a beautiful dog. But sometimes his top lip would get stuck in his front teeth, and he’d just sit there grinning at you with his toothy smile like the biggest, lovable buffoon.”

Her green eyes twinkled, and Fitz swore she appeared lit up from within while talking about her beloved hound. Fitz’s own cheeks ached from smiling. He was glad she’d had her Bernie. From the little he’d garnered about his wife, he didn’t think she’d had the warm and loving upbringing that Fitz’d had.

“He was also exceptionally snuggly,” she was saying. “You’ll probably think me odd, but he slept in my bed every night. He even had his own pillow, because Bernie required a pillow. I swear he was part human.” A sad breath whooshed from her, her entire person deflating. “But he passed last Spring.”

His smile faded away. “I’m sorry for your loss, Gigi.”

“Thank you.” She still smiled, but it was strained, and her voice was tight.

He didn’t want her to be sad. New topic. New topic. New topic.

“Whisky!”

She blinked at him.

He cleared his throat and grimaced. Smooth, Fitz. As smooth as tree bark. But at least his unexpected outburst had washed away the melancholy. “You had said you would partake in whisky, with Bernie by your side. Because you wanted to prove you were tough?”

“Ah, yes.” She rolled the edge of the glass against her bottom lip. “It was no secret my father wished I had been a boy, especially after my brother left—”

“You have a brother?” How did he not know that? They were married. Known each other for a fortnight now. Seemed like something he should have known. Was he that horrible of a husband?

Her lips tilted up, her eyes dancing with mirth. “Yes, I have a brother. But he is ten years my senior and left for America in his early twenties. My father was beyond enraged when he left. Wanted Geoffry to take over the family business. And with me being a woman…well, I couldn’t run it.”

“Before that he hadn’t seemed to mind me so much, but I think when Geoffry left, it frustrated Father that I had ruined all his well-laid plans. If I had been a boy, everything would have stayed in the family.”

She shrugged. “For a while, I wanted to prove to my father I was just as worthwhile, just as tough as any man. So, I would sneak to the warehouse and help the workers, wear breeches, drink whisky, smoke cigars. Oh, how I plagued my mother—who, in stark contrast to my father, was determined to turn me into the perfect genteel lady to ensnare a lord.” She leaned forward and whispered, “She failed.” Then winked at him.

He chuckled, admiring the way her green iris shone in the fire’s light, the way the flames cast flickering shadows over her soft, porcelain skin. What a wild young girl she must have been, and even now he saw traces of that wild woman in her. No wonder she got along so well with Felicity.

“I don’t know if you needed the whisky to prove it. I think you quite tough, strong, without it.”

She tilted her head questioningly. “What do you mean?”

“While I can’t complain that it led you to enjoying whisky—I find I quite like sitting here partaking with you.” He shot her a quick, shy smile. “But, urm… Well, I would argue you’re one of the strongest women I’ve known. You exude confidence. You walk around proud and tall.” Even as little as she was, he swore she held herself taller than he himself did.

“And goodness, you had no qualms having your b-breasts on display when we first met.” He chuckled, and a ping of delight filled him when he realized his face wasn’t growing hot—and he had just said breasts . “Came straight to my aid, not a hint of insecurity. And after we were caught, you boldly launched into an attempt to extricate us from the situation.” He glanced down at his whisky. “I couldn’t even form words.”

He finally glanced at her and found her smiling at him, a blush tinging her cheeks.

“It was nothing,” she said with a self-deprecating laugh. “Plus, you had just injured yourself, and I promptly smothered you with my bosom. No wonder you couldn’t speak. It was the least I could do.”

His brows pinched. Was she brushing it off? She wasn’t grasping the magnitude of having such a quality. “No, Gigi. It wasn’t just then,” he argued. “You were uprooted from your family, from your life, and forced to marry a strange man—one who couldn’t even converse with you. But you marched right up to that altar and spoke clearly and confidently. I feared my heart would give out throughout the entire ordeal. And I wasn’t the one moving in with a new family during Christmas .

“But you jumped right in, without hesitation, finding your fit within our fold.” He grinned, memories of the past sennight flitting through his mind. “Demanding we put up a tree for Christmas, and convincing everyone it was a good idea. I think you started a new Jennings’s tradition.” His smile slipped away, and he stared seriously at his wife. “You have been nothing but strong. And it’s admirable. Enviable. You are not giving yourself enough credit.”

She was everything he was not.

Her eyes were glassy again, and she hastily averted her gaze. She blinked rapidly and cleared her throat. Egads . His eyes widened. Was she going to cry? Had he just made his wife cry? Why did he always make a bloody muck of things?

“Gigi, are you well? I must apologize. I hadn’t meant—”

“No,” she interrupted, her voice thick. She cleared her throat again and let out a slow breath. She glanced at him with shimmering green eyes close to overflowing. “No one has ever said anything so kind to me before.” Her lips trembled as they curved into the smallest of smiles. “Thank you, Fitzwilliam,” she whispered.

Fitz deflated back into his armchair. He hadn’t said the wrong thing. She was happy. And as they casually conversed, sharing stories of their childhood, exchanging their likes and dislikes from food to games to seasons, finding out there were no other secret siblings, Fitz’s heart grew with every word.

For what felt like the first time, Fitz had said the right thing.