Compromised for Christmas (The Jennings Family #1)

37. Fitz

37

Fitz

F itz’s gaze followed the scurrying women disappearing behind a large, snow-covered shrubbery. No more time for dithering.

“Shall we get to it, then?” Lord Wessex asked, and then turned to Fitz. “I know Felicity enjoys a rigorous snowball fight, and Lady Camoys always seems to go for my jugular—no idea why. I swear the woman dislikes me for some odd reason.”

Fitz barely held back his snort. No idea why . That was rich. How about because the man stuck his prick in every woman who wasn’t his fiancé. Lady Camoys was a protective best friend. It was a bummer, truly. Because Lord Wessex was a fun chap. But he wasn’t going to make Felicity happy. And Fitz hated that.

“But, ah, your new wife,” Lord Wessex was saying. “Should I avoid throwing snowballs at her? I know most ladies possess delicate constitutions.”

Fitz discreetly studied his wife as the three men made their way to a gathering of trees. She stood with Flick, while Flick was miming throwing a snowball, adjusting Georgiana’s arms and legs. His wife’s lack of experience didn’t fool him. She would embrace this competition with the same vigor she did all endeavors. Blood rushed to his cock. Shite. He should not think about Georgiana embracing anything with vigor right now.

“How about this, Wessex; focus your throws at Felicity and Lady Camoys. But if the opportunity presents itself, I won’t stand in your way.” He wasn’t worried about his wife’s welfare. If anything, he feared for Lord Wessex.

Once they’d piled up an enormous hoard of snowballs, they shed their large overcoats—they’d need freedom of movement for this, and they’d be overheated and sweating soon enough—and armed themselves with as many balls as they could carry.

“Ready?” Felix bellowed at the ladies.

“Ready!” Felicity called back.

Felix drew his index finger and thumb up to his mouth. A piercing whistle rent the park.

And the game was on.

They spread out, sprinting between trees and ducking behind. They had set up at one of the paths of the park that was lined with trees on either side, the men on one side, the women on the other.

Fitz peered out from behind the tree he had his back pressed flat against. A flash of deep blue darted between the trees. Fitz jumped out from behind his tree and hurled a snowball, two more following his from either side of him. None hit their mark, and he and his battle partners hastily darted back behind their trees.

He shook his head. Lady Camoys and her love for bold colors. The women had shucked their coats as well. He knew Felicity would be in white, and she would have instructed his wife to do the same. Blending in with her surroundings. A wise tactic. But Lady Camoys had chosen a midnight blue dress. She should know better.

He waited, scanning the trees for more movement, his breath puffing small white clouds in front of him. Another glimpse of blue from behind a tree. He poised to strike. And then Lady Camoys popped out again.

He rushed forward, Felix’s boots crunching in the snow beside him, and tossed two snowballs, one after another, in the direction of Lady Camoys. She darted each one, but Felix covered him and started his own assault at the woman, who giggled, weaving and ducking.

“It’s a trap!” Lord Wessex yelled. “Take cover!”

But it was too late. Frigid snow smacked into Fitz’s neck from the right, and he sucked in a sharp breath, snow shavings slipping down his cravat. His skin twitched in protest, and he brushed away the snowy projectile. He backpedaled, heading for tree cover, when another snowball came from the other direction and hit Felix square in the face.

Fitz’s gaze shot to the culprit—a grinning Flick. Felix let out a roaring battle cry and charged after their sister. She hopped up and down with glee and then took off, but she was no match for Felix’s long strides. He took their sister to the ground, and they rolled and scrabbled. And that was where Felix was no match for Felicity. Fitz squinted. Yes, she had Felix in a headlock. He grinned stupidly at the pair.

Which was apt, because it was pretty stupid to stand and watch during a snowball fight. And that was how he found himself hit in the side of the head with a snowball. He wiped the snow from his face, a shiver stealing down his spine. Turning, he spotted his wife dropping the rest of the snowballs she had been holding and clapping excitedly.

“I did it!” she squealed. “That was two hits!”

God, she was disarmingly sweet. He bent down and scooped up some snow. He quickly formed a ball, already heading in her direction, and lobbed it at her, hitting her smack in the chest. Her jaw went slack, and she glanced down, as though she expected to see blood staining her white wool gown. Her brows slammed together, and her face screamed retribution.

She went for her snowballs at her feet, but Fitz was already sprinting toward her. She launched one snowball at him, and he ducked, the ball coasting over his hair where, if he had still been wearing it, the bullet would have shot his topper clean off his head.

And then he was on her, arms wrapping around her middle and bringing them to the ground. She let out an indignant squeak as they landed with a poof in the thick, powdery snow, only to dissolve into a fit of giggles. Her cheeks and nose were flushed a cinnamon-sweet red from the cold—or excitement, perhaps. Or both. Her green eyes, crinkled with laughter, were barely visible through her snowflake-dusted blonde lashes.

She looked like joy.

She felt like joy.

He’d like to kiss joy.

He leaned forward, and her laughter faded. He was inches from her lips, from joy. Her hands came up around him. He went to close the distance—

“Fuck!” he screeched.

Icy powder slithered down his neck and back. He pushed up to his knees, hastily scraping snow from his collar. The wench had shoved a snowball down the back of his coat!

“You,” he growled, thrusting a finger at her.

Her lips pressed together, a weak attempt at preventing a smirk from curling upward. Oh, she was a saucy wench.

He caged her in. “You,” he whispered. “Are a very bad wench.”

She sucked in a breath, the smile in her eyes vanishing. Replaced with something exhilarating, intoxicating. Heated. So much so he was shocked the surrounding snow wasn’t melting away. Lord, he wished they weren’t in the middle of a park.

He nudged his nose alongside hers, and she arched beneath him. He captured her mouth with his, and she pressed back greedily. There was nothing soft, nothing slow, about this. Not being able to have his wife was killing him. God, where was his ex-mistress with those pamphlets?

A loud catcall and a whistle broke them from their highly inappropriate, highly public intimate embrace. He lifted off her, grinning at Georgiana.

“Apologies, wife. I lost all sense of propriety, along with my wits, for a moment there.”

She smiled back at him, lips just as rosy as the tip of her sweet nose. “Apology accepted, husband. It is not as though you can ruin me all over again now, is it?”

“If I remember correctly,” he said with mock affront. “You were the one who ruined me.”

She chuckled, and though they laughed together, his wife had no idea how true that statement was.

She had ruined him. In the best way.