A decisive clap rang through the entry, wresting him from his past.
“We have measured and have the winner,” Mrs. Smith, their rosy-cheeked buxom housekeeper, announced.
The silence was deafening.
Fitz, Felix, and Felicity all leaned forward.
Mrs. Smith, the cruel bawd, drew out the announcement. The Jennings’s competitiveness was no secret in this household, and the servants enjoyed the revelry just as much as Fitz and his siblings did.
“The winner is…”
Silence.
Dear God, woman!
Felicity growled.
The housekeeper’s lips twitched, and she slowly lifted her eyebrows.
“…Mr. Fitzwilliam and his lovely new wife!” Mrs. Smith broke out in a smile.
Felicity’s face fell, Georgiana squealed, and Fitz gave Felix a consolatoryclap on the shoulder. The fizzy sensation in his stomach intensified.They had won!
“We won?” Georgiana exclaimed, hopping up and down. Her hands were clapping so fast they were nothing but a blur. “Oh my goodness, we won?”
Felicity’s upset was short-lived, and she was grinning now, eyebrows lifted in a bemused expression as Fitz’s wife did a victory lap on an imaginary horse around the entry.
“I’ve never won anything before! I think I see why you lot love competitions so much. Victory is thrilling,” she said, her voice an excited squeak.
Good Lord—and were those?—yes, she was makingclip-cloppingnoises. He snickered. Well, this proved it: His wife was adorable. How unapologetically she lived her life, not a single reservation about galloping around her new family’s entry like—well, like a fool. What did it feel like to be so comfortable in one’s own skin? To be surrounded by others and be free—from apprehension, unease, panic.
His wife halted her imaginary horse back at Fitz’s side and beamed up at him. “Congratulations, husband. You did most of the work, after all.”
He snaked an arm around her and pulled her tight to his side. “Congratulations, wife.”
He gave her a small squeeze. His pulse thrummed, a lightness spreading through him. Something inside him shifted as he stared into her bright green irises, so open and honest. How could one pair of eyes contain so many shades of green?
Georgiana’s smile faded. Her lips parted, and she blinked up at him, all signs of elation gone, replaced by flared pupils and a glossy, far-away look. Oh, God. He was touching her. And she was looking at him. And her lips looked so soft. And little puffs of peppermint drifted from them. He could almost taste the minty sweetness. His skin heated, and not just from a blush. Shite. Lust. A flood of lust surged through him at an alarming pace.
He dropped his arm as if stung and put a safe amount of space between them. Which for Fitz would have ideally been a wheat-field sized amount, but he’d have to settle for a foot.
“I-I realize I have left my translations unattended for far too long.” He took a large step backward, nearly tripping over his feet. He glanced at his siblings. “Another splendid competition, brother, sister. Jolly-good fun.” Their wide, side-eyed expressions spoke volumes: Fitz appeared to have lost his mind. “Must be going. No need to wait up for me.” A strained laugh fled his lips. “Georgiana, I mean. That was meant for Georgiana. Since she might—It’s typical for a husband…” He cleared his throat and addressed the ceiling as he started shuffling backward. “My work will keep me detained into the late hours of the night.”
He hurried from the hallway.
Dear Lord, where was an axe when one needed to lop off one’s head?
15
Georgiana
Georgianasplashedherfacewith cool water and then patted her face with a towel. The crisp water did nothing to chill her heated skin. Or her heated thoughts. Because Fitz with an axe? She fanned herself. Visions of his understated strength straining with every swing of his hatchet filled her mind, flooded her core with something hot and heady.
She snuffed out all but one candle and made her way to her bed. But she couldn’t snuff out the images of her husband. When the tree had finally toppled, still partly attached to the remaining trunk, he had picked up the large axe, hefted it over his head and brought it down, splitting the trunk clean in two. The display of vigor—she didn’t have words. Hand an anxious man an axe, and she was dead. She frowned. That probably could be taken the wrong way. Dead in a good way.La petite mortway. It was probablynotadvisableto give anxious men axes normally.
And the whipped cream on the trifle in this whole affair? They had won. Though Fitz deserved every ounce of credit, since all Georgiana had done was drool behind him as her nose-buried-in-books husband turned caveman on her. Not on her. If only. When they had found out they had won, Fitz had smiled. A face-splitting, teeth-glinting, and definitely heart-stopping smile. He had reached an arm around her and squeezed her to his person. He hadsqueezedher.
She let out a long, frustrated groan and set her candle on the nightstand. And stupid, feather-brained Georgiana had to go and ruin it. What had she done? She had frozen, blinking dumbly at her husband, her entire body thrumming. Something charged had streaked through her. Because he had beentouchingher. Grinning at her. A grin that had rapidly faded away. An arm that had quickly disappeared. A Fitz that had instantly turned back into his flushing, stumbling-over-his-words-and-feet self.
