Thwump.
His heart constricted, each beat painful and sharp. Yes, that had been a glorious sight. But Georgiana hadn’t been thinking of him. She has been fucking herself thinking of a man named Derek. Apparently, Fitz was destined to end up with women who didn’t want him.
He thought back to Felix’s words. Roderick Blackwood, the Marquess of Dunmore. Fitz tried to think of what he knew about the man. Could Georgiana know him? He was thick as thieves with the Duke of Iron—Fitz froze. Dunmore and Ironcrest were best mates, nearly brothers. Both known for debauchery and dark desires. Like his wife. Like his wife, who had been trying to have an assignation with the Duke.
Apparently, Dunmore would do just as well. And Derek—his Christian name? Had she already been intimate with the man? Fitz didn’t truly know much about his wife. Relatively typical when the first time you met your wife was the night you compromised her. He had assumed she was a virgin. Which probably made him beetle-headed, because what virgin arranged for assignations?
God, Fitz, you’re a bloody idiot.
His cock was completely deflated now. As was his heart. He didn’t even know why he cared. It wasn’t like he held any sort of tendre for his wife like he had for Miss Browning. If anything, whenever he was around his wife, he experienced intestinal distress.
He would never be the man a woman preferred. He had thought he’d come to terms with that. Apparently, he had somehow let some hope slip into his heart.
Foolish Fitz.
He slammed his fists into his mattress. His marriage was like a curricle heading straight for a stone wall. And Fitz had never been adept at driving curricles.
Crash.
17
Fitz
Crash!
Fitz started at the sound of a slamming door echoing through the hall. He was sluggish this morning—after a night of little sleep, a confusing mix of desire and disappointment over his wife plaguing him. But even that loud bang had made it through his exhaustion-fogged skull. That couldn’t be good. It had come from up ahead, from the direction of his brother’s study. Which meant—
“That bloody hog grubber! The nerve of the presumptuous prick.” Expletives exploded from his sister as she stormed down the hall in Fitz’s direction, amber hair flying about her face as her violent movements tore it from her chignon. “He deserves a swift kick to the tallywags. Thenerve.”
She barreled past Fitz, mutiny written all over her face.
He shot an arm out and grabbed her wrist. “Flick, easy. What happened?”
Felicity looked at him, cheeks flushed in apparent rage, and the fire in her eye instantly doused, replaced by rapidly forming tears. A sob tore through her chest at the same time she brandished a scandal sheet in front of Fitz.
He knew what that meant. Her fiancé was at it again, then.
Fitz pulled Felicity into his chest, and she broke down. She shook against him, and he tightened his arms, his chest just as tight for his poor sister.
“I hate him.” Her muffled, watery words drifted up from his waistcoat.
Despite the fact the scandal sheet she had just shaken publicized yet another amorous encounter of her fiancé’s, he knew who her words were actually directed at: Felix.
“Yes, I know Flick. But you also love him,” he said soothingly.
“N-no, I don’t. He has lost my love. He is nothing but a pile of dung on a hot summer’s day to me.”
Well. That was a visual.
“Maybe I’ll fill his boots again—”
“Why don’t we indulge in a glass of whisky,” he hastened to suggest and divert his sister from her vengeful thoughts. It wouldn’t be the first time she had planted manure in Felix’s boots. Or Fitz’s. His little sister was a termagant. A hoyden. And hilarious and loyal and loving.
“Indulging in a bottle of whisky sounds just the thing,” Flick mumbled against him.
He frowned. “I had said aglass…”
But she was already stepping away from him and grabbing his hand and dragging him to the library. She strode straight to the sideboard, snatched the decanter of whisky, popped off the top, and took a healthy swig.
