Oh dear.
He hastily took it from her. “My turn,” he said gruffly. Then proceeded to pour them each a finger of whisky and managed to herd his sister to the couch.
She snuggled into his side and drew in a wobbly breath. He rested his chin atop her head. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She slowly spun her whisky glass in her hands, and he gave her time. Finally, she drew in a large breath, steadier this time, her head lifting and falling under his chin.
“Felix is the most boorish boor to ever boor.”
Her voice was soft and sad, and it twisted Fitz’s insides. And just like his stomach was tied in knots, so were his hands. There was nothing he could do to help Felicity. He hummed in agreement with his sister’s statement. Truthfully, Fitz sometimes struggled to understand Felix’s adamancy that Felicity marry Lord Wessex. The man was to be a duke, but the man was constantly written about in the gossip columns cavorting with women of ill-repute, cuckolding husbands, gambling recklessly, drinking to excess—he was caught pissing in a potted fern at a ball once. In view ofeveryone.
“Felix believes he is doing what is best for you, Flick. Lord Wessex may be a prig—”
Felicity scoffed.
“Agreed. That is putting it lightly. But marrying him will give you security and immense influence. It is no secret within this family that we share progressive views, views that are looked down upon, shocking to many. With that sort of influence, you could conduct change.”
If anyone could change the world, it was his little sister. Fumbling, stumbling, stuttering Fitz? Not so much.
“I suppose I just have to sacrifice myself in the process,” she said sullenly and then downed the rest of her whisky.
He winced. Felicity had always haddreams. Fanciful dreams of a knight on a white steed coming to save her, a man slaying a beast for her—though in Fitz’s eyes it would be much more likely that Felicityslew the beast.
Fitz had never understood it because he had never given a thought to marriage.Lie.He would have been happy never marrying.Lie.
He had wanted to marry once. Back when he was a foolish, even more awkward young man of eighteen. But Miss Eloise Browning had taken swift care of that. After that painful experience, marriage was the last thing Fitz wanted in his life. He hadn’t been lonely. He hadn’t secretly longed for a companion, someone to quietly share a space with in comfortable silence. Not at all.
But here he was, married anyhow. The disaster that was his marriage settled heavily over him. He supposed his sister was justified in her upset. A disaster of a marriage wasn’t a minor quandary.
“Have you spoken with Lord Wessex? About your concerns, I mean.”
She leaned back and cocked a brow at him. “Have I spoken to him about cramming his cock in every chit he saunters past?”
He choked on his spit. When he could finally breathe again, he said, “Yes, urm…that. Just with a modicum more tact.”
She huffed out an amused snort.
“I mean it, though, Flick. Talk to him. Perhaps he will be faithful once you marry. Or perhaps he doesn’t realize fidelity is something you desire. It is not exactlyen vogue. You two are not a love match. Maybe he hasn’t thought to even try at one. If thatiswhat you want?” He glanced at his sister, but she gave nothing away, just contemplative. “Communication is important.”
“Mmmm,” she hummed.
She still sounded sad, but she wasn’t crying, and he could practically hear the gears turning in that mischievous head of hers. His lips curved. He would consider that a success. He didn’t always know how to handle his sister, but he thought he might have just done a fine job.
“I suppose that is sound advice.” She looked up at him and grinned. “For a prat.”
He rolled his eyes at her.
She gave him a playful shove. “You know you’re my favorite prat.”
“I’m not sure that makes me feel any better.” But his smile and the warmth inside his chest said otherwise. He struggled to belong in this family, as different as he was from the confident, cool-and-collected Jennings. So, he’d bask in this small moment of belonging with his little sister.
“Speaking of marriage…” she said slowly. “How are things with Georgiana?”
Or perhaps he wouldn’t bask in it. Because all warmth fled his body like water through a sieve.
How were things with Georgiana? Was there a word worse than horrible? Terrible? Catastrophic?
“I quite like her,” Felicity added.
