And that was when his attire finally registered. She cocked her head and studied his waistcoat. It…it hadtasselson it, large, curtain-sized tassels. And pompons. And was thatactualgreenery? “What in the world are you wearing?”
A bead of sweat dripped down his forehead, but he broke out in a semblance of a smile, the tension in his jaw easing. “This is my ugly waistcoat.” He withdrew a handkerchief and mopped his forehead with an only slightly trembling hand.
“Your ugly…waistcoat?” She glanced back at the disaster. It was white and lumpy from the tassels and pompons. The pompons varied in size from berry-sized to—she wrinkled her nose—egg-sized. There were horribly executed snowflakes embroidered on it. And on each half of the garment was a half circle of—yes, it was the actual plant—holly, red berries and all. And when viewing the two halves together, well, her husband was wearing a lumpy snowflake waistcoat with a holly wreath on it.
“The Jennings family has an ugly waistcoat competition every year,” Fitz said by way of explanation. “My father suggested we do it for fun one year and, well, we Jennings don’t really need much of an excuse to turn something into a competition. So, each year, we make our ugly waistcoats and the most offending one wins.”
Of course, they would have an ugly waistcoat competition. Only the Jennings. And her husband’s attempt…well it looked as though a snowman had vomited all over it and decked a festive wreath on top. It was hideous.
“Urm, next year you are welcome to take part,” he added belatedly. “We make them ourselves and it takes quite a bit of time, so there really wasn’t much opportunity this year. And none of us were really expecting…” He looked over her shoulder and worried his lip.
Her.
This Christmas was much different from what she had been expecting, too. She reached out and ran her fingers over a lop-sided snowflake. He stilled.
“Does that mean you embroidered these yourself?”
The breath he had been holding burst from him. “Yesssss,” he hissed out to the space over her shoulder. “That is the number one rule. You must make the entire thing yourself.”
A silly, fluttery reel picked up in her breast. Why was it so charming to think of her awkward, blushing, Italian translator of a husband bent over a waistcoat, feverishly embroidering, all in a bid to win an ugly waistcoat competition amongst his siblings? Truly, could there be anything more heart-melting?
But they were not here for ugly waistcoats. They were here because he had walked in on her last night. The flutter in her chest turned into a rampant, agitated ticking.
“You asked to see me…Fitz.”
His gaze finally shot to hers. He shifted on his feet, his throat bobbing frantically in time with his swallows. The nerves were back.
He cleared his voice, but even so, when he spoke, his words came out like he had a frog stuck in his throat. “So. Urm. I-I thought it was time we talked. Became acquainted. I realize I haven’t made that easy—possible at all—this past week. But I was reminded how important communication is.” He hadn’t looked at her for any of what he just said, but his gaze latched onto hers now, sincere, vulnerable, beautiful. “And Ireallywant to converse with you.”
Georgiana’s heart bloomed, bloomed like new life in spring. She really wanted to converse with her husband, too.
“I would like that, Fitz,” she said, whisper-soft.
His gaze dipped to her lips and then back to her eyes. His amber gaze seemed tortured, those mahogany striations dark and stormy, and she didn’t understand why.
“Perhaps we should start with what we want this marriage to be,” he said, his voice choked. “D-do you want a marriage in truth or just in name?” His fists clenched, and her attention shot to the movement.
“In truth,” she said instantly.
She hadn’t even deigned to hope for such a thing under the circumstances. But if there was hope? Pardon a moment while she gathered her grit in one hand and determination in the other, because she was going to take that hope and turn it into reality. Georgiana was a fighter. She fought every. Blasted. Day. To smile, to maintain optimism, to find the beauty in a life that sometimes seemed determined to strip every bit of it away.
His shoulders relaxed an infinitesimal amount, and he blew out a small breath. “So you want to bed me? When I work up the nerve, that is.” He glanced at her through thick amber lashes, that sheepish tilt she was coming to know and adore curving his lips.
Did she want to bed him? Good Lord, she had just fucked herself quite thoroughly imagining that exact thing.
She reached for his hand and squeezed. “Yes, I want to bed you.” She shot him a gentle smile. “As you might have guessed after last night, I am not your typical blushing and ignorant virgin. If you’d prefer, we can start small and work up to a proper shag.” She winked at him, and it earned her a quiet chuckle.
And somehow—that small chuckle?—was the most beautiful gift she’d ever been granted.
“So…urm…you are a virgin, then.”
Her brows pinched. “Yes…” Though she supposed given what he saw last night, she couldn’t blame him wondering. “I have never had…penetrative sex with a man.”
Oh dear, now she was blushing again. Why was she blushing? She was always confident, flippant. But speaking so plainly about such matters, especially with a husband who just sucked in a sharp breath at the word penetrative, had her nerves jumbled.
He was nodding. And not saying anything. The nodding wasn’t stopping. That was probably not good for his head. She reached up and gently cupped his cheek, stilling him. He opened and closed his mouth, but, as was to be expected, nothing came out. There was a question in his eyes—concern, doubt?
She searched his gaze. “Is there something you wish to ask me, Fitz?”
