He grinned stupidly at her. She was so bloody fetching and darling and winsome. “There is a water closet just through my dressing chamber you can use.”
She sat up straighter, eyes rounding. “A water closet? I’ve heard of some homes in London having them, but I’ve never seen one before.”
He frowned. She hadn’t used one before? Then what was she—Oh, right, Felix had only had the family’s rooms plumbed.
“Come with me. I’ll show you how it works. But yes, Felix has an obsession with inventions,” he said as he led them into his dressing chamber. “His study has some of the neatest things that he’s acquired over the years. He’s been following advancements in flushing toilets for a while now—and people thinkI’mthe odd one—but as soon as he thought it worthwhile, he found a contractor who specialized in the trade and voila”—he opened the door of his water closet and pointed to the flushing toilet—“he had them installed in our chambers.”
She glanced at the mahogany wood carved toilet and then back at Fitz. “It looks like a chest, like a lovely piece of furniture, not a place to…”
He stepped forward and flipped up the lid, revealing a wooden seat over a hole that led into a porcelain bowl, similar to a chamber pot. “I suppose for aesthetics.” He shrugged. “After you’ve relieved yourself,”—his cheeks heated—“you pull on this chain up here and it will flush the toilet. And then you’re all set.”
Goodness, perhaps he should have rung for a maid to show her this. This wasn’t something husbands and wives were supposed to discuss, was it?Great, Fitz, now she’s going to think you are leather-headed and never want to bed you—or be anywhere near you—again.
“Fascinating,” she said, her gaze glued to the toilet. “Where does it all go?”
He blinked. Apparently, he had thought wrong. “Blast if I know. I happily leave all that shite to Felix.”
She giggled, her hand shooting to her mouth, rounded cheeks peeking out from behind.
A bit of his tension drained away.Ha! Drained.His lips twitched—at his horrible pun and his adorable wife. “What’s so amusing?”
“Oh goodness, it’s really not appropriate.” Her green eyes danced as they met his. “You’d happily leave all that shite”—she snorted—“to Felix. Quite literally.”
He broke out in a grin. Apparently, he was full of puns tonight, and not even realizing it. “Why, wife, you’re worse than an adolescent boy.”
Her giggles subsided, her eyebrows lifting sheepishly. “I hope I haven’t horrified you.”
“Not in the least. I think I might like you even more because of it.” He walked to her and planted a kiss on her smiling lips. “I’ll see you back in the bedchamber, Gigi.”
He made his way back to his bed, a stupid satisfied smile on his face, shoulders square and proud. All of a sudden, he felt about ten feet tall. He settled himself into his massive four-poster, folding his arms back and tucking his hands beneath his head. His wife surprised him at every turn. He meant what he’d said. He liked her even more for her juvenile sense of humor. There was a solace in it that he couldn’t quite explain. It somehow took away some of his anxiety. There were always so many rules. In how you were supposed to act. What you were supposed to say. What you weren’t supposed to say.
Out in society, the anxiety quickly coiled around him like a too-tight cravat, the pressure of slipping up, of embarrassing himself or his family. He thought that pressure would be ten times worse with Gigi, considering how inept he was with women—and he so desperately didn’t want to muck up his marriage, which usually lent itself to even bigger blunders.
The soft tread of footsteps broke him away from his thoughts. She stood in his dressing chamber doorway, naked and unabashed. Enchanting. Somehow, this woman had worked some sort of magic on him, conjuring comfort when he thought it impossible. He still blundered—and would continue to do so—but those blunders were a bit more bearable, knowing they were with Gigi. Because he thought, if there was one woman who could handle them, handle him and all his Fitz-ness, it might be her.
“What is the time?” she murmured.
He stilled. Was she planning on leaving soon? He didn’t want her to leave. It wasn’t necessarily the done thing for a wife to spend the night in her husband’s bed…well, strictly for sleeping purposes. But blast it all, did he want her to stay.
“Just past midnight,” he said softly. He managed to keep the fear that she’d leave, the telltale quiver from his words. But his heart quivered with nerves just the same.
He pulled back the covers, a Gigi-sized spot clearly waiting for her to fill. He looked back at her and hoped. Hoped she’d take the invitation. Hoped she wanted this just as much as he did.
And clearly, tonight was a night of miracles. Because she padded to the bed and slipped in next to him. And just like in his study, she snuggled into his side, skin to skin, head to toe.
She let out a sleepy sigh and pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder. Her body softened, and her barely audible whisper coasted over his skin. “Merry Christmas, Fitz.”
Warmth spread through him like a sip of piping hot drinking chocolate after a snowball fight. It settled in his stomach, swirling, simmering. There was that sodding fizzing again. He stilled. His eyes widened.
Realization hit him like a snowball to the face.
All that intestinal upset around his wife? It wasn’t indigestion.
He’d fallen in love with her.
Her breathing grew slower, deeper, even, and she faded to sleep in his arms.
His heart let out a sigh, and he pulled her even closer.
