The poor man’s ears were lobster red. All right. Different topic, then.
“I’m quite looking forward to the Rutledge’s supper party.”
He blinked dumbly at her. “A supper party… With the Rutledges. Yes. Of course. How could I forget? We go every year. I mean, my family does. Which now you are. My family. A part of. I mean.” He let out a strangled laugh. “You are looking forward to attending?”
“Yes,” she said softly, glancing at him from beneath her lashes.
He gifted her a half-smile. A glorious half-smile with a dimple popping in his cheek. He was almost a normal color again, too. “Their supper parties are nearly bearable. For me, I mean. I can usually find another awkward academic to blather on with, so it is never too bad.”
She arched a brow at him. “Another academic? No one else?”
He blinked slowly at her, beautifully befuddled.
Her lips quirked, and she leaned forward, snatching his whisky off the side table between their chairs. “Did you know, Fitz, an advantage to having a wife is you can blather on withherduring such parties?” She winked at him before taking a sip of his drink. She hummed appreciatively, her body giving a small shudder as the sharp burn of alcohol slid through her. That first sip always had the biggest bite.
His lips curved up in the softest semblance of a smile. “I think you are aware I don’t always do so well blathering on with my wife.”
She shrugged and took another sip. “Perhaps we need to converse more often. Practice.” She paused and chewed her lip. “Back in Kent, you said you wanted to become better acquainted. I know you have been quite busy since we’ve returned…” She let out a long, slow breath, trying to calm her twisting stomach. “Would you perhaps have time now? To sit and talk with me for a while?”
There. She asked. Her fingers tightened around the whisky glass, and she threw the rest back. The worst that would happen is he said no. He didn’t have time for her. And that would be fine. She would be fine. It would be—
“I’d like that.”
Her gaze shot to his. And relief flooded her lungs like that first breath of country air after leaving the smog of London.
He extended his arm toward her, palm up. “Would you care for a refill of my drink?” His grin turned lop-sided, and Georgiana swore the floor beneath her did, too. Had her husband just teased her? And with that bloody lop-sided smile?
Now she might be thankful he was a bit awkward. Because he’d be fighting off petticoats left and right if he let that charm loose. And no other woman would lay a hand on her husband. This clumsy cove was hers.
She leaned forward and placed the glass—and her heart—in his hand. Time to get to know her husband. And for now, she wouldn’t bring up any of her worries, bedroom related or not.
She didn’t want to risk ruining this moment.
34
Fitz
Fitzprayedhewouldn’truin the moment. He made his way back from the sideboard with two glasses in hand, a finger of amber liquid in each. He was conversing with his wife, who was snuggled up in the armchair next to his. He wasn’t stuttering, he wasn’t sweating, and he wasn’t scared.
“So, I take it you enjoy whisky then?” he asked.
She accepted her glass with a smile. “Yes. You’ll laugh, but I actually would filch my father’s whisky when I was younger. I thought it wassorebellious. I’d sit there with Bernie, coughing and sputtering down the horrible stuff. But”—she dropped her voice low—“tough men drank whisky.” She huffed out a laugh. “I wanted to prove I was tough. And now I’ve developed a liking for the stuff.”
“Bernie?” Something hot and acidic turned over in his gut. Who was this man she was so familiar with?Imbibingwith.
Her smile grew fond and sad and small. “Bernie was my Bloodhound,” she said quietly. She took a small sip of her drink, rubbing a hand over her bare arm.
His stomach settled, and his heart clenched. A pet, not a man. He’d never had a pet, never lost one. But by how little and lost his wife looked just now, he could tell it had been—was—hard on her. “Will you tell me about him?”
She shivered and nodded. He reached into the basket below the side table and snatched up a blanket. He stood, shook it out, and settled it over her lap. “Here,” he murmured. “I run as hot as the coals in the hearth, so I have the servants burn the fires low. I’ll be sure to inform them to keep them hotter going forward.”
He hadn’t thought of that fact. He hadn’t thought to have a tray sent to her last night for dinner. God, he was blundering terribly as a husband.
He leaned over her now, hands resting on the arms of her chair. Only about a head of space separated them, her green eyes glued to his. Her presence was so potent. It drew him in, pulled him in like a dangerous tide. Every. Bloody. Time.
He moved a touch closer. Her lips parted, and she sucked in the sweetest little breath. Just one kiss. And then he’d back away. He thought he might need to prove to himself he was capable of kissing his wife—without things escalating, without doing something humiliating. He wanted to be able to kiss her any time he wanted. Wanted the press of those soft lips on his randomly, scattered throughout the day.
He slid his hand over her jaw and tilted her face up. He hovered for a moment, their gazes never breaking, and then slowly, slowly, he closed the distance. Warm, supple lips greeted his, and it was the best welcome he’d ever received. His fingers tightened on her, and he gave himself just a bit more. Lips passing over lips. Her breath hitched, and he knew he needed to back away. Back away before she completely broke down his restraint. One more drag of his mouth over hers, then he retreated.
