There was no hope.
4
Fitz
“Fitzy,areyousureabout this?” Felix asked, leaning his hip against his desk and staring down at Fitz. “I know you didn’t truly compromise her. Honestly, it appeared much more like she was compromising you.”
Fitz glanced at the closed door of his brother’s study. The one the Hartley’s had just exited through. He blew out a heavy breath with a resignedpfffff.He squeezed the cold leather arms of the chair he sat in and stared at his whitening knuckles.
“What other option is there, Felix? She’ll be ruined otherwise.”
Fitz liked his peace and quiet. The small slice of comfort he’d found. He was content to grow to a ripe old curmudgeon, donning his spectacles every morning and working on his Italian translations. But at the expense of a young woman’s life? A ruined woman’s life was bleak. And the Hartleys had no longstanding title to protect them, to fall back on. Blast and damn, Mr. Hartleys’s business might even be affected. Fitz’d put them all in the poorhouse, in the slums of London, force that beautiful, kind-eyed woman into prostitution. He couldn’t live with that on his conscience.
Felix studied him, arms crossed over his broad, deliberately honed chest, his identical amber eyes dissecting. Sometimes Fitz thought Felix was better at unraveling the peculiar puzzle that was Fitz than Fitz was himself.
“We could find a substitute,” Felix finally said.
Fitz was already shaking his head. “Absolutely not.” He drove a hand through his hair and winced when his fingers got caught in his wayward curls.
Bloody hell, he hated the dratted things. All three Jennings siblings had dark amber hair, but Felix and their sister Felicity were blessed with soft, wavy locks. Fitz, because apparently he was destined to be different in every way possible, had riotous curls. Annoying curls. Wish-he-could-shave-them-off exasperating curls.
“You know as well as I, Felix, that any substitute would be an absolute cretin, scraped up from the dredges of society.”
Felix winced. “I’m not fond of the idea, either. I hate to sentence her to a life with a cruel, most-likely disease-infested man. But I could possibly find an especially old cuff, so it would at least be short-lived.”
Something burned in Fitz’s gut. His muscles locked tight, and he clenched his fists. He frowned down at his hands. He flexed his fingers and tried to relax, rid himself of the jarring resistance that had just overtaken him. Felix had a point. And with how lively the young woman appeared to be, she’d probably cause an old cove to slip the wind within days. So perhaps it wouldn’t be horrible if they attempted to find a substitute.
Which made it that much more surprising when his mouth opened and he said, “No. I’ll do it. I’ll marry her.”
5
Georgiana
Georgianaambleddownthehallway at Thornfield Hall toward her fiancé’s study, a lightness bubbling in her chest. Because surely marrying Mr. Fitzwilliam Jennings was better than the man Mother had been pushing her towards at the ball—the feeble, donkey-toothed one who seemed a waltz away from the grave. She winced.Not very nice, Georgiana.But the gentleman had wanted her for breeding. He hadmeasuredher hips. She glanced at said hips and shuddered. Lords desperate for an heir took one look at her wide hips and instantly saw an advert with a largewomb for hiresplayed across the top.
Instead of that unsettling, albeit most-likely short future, she was looking at a long, uncomfortable one filled with painfully awkward moments. Yet, there was potential. Or she was determined to find some potential…somewhere. It had appeared as though Mr. Jennings had been doing his bloody damnedest to avoid her since the incident. He was either holed up in his study, working on his translations, or seeking out the farthest corner from where she stood in a room.
Georgiana had learned from Lady Felicity that Mr. Jennings worked on Italian translations. If her fiancé had deigned to speak with her at all over the past few days, he would have learned that Georgiana was fluent in Italian as well.
Mother was from Northern Italy. Not that Mama wouldeverlet that fact get out. She had done everything in her power to eradicate any trace of her accent, and no one would assume her heritage based on her light features. But some of Mama’s favorite artisans were Italian, so naturally when it served her, she broke out her Italian—including her doe-eyed daughter’s Italian. It was amazing how much a price could be haggled down when you let a sweet littlebambinaloose in a fellow Italian’s shop.
She trailed her fingers along the edge of one of the many hall tables, humming. Goodness, there were an incredible number of hall tables. Lord Bentley sure did love collecting bric-a-brac.
Georgiana couldn’t help but think that perhaps she and her husband could bond over their shared linguistic proficiency. There was that potential. Common ground in a marriage was a good thing. At least, she thought it was. Georgiana didn’t have any glowing examples of marriages, so what could she possibly know?
She thought conversation was typically a part of marriage, though, based on the short, stilted ones she grew up with. But in any moments she and Mr. Jennings were near enough to converse…he just didn’t. Most likely couldn’t. So she had taken it upon herself to study him. She had learned a couple of things about her soon-to-be husband in the past week during her observations.
She paused outside his study. Once again, her fiancé was sitting behind his desk, spectacles resting on his nose, quill scribbling frantically across parchment.
First observation: he was, in fact, dreadfully handsome. When he didn’t resemble a tomato trying to cave in on itself. He had a habit of hunching his shoulders, almost like he wished he could make himself smaller and disappear. But when he stood tall? When there was a rare moment he wasn’t consumed by nerves? Like now, unaware of her presence. He brushed back an amber curl that had just fallen over his brow. He was dashing.
She thought she might be developing an affinity for spectacles. Who would have thought? The woman who wanted a man to tie her up, bend her over, and tell her she was a whore—wanted said man to be wearing spectacles while he did it. She nearly groaned.
And then the other day, he had smiled when speaking with his sister.Smiled. Georgiana’s legs had almost given out. Her knees had astonishingly vanished, departed on holiday. His grin was lop-sided and soft, like an uncertain puppy. Be still her heart. There was a hidden, handsome man inside her soon-to-be-husband. Which fueled her hope.
Mr. Jennings set his quill down and stretched his neck from side to side while rolling his shoulders. Oh dear. That jaw. Georgiana wanted to trace her tongue all over those hard edges. And then down the cord of muscle peeping just above his cravat. Yes, Georgiana most definitely was lusting after her fumbling fiancé.
And for her second observation: she made said fiancéverynervous. More-than-normal-for-him nervous. She had seen him interact with his siblings when no one was around. Shame on her for spying, but what was a woman to do when forced to marry a stranger? And said stranger couldn’t even form sentences around her. She couldn’t exactly get to know him if all he did was grunt and gurgle at her.
