Her father’s green eyes—identical to her own—lit with amusement. They were the one thing she’d inherited from him. Her blonde hair and porcelain skin came from Mother.
“Now, now, Augusta. Let us not wish ill health on the man.” That was Papa, always with an amused expression on his face. He smiled at you without ever seeing you. People mistook it for joviality, but it was merely a superficial facade he put on for the world, family included. The only thing her father ever paid close attention to was his business. He was as shrewd and cutthroat in his dealings as her mother was with her marriage machinations.
Her mother flicked her hand in a careless wave. “Oh, I don’t meanright now. But the Earl is past thirty now and has shown no signs of looking for a bride. Even if he were to live to a ripe old age, if he doesn’t settle down andproduce…” Her mother shrugged—she would become the mother of a countess, the grandmother of a future earl.
Georgiana struggled to understand the appeal. Wealth and title were so important to her parents. But if one took all that away, what would they be left with? If they all had to sit down at a table together, would they even have anything to say to one another?
Not to mention the man she was about to marry couldn’t even look at her naked breasts, couldn’t even look ather. How was he going to bed her? Georgiana feared for the Earldom of Bentley because it appeared neither brother was going to beproducing.
She turned and stared out the window as the carriage rocked down the road. Thinking about producing just brought her mind back to her proclivities. She wished she had at least gotten to experiment a bit before her mother finally succeeded in saddling her with a husband. She had been kissed, fondled, and done her fair share of fondling. But never anything close to what she wanted to explore. Nothingdark. She had held tight to her virginity, as a good girl ought. Now she regretted that decision immensely. What she would have given to have just one experience with the brooding Duke of Ironcrest.
She let out a huff, clouding the window in front of her. She supposed it would just be her and Derek for the rest of her days, when it came to her pleasure. Derek being her trusty dildo. He was a beauty. Carved ivory. Quite expensive and difficult to locate. But Georgiana’s curiosity had started at fourteen, and she was now twenty. She hada lotof time—years—to discoverthings. She had procured Derek two years ago.
The carriage rolled to a stop.
Apparently tonight she would finally see how a flesh-and-blood man compared to Derek. And she had to admit, she wasn’t optimistic. At least if their interactions since the Christmastide ball were any indication. She hopped out of the carriage and shoved her hands in her muff as she and her parents made their way to the local chapel, Mr. Jennings and his family ahead of them.
They entered the chapel, her coat and muff were ripped from her, and then she was unceremoniously shoved to the altar by her mother. It appeared everyone wanted to hurry this along. Before the bride ran off or the groom’s heart gave out.
And by his elevated breathing right now from where he stood in front of her, throat bobbing like apples at a country fair, it seemed likely. They really needed to get this over with. For Mr. Jennings’s sake, more than anything.
She feared he wouldn’t make it through the ceremony.
8
Fitz
Fitzhadtrulythoughthe wouldn’t make it through the ceremony.
Miss Georgiana—no—Mrs. Fitzwilliam Jennings. Dear Lord. Hiswife.His wife was breathtaking, standing before him in a red velvet gown borrowed from his sister. Some sort of white puffiness lined the bodice and sleeves, and ivory buttons trailed down the front. And the fit. Dear Mary, Joseph, and the Holy Ghost, thefit.His willowy sister and Georgiana were most definitelynotthe same shape. Which meant his wife’s abundance of bosom and tempting curves were on glorious display, even with the alterations done to the gown. The dress did things to her breasts that in turn did things to Fitz’s anatomy that really shouldn’t happen when in a chapel.
He should never have looked at her. He had avoided looking at his little wife all the way up until she had stepped in front of him at the altar. But then he had glanced down at her and promptly swallowed his tongue. Fitz appreciated a woman’s figure. He liked breasts just fine. And bottoms. But Georgiana’s figure? Let’s just say he was only capable of inarticulate noises. What a surprise.
With her rich crimson gown and round, forest-green eyes, she was Christmastide incarnate. And he wanted to unwrap her like a Christmas present. Her hair was done up in some sort of elaborate hair-style-thing—whatever women called them—with a few curls trailing over her shoulders into the crevice of her bosom. A bosom he was already very familiar with. Tonight, he would get to touch those perfect breasts. His eyes flashed wide. Dear God, he would have to touch them. His breath sawed in and out.
As he had said. He hadn’t thought he would make it through the ceremony.
Well, he made it through—somehow. He even made his mouth form the necessary words. But now he was stuck at the altar.
“Mr. Jennings…” Georgiana looked up at him from beneath furrowed, blonde brows. His gaze clashed with her evergreen one, and everything inside of him stopped. Stilled. Suspended in an endless, timeless void. His lungs no longer worked. The blood in his veins no longer flowed. Sound disappeared. All that was left was her. Was that verdant green gaze that had him trapped.
She was saying something. Her tempting lips were curling around syllables.Work, blasted ears, work.
“Mr. Jennings, are you well?”
He almost laughed. He almost cried. Instead, he said, “Pine.”
She blinked twice.
Fitz cleared his throat. “I mean I’m ferfect.”
His eyes slid shut. He was hopeless. This woman somehow managed to make a typically witless Fitz even more witless.
He opened his eyes and met his wife’s kind gaze, her deep-pink lips tilted in a soft smile.
“Well,ferfecthusband. Shall we make our way back to the estate?” She proffered her hand for him to tuck into the crook of his arm, like any gentlemen would do.
But Mr. Fitzwilliam Jennings? No, no, he couldn’t possibly touch her. And still breathe. Especially when with every breath his lungs drew in her sweet scent. She smelled like freshly baked biscuits. Or a creamy, frothy, vanilla syllabub spiced with cinnamon. Which had his mind going places it decidedly shouldn’t. Like burying his face between her thighs in search of other creamy delicious—
