He stuffed his thumbs into his fists and cracked his knuckles, willing his besmirched mind to behave. “You said I was going to kiss you.”
“Yes. Under mistletoe. Then it’s all right. Just part of Christmas. Harmless.”
“So,” he said slowly, to make sure he understood. “Kissing under mistletoe is harmless.”
“Yes.”
Kittredge would have snorted in derision if anyone else had asserted this, but he was happy Franny suffered this delusion.
She patted his arm. “That’s why everyone does it.”
“I don’t do it.”
“If you want a kissing lesson, you will.” She gave him a wink, along with a pout.
Minx.
Franny led him east and a little south. He rarely walked in the city. Walking was for the country. But the air seemed fresh today for London. Lots of people carrying parcels of various kinds. And he liked having Franny on his arm and listening to her talk about her brother and her plans for Christmas.
“—sad, thinking he needs to be taking care of me when he’s only a boy. And he works so hard at school, always studying. He needs to have fun this Christmas. We’ll have to play games—”
Kittredge wasnotplaying games.
“—and decorate and music, too. Oh, I wish I played the pianoforte!”
“I play.”
“You do? Wonderful! How clever you are, Kit. That’ll be lovely. Ren and I can dance and we’ll all sing carols. But I know he’ll be disappointed not to see Mrs. Tumney. Oh, no.”
She stopped dead in the middle of the crowded pavement, so he stopped, too.
“Food! Pudding and cakes and trifle and, oh, ever so much more! Ren is a growing boy, he needs a lot to eat, I should think.” She put a gloved finger up to her mouth. “And it needs to be Christmas food.”
A fellow knocked into Franny, pushing her against Kittredge’s chest and his arms came up instinctively and held her close.
“Here, now!” Kittredge shouted, but the lout was long gone, disappearing into the crowd of shoppers, and he would rather concentrate on the delight of having Franny pressed against him.
“Well,” she said, pushing away, ending the embrace much too soon. She took his arm, and they began walking again.
“Mrs. Tumney left all kinds of things in the larder, but I would, I mean, I have no idea how to cook.”
He grunted. “I cook.”
“Yes, I know you do, but this is Christmas dinner. It has to be truly special. Not eggs—and what was it? A haunch of venison? With raw toast for pudding?” She giggled.
How hard could it be? “I can cook a Christmas dinner.”
“Really?” She was looking up at him, her eyes shining. “Would you really do that for Ren? I mean, I’ll eat Christmas dinner, too, of course, but I want it for him.”
He’d be doing it forher, but she didn’t need to know that. “Ren is an odd name.”
“It’s short for Laurence. Lorenzo.”
“Lorenzo, Ren. Francesca, Franny. Too bad my name doesn’t shorten well.” The boys at his school had called him Rosie even though he should have been Swanford, for Marquess of Swanford, his courtesy title before his father died.
“Oh, no,” she said and almost stopped again, but he tugged her along. “All this time, I’ve been calling you Kit, thinking your name was Christopher. But you’re Kittredge. It’s your title. And of course, I should really be calling you Your Grace. Oh, I’m dreadful.”
“Dreadful,” he agreed.
