January 5, 1818. London.
Christmastide had been bursting with boughs of holly, games, music, outings.
And love.
Franny wafted love wherever she went.
His mother had come from Merrifield for the Christmas Day wedding and had spent five days afterwards with them in the servantless town house. When she had left, the now-dowager duchess had declared she had laughed more in those five days than she had since his father’s death.
The house was quiet. No servants had returned yet. Ren had gone back to school this morning in a private carriage.
Thirteen-year-old boys could be prickly. Especially where their sisters were concerned. But if Kittredge could one day make a friend of Ren, it would be an accomplishment. Not a noble act, but an accomplishment.
Bevel would help there. As would Franny.
Kittredge’s wife sat cross-legged on the bed, a book on her lap held open with one hand and the other hand busy petting Bevel. She was wearing her spectacles and Kittredge’s shirt and he liked to see her in it. Of course, he’d rather see her naked, but Franny could wear whatever she liked.
Bare-chested, he carried a tray into the warm room and put it on a table. “Your Grace, dinner is goose.”
Kit had burned the goose on Christmas Day and had cooked one every day since then.
She took off the spectacles with a charmingmoue. He loved every expression that crossed her face, and he hadn’t seen this one before.
“I hate to be ungrateful when you’ve gone to all this trouble, but I’m tired of goose. The hungry families in Petticoat Lane who eat most of the goose the next day are tired of goose. Yesterday’s was perfect. I have full faith you can cook a Christmas dinner.”
“Good. We can go direct to our pudding.”
Her eyes lit up. “Is it the same trifle as yesterday? The one with raspberry jam?”
“No. It’s you.”
She laughed her remarkable laugh as he bounced onto the bed next to her, making Bevel jump off and go in search of his own dinner.
Kittredge had one more Christmas present for Franny besides the boots, the dresses, the gloves, the three crates of novels he had gifted her over the last twelve days.
“Let’s go to Italy for our wedding trip in a fortnight. Get away from the cold and the gray. Look up some of your mother’s relations. I don’t want to wait for a baby to make our family a little bigger.”
“Oh, Kit!”
Now she was the one bouncing onto him and his own laugh was smothered by her kisses.
“But if you’re hungry, I’ll get you some raw toast.”
“I don’t want dinner, Kit. I just want you. And Italy. But first, you.”
He pulled his shirt off her as her hands slid over the trousers he had worn to the kitchen, frantically unbuttoning, tugging, until she had him naked. Then she was atop him and he had his hands on her as he liked, one on a breast, one spanning her bottom.
She was squirming, rubbing her sweet, wet quim over his cock, as she kissed him with her tongue and teeth and her Franniness.
He moved his hands to her waist, desperate to be inside her and yet more desperate for something else.
“Come here.” He roughly grabbed and dragged and she giggled until he got her upright, suspended above his face, her knees on either side of his head.
She looked down. “Kit?”
“Take hold of the headboard. The duke wants his dessert. Now.”
Over the last twelve days, there had been trysts in linen closets, bathrooms, on sofas when his mother and Ren took Bevel for a walk, and in this bed during the long, winter nights. Franny had taken Kittredge into her mouth several times to his immense pleasure, but it had required some coaxing from him for her to let him do the same.
