Page 30 of His Wicked Little Christmas

Flustered, Franny gathered her woolen spencer at her neck and trundled into the house, shutting the door behind her with a creaking slam. Her skin was chilled to the bone, but her cheeks were hot. “And you’re a viscount who answers his own door.”

He laughed, a husky surprise to the three souls huddled in the foyerof a medieval structure in obvious need of love. And heaping piles of money, Franny surmised as she gazed around.

The dwelling dazzled, nonetheless, make no mistake.

Although she’d come to sketch the man, the viscount’s fortress would do in a pinch. From the ancient gatehouse at the end of the winding drive to the acres of winter-lush forest wrapped like a cloak around the estate. Towering chimney stacks rising from the snow-laden mist. A trench surrounding the house she thought could properly be called a moat. It was like nothingshe’dever seen. A castle straight out of the fairytales Ada had read to her when she was a child.

Remington gestured to the barren hallway. “The few servants I have are abed. My majordomo is as aged as the planks beneath our feet. He rarely makes it past sunset. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Walker, is much the same. I’m afraid it’s left to me to escort you to your chamber. We’re rather informal in the country.”

Informal meaning impoverished. The funds needed to fully staff such a monstrous place were not available. Franny glanced over the viscount’s shoulder, down the arched gallery, to the grand staircase spiraling to opposite wings of the house. Except for being wealthier than almost everyone in London, she could be Cinderella. Stepping away from her staid life for one night of adventure. Or two weeks, rather.

When she looked back, it was to find that the viscount’s gaze had followed hers down the hall. From his scowl, it appeared that what she considered magnificent, he considered a burden.

“It needs work,” he muttered, his chest lifting with his deep inhalation.

“It’s lovely, my lord,” she countered, her fingertips giving a familiar tingle, yearning to sketch. His vexed expression was nothing short of enchanting. “Majestic. Stately, even. We have nothing like this in Philadelphia. And in your family for centuries. How remarkable. My home is less than ten years old.” She shrugged. “Everything in America is new.”

Ada grunted and scrubbed her thumb over the scuffed oak paneling that was likely two hundred years old, obviously preferring new.

Remington took his time returning his attention to Franny. His thorough review revealed his effort to see the dwelling as shehad. A considerate, unexpected response. His lashes were long and dark, dusting his skin as he blinked. His shirt and buckskins were damp at the hem and cuff, as if he’d recently returned from outdoors. He wore an unbuttoned gray waistcoat, his cravat untied and hanging loosely from his neck. No coat. Sleeves rolled to show an indecent amount of muscled forearm. He ran his palm over his unshaven cheek in contemplation, his jaw flexing with thoughts he kept to himself.

This was not the flippant lord thetonwhispered about.

Hildy’s words rang in her mind.Doesn’t look like any viscount you’ve ever seen, does he?

No, he did not. It’s why, from first glance, she’d been intrigued. Intrigued enough to lie about being a governess and wedging her foot inside his castle door.

The most appalling in a life of appalling decisions.

Franny’s heart skipped a beat as she stared at him. Men never listened. No one who looked like him anyway, sly beauty and winsome charm. Franny spoke without expecting anyone to. The men who listened, listened because her dowry was big enough to solve their problems and nothing more.

“The well-mannered girl I promised Hildegard Streeter is a terror,” he said when his gaze finally met hers. His eyes were the color of hydrangea petals, even more glorious in milky candlelight than they’d been in full moonlight. “She assured me in her letter that you’re experienced enough to handle it. The chit has a thousand questions for which I have no answer. She wants biscuits and milk every other minute. Her threshold for boredom is the lowest I’ve encountered in another living soul.” He cocked a broad shoulder and chewed on his lip, the one the snowflake had melted on. “I don’t have sisters, and I don’t know how to talk to girls.”

Franny covered her mouth with the back of her hand, but too late. Her laughter rolled like a carpet between them.Not know how to talk to girls, indeed.

Then, there it was.

A flash of temper she would wager a hundred English shillings, or half crowns, or whatever the coin the British preferred to wager was not an emotion William Allerton, fifth Viscount Remington—she’d looked it up inDebrett’s—often exhibited to the masses. A cross turn of his mouth she wasdeterminedto capture with her charcoals.

“A lot written about me in the rags is rubbish, Miss…”

“Shaw. Francine Shaw,” Franny replied, certain he wouldn’t know who she was. Giving a false name was more of a charade than she was willing to construct. She didn’t like lying even if she was moderately gifted. Strolling down the hallway, she noted the vaulted ceiling rising three stories, the balconied floors leading off the central staircase bordered by imposing balustrades and chipped sculptures. Faded carpets, tattered velvet drapes, threadbare furnishings. Ancient stone and marble. It was shabby but glorious. “The story about an opera singer leaving the stage to kiss you in full view of a slew of patrons is slanderous drivel then?”

“Miss,” Ada hissed, striving to dictate what a proper lady would do when she was only guessing herself. They both knew it was a waste of time. Franny was hopelessly improper in every way. In AmericaandEngland.

Remington froze, her luggage bumping his muscular thigh. Some mysteriously masculine scent drifted from him. Spicy, perhaps citrus. This overruled only by the dour odor of spearmint. On more than one occasion, her companion’s stinging fragrance had arrived before her, notice Franny had used to her advantage. “That was the Duke of Leighton, who was sitting to my right. It washisbox. Of course, they attribute the mischief to me. His Grace has the foulest temperament in London and aworsereputation but somehow gets away with everything. It’s the damned duke privilege.”

She’d heard about the Duke of Leighton’s antics. Why, he’d recently gotten tossed in the Thames by Xander Macauley. The men traveled in a pack, Viscount Remington an oft-time contributor in their escapades. “I’m teasing,” she finally said when he didn’t seem to understand that she was.

Remington frowned, tiny grooves radiating from his eyes. He looked bewildered; the kind of bemused charm Franny imagined his paramours overlooked. “That must be an American pursuit. We English never,evertease. Especially governesses. My tutors were dry as cedar. Smacked my knuckles with a ruler while expecting absolute obedience.The number of broken ones, rulers, that is, during those years was enough to make my father weep.”

She tilted her head, imagining how she was going to draw that lank of hair on the side of his head that kicked out a bit. She’d noticed it on two occasions now. “I don’t think that will be my approach.”

Remington grimaced. “You haven’t met the girl.”

Franny grinned. She couldn’t help it. She had two weeks to explore this monstrous medieval fortress and the complexities of a man she found fascinating. She’d brought enough charcoals for a hundred sketches. Plus, she loved children.

Truly, what an adventure.