Page 37 of His Wicked Little Christmas

“Then you may call me Chance.” He shrugged, humming beneath his breath. “I had a high fever as a babe, for days, but I survived. My mother felt it was a remarkable piece of luck as she’d lost a child to something similar. She called me her lucky chance. But she died before I truly got to know her.” He frowned when he finished the explanation, as if he’d not considered what he was disclosing. Or to whom.

Hoping to break the intimate moment, Franny carefully removed one of his drawings from the wall. “Can I take this? I’d like to create a more detailed illustration. Anything is better than a blank page, as they say.”

Remington stepped in, his gaze searching. First the sketch in herhand, then a lingering assessment starting at the hem of her sleeping gown and concluding just past her chest. After a charged moment where it seemed he was deciding what to do, he reached to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. He dawdled, caressing her cheek. His blue eyes were shot through with flecks of gold, she noted at this distance, truly dazzling in the candlelight. His jaw muscle flexed as his lips pressed tight, his own ideas running loose.

Kiss me, she thought wildly.

With a muted sigh, he shook himself free, his gaze dropping to his drawing. “Add a finial here,” he tapped the parchment. “And here. The legs need to be more elegant. More in line with the design of the desktop. Not too delicate. See what you can come up with. As you said, it’s easier to edit than create.”

Then he crossed to the door, and she had the feeling she was chasing a fox from his lair. He paused in the threshold, candlelight shining in his eyes. “Thank you for agreeing to this, for any reason you agreed. I want Katherine to be happy, and somehow, I’m going to find a way to make sure that happens.”

Then he was gone.

And all she could think was,I want him back.

He’d almost kissed her.

In fact, Chance had wanted many things in that moment.

It stunned him to realize who his phony governess was. Francine Shaw. Heiress to a mad American fortune. One of the so-called title-chasers flooding the city. Now that it had been pointed out to him, he recalled reading about her in theGazette’sgossip column.

Nothing the author had stated matched the woman, however.

She was an intriguing mix of daring and naivete. Embarrassment and hunger crossing her face in swift intervals. Her expressionbegginghim to kiss her. The look of unconcealed longing sending an aroused rush through him.

What would it be like to seduce someone who wanted you but didn’twantto want you?

Chance knew what a melting glance meant. The skip in breathing, a fierce pulse tapping at the base of a woman’s neck. Francine Shaw was lovely in an understated, absolutely compelling manner. Gorgeous eyes near the color of the calla lilies that bloomed outside his Mayfair bedchamber in spring. A mix of hazel and gold. Too, her bloody hair was indescribable.

What he would pay to seethatglory spread across his sheets.

And her body. A goddess in conspicuously unattractive clothing. He’d about choked when she strolled into the library, every curve she possessed on display in that hideous dressing gown.

Incredibly, Chance questioned if he ought to use his title as a bargaining chip. Because his intriguing governess was far too interesting a package for that fop Hillsdale.

After all, she’d done the near impossible.

She’d ignited his senses for the first time inages. Maybe it was the scent of lilacs and a hint of lemon that drifted like snowflakes around her. Or her accent, flat as the moors, but charming in its unfussiness. He’d pay a thousand pounds to hear her whisper in his ear as she came around him. Thinking this at an inopportune time, he’d been forced to stalk from the room like a man possessed before she noticed his cock threatening to bust his bone buttons.

How had he missed her at the Earl of Devlin’s musicale?

Odd, as he’d never been attracted to anAmericanbefore.

It was too bad really. Timing and circumstance not meeting in the middle. Her needing a title and him needing blunt to keep the viscountcy afloat. But he’d promised himself he’d never marry without love after growing up in a home without it. Head and heart needed to be in alignment for him to promise his future to anyone.

The lonely little boy he’d been demanded it.

Sighing, he gazed across the lawn from his perch on the veranda wall, his breath fogging the air, his fingers frozen from the chill. The rain had stopped a half hour ago, leaving a damp, leaden mist to color the world a snowy white. He was coming to quite appreciate Derbyshire. For all the reasons his father had hated it. It was remote. Untamed. The air crisp and clean. The land stretching to the horizon calling to him in apossessive, elemental way.Hisland. Custody he’d never felt about anything outside his furniture.

He’d told Francine Shaw about his nickname. He’d talked about his mother, the only person who had shown him love that he could recall.

Something he never, ever did.

The story of his family wasn’t an uplifting tale, and he rarely found the need to share it.

Her serene presence, the mix of goodness and heat shimmering in her eyes, unlocked something in him. And the other…

Her illustrations had aroused him more than he’d thought a mere sketch could. Sent a ragged claw of need straight through him. They’d been drawings in various phases of completion. Mostly of his face. His hands. He lifted one and stared at it, spread his fingers, wondering what she saw that he didn’t.