Page 41 of His Wicked Little Christmas

“Have you talked to him?” This question was thrown over Franny’s head by the duchess—who had asked to be called Georgie—to her partner in crime, Hildy. They’d held multiple hushed conversations while she stood there fuming. “Close friends, aren’t you?”

“Chance? We’re distant cousins, actually.” Hildy smoothed her hand over her gently rounded stomach with a clever smile. She was expecting in a few months, and her excitement was surpassed only by her husband’s. All of London was commenting on Tobias Streeter’s transformation from rookery brawler to lovesick husband. “Oh, he’s avoiding me.”

The women looked to her as if Franny knew the reason behind this.

Franny’s lips parted, a terse exhalation slipping free. “He’s working.” And riding his midnight-black bay across the frozen landscape each morning like he was fleeing from something. Or someone. “A new desk design. It’s actually quite lovely. Gorgeous finials and these tapered, very elegant legs. Rosewood, I think he said he’s going to use. I—” Halting, she realized she’d said too much. In a tone that spoke of familiarity well above a governess’s lot.

“Oh, dear,” Georgie murmured, giving a lock of Franny’s hair a yank. “I was afraid of this.”

While Hildy simply watched, waiting. Patient but expectant. She was going to make a magnificent mother if she used these dead stares on her children when they’d done something wrong. It was worse than a ruler across the knuckles, which her father had employed many times.

“I’m helping him,” Franny finally said. Then stronger. “He doesn’t have an artist who understands his vision.”

“His vision,” Hildy whispered into the hand she’d bought to her lips. “Hisvision. I’m going to kill him. How aboutthatfor a vision, Chance Allerton?”

Franny gave the seamstress, Mrs. Smithe, who was also a midwife in the village, a chagrined grimace. “Perhaps it’s good enough? I like the fit.” She wasn’t going to mention that Lord Remington had begun tacking her sketches up alongside his own on his workshop wall.

Mrs. Smithe sucked her cheek between her teeth, running her hand over the altered waist of a gown that was the loveliest Franny had ever worn. She’d never cared much about clothing or had anyone special to dress for. “If you don’t eat a thing this evening, not so much as one biscuit, it might work. I wouldn’t exhale too hard, either. Dancing is questionable. You are slightly more endowed”—she wagged her hands to describe a fuller figure, then nodded to Hildy—“than the missus. Keep a shawl handy just in case you split a seam.”

Franny’s cheeks flushed. She washealthy, according to Ada, who had a vile, defensive hatred of slender figures. “Thank you for the advice. I appreciate your prompt assistance.”

Mrs. Smithe whistled and gathered up her basket of materials, stabbing needles in the velvet cushion strapped to her wrist. Crimson thread matching Franny’s gown dangled from her sleeve and her bodice. “Dear heart, you paid me London wages for Derbyshire work. I’m not even the best seamstress in the village. But it’ll do. And so will I. My stitches are straight and strong, don’t you worry. But don’t go and cough, not even once.”

Georgie covered a burst of laughter with the hairbrush and escorted Mrs. Smithe into the hallway.

Once they were alone, Franny rounded on Hildy. “There’s no reason to hurt him. I’m helping Lord Remington, true, but we’re barely speaking if that makes you feel better. It’s the most distant businessrelationship imaginable. He’s not coming to dinner or breakfast while Kat and I are there.”

Her hand going to her lower back, Hildy stretched with a muted groan, her gaze taking no prisoners. Franny could see how she’d captured the most cunning man in London. She was a fierce competitor. “He’s avoiding me, avoiding you. Why is that, do you think?”

Knowing exactly why that was, Franny decided it was a perfect time to test the gown’s seams, circling the room, trailing her fingers across dusty shelves, making a mental note to have someone clean the room. This house would take a year of hard labor to get in order. With a sinking heart, she realized Remington would soon marry, and it would be his viscountess making sure that happened.

“My husband did something similar after we kissed the first time. He made quite a show of running, Miss Shaw. I know what men trying to escape a realization look like.”

Franny did a slow rotation on the balls of her feet. “We didn’t kiss.” She hadn’t kissed anyone since that disaster in Philadelphia. She’d wanted to kiss Lord Remington, of course. What woman wouldn’t? He was the most handsome man in England. Tall, dark, and…

Hildy snorted, an inelegant sound from an elegant woman. “You should see the dreamy expression on your face. Whatever happened was enough to have the viscount making a respectful fool of himself. When I told him you were off-limits. About to be married to Hillsdale. The man is a menace. A bounder. A scoundrel. I presented a challenge he can’t deny. Unless…” Hildy sat up, her feet hitting the floor with athump. “You want to marry Hillsdale, don’t you?”

Franny gave a half-hearted shrug. “Truthfully, I don’t want to marry anyone. If not for my father and his threats, I’d live my life as a sketching spinster. But I want freedom, financial and personal, and it seems marriage is my only way to get it. I’m purchasing a husband if I may be bold, so I have control I wouldn’t otherwise have.” She picked up a vase with a chipped edge and ran her thumb over the imperfection. She’d always thought imperfections made a piece. She didn’t want to tell Hildy about the scandal that had brought her here. It didn’t really matter except in the depths of her heart. “Look at the vexed expression onyourface. You believe in love. Matchmakers often do. It’s not surprising.But it’s not reality, either. I’ve never known anyone to marry for anything but business. My parents included. My mother’s dowry backed his first company. He didn’t come from money, believe it or not. Baron Hillsdale’s children won’t have a storied birthright, but they won’t be destitute, either.”

“We’re not matchmakers, but I believe in love. I’m in the midst of living it. I want what I have with Tobias for every woman who crosses the Duchess Society’s threshold. Every woman in England. There’s no greater joy than marrying theoneperson you can’t live without. I would have gone anywhere with Toby, marriage or no. Followed him to the ends of the earth and back. He had me from the first moment, the first word. I can’t explain it. I only know it’s what I felt.” She smiled softly, her hand settling on her stomach in a protective gesture. “What Ifeel. I also understand this isn’t practical for most.”

Franny placed the vase back on the shelf, turning the chipped side to the front. “There’s truly no reason to delay. My father and I agree this is the best choice for me.” Acting on an infatuation with the most infamous rake in London wasn’t a wager she could safely make.

But she would have liked a kiss.

She glanced over her shoulder, a sense of urgency driving her toward something. “So, you’ll continue to help me? Until we have the papers signed?”

Hildy slumped to the settee, grooves of exhaustion streaking from the corners of her eyes. “Of course. That’s what I was hired to do, but I won’t be happy about it.”

I won’t either, Franny thought woefully.

Chapter Seven

Where a Forlorn Viscount Ponders the Rules of Attraction

Chance hated balls. They made him feel like he was standing outside his body, watching the proceedings from an ambiguous vantage point. As if his clothing was two sizes too small or his skin covered in hives.

As if he was playing a role and doing a bloody pitiable job of it.