Page 53 of His Wicked Little Christmas
Which made him annoyed andmorenervous.
His situation worsened when the door was opened not by an aging majordomo, but Tobias Streeter himself, his canny grin saying things Chance didn’t want to hear.
Macauley strode up behind his business partner, clapping his hands. “Before noon, I told you! The men in this circle are falling like diseased birds. You, the Duke of Markham, now Lord tup-‘em-and-leave-‘em. And for what? Bleedingmarriage. Which I’m sick to stones of hearing about. Have to get rid of every mistress you’ve ever had, Remington, you understand that, right? The Duchess Society won’t allow you to keep them. On a short leash forever, mate.”
Tobias snaked his timepiece from his fob and flipped opened the silver case. “Shite on a shingle. Another ten minutes, and I would have won. And he won’t miss the women. I’ve tried to tell you, Mac. If he found the right one, he’ll only want her.”
Skeptical, Macauley snorted around the cheroot dangling from his lips. “You owe me another ten, Street. He brought the bloody present. Didn’t even try to save his dignity by sneaking in the domestics’ entrance. Hands full of his embarrassment. Gads.” He gestured to the tartan with a devilish smile. “Nice trimmings, mate. The American is going to slice that heart of yours into tiny pieces and wrap it up with that length of plaid.”
While Tobias dug around in his trouser pocket for the wager he’d lost, Chance brushed past them, elbowing Macauley in the gut along the way.
Macauley rubbed his belly, the cheroot bobbing. “Is that what I get for delivering the best art supplies money can buy? German, those charcoals, not the pathetic English gear. And the drawing pad isItalianif you cared to notice. I called in a marker, a right fine one with a distributor of some very illegal but lucrative items, to get these on the quick. I’ve smuggled for the man for ten years now, and he’s always owedme. Some show of friendship, this abuse, innit? And all to help another man walk the plank. I must be mad.”
“Where is she?” Chance glanced around the deserted foyer, the sound of muted conversation and a child’s laughter traveling down the corridor. He would thank his friend and thank him well, once he’d accomplished his mission.
Now that he knew he was sunk, he felt a dire need to share the news with the woman in question.Immediately.
Then Franny Shaw, Godloveher, did something that made everythingright.
Made everythingperfect.
In a fury, a blur of cream and gold, the scent of lilacs snaking into his soul, she was hugging him, his bundle of German and Italian regrets jammed between them.
His arm closed around her, bringing her as close as possible with the package between them.
Tears stung his eyes, lay thick in his throat.
She was a miracle he’d somehow stumbled upon. A rose in a field of weeds. The most exceptional person of his acquaintance. She and Kat the start of his family. Franny didn’t care how her affection appeared to his friends. To society. She didn’t mind that he was poor. That he’d fumbled the task of proposing the first time around, trying lamely to tell her he might love her. That he said silly things and acted like an arse half the time. She wasn’t asking him to plead, grovel, beg. Or holding a grudge and causing him to apologize endlessly.
All things he would have done.
She only cared about himshowing up.
He rather thought he could do that more often. Perhaps be an outstanding husband to match her brilliance if he worked hard enough. Aside from his furniture, he’d rarely been good at much of anything.
“You came,” she whispered against his lips. Glancing down, she noticed the blunt end of a charcoal pencil sticking out of the tartan. “With presents. Oh, Remy, you darling, darling man! I didn’t want to set up the race, such a foolish game, but I did, silly Ada, and you came.”
“Remy,” Macauley whispered in disgust as Tobias Streeter dragged him across the gallery, away from the embracing couple. “This is almost as tragic as you and Hildy.”
“What race?” Chance asked, dipping his nose into her silken strandsand breathing deeply for the first time in hours. Days. Years. Helplessly lost, his body beginning to react, he started calculating. One hour of gift-giving with the group, a brief luncheon, forty-five minutes tops, then when Kat went down for her nap, he would take Franny to the closest bedchamber or a linen closet even and?—
“I recognize that look.Later,” she whispered. “I’ll leave my balcony door unlatched. I’m on the first floor, you can make it up, I’m sure. There’s a very sturdy oak outside.” She giggled and began to plunder the package, unfolding the tartan, sighing in delight at the offering. “This is the finest set of charcoals I’ve ever seen. German,my.”
He stepped back, still holding the gift, as if he was watching a scene in a play. Sunlight, a rare, mid-winter burst, pierced the windows at her back, glazing her in radiance. Her eyes were a potent, golden hue, her hair shot through with amber. She was simply the best he could wish for in a life of broken promises, others and his own.
He wanted her in a multitude of ways with a fierceness that shook him. Curiously, most of them having nothing to do with his cock.
Wife. If she said yes, she would be his wife.
“We’ll have to live here for a bit. Derbyshire, Rose Hill,” he murmured instead of asking. A coward to the end. At least, this way, he could gain her initial response. “The city when we have to. House of Lords and all that bother.”
“I’ll go where you go,” she returned, flipping through pages of a sketchpad that was, even he would admit, the most superb he’d seen outside an artist’s salon. Macauley knew his smuggled products. “And Ada, of course. She’ll learn to like you. Give her time. She and Kat are getting on so well. I’m overjoyed they seem to like each other.”
“There’s an easel on the way, too. Another week perhaps. A few more odds and ends.” He shifted from boot to boot, looking for a place to set the bundle. His signet ring was burning a hole in his waistcoat pocket. “There’s a parlor on the western side of the house that gets light throughout most of the day. Would make a decent studio of sorts. If you’d like.” He settled her gift atop a mahogany sideboard, shoving aside the length of pine and holly serving as holiday décor. A pencil rolled free and bounced across the floor. He bent to pick it up, his back to her. “I even have a friend, a well-respected artist, who teaches classes. Onlymen, to date. I’ve already contacted him about working with you. I think he would, covertly because the world is not designed for women, once he sees your work.”
“Chance.Remy. Look at me.”
Setting the charcoal aside, he followed her directive. She’d come up behind him with a furtiveness that surprised him. The beat of his heart was drowning out the sounds of a holiday gathering rippling through the house, snatching his ability to take a full breath. “Do you have something to ask me?”