Page 58 of His Wicked Little Christmas

Franny shrugged and dragged her slippered toe across a silver thread in the carpet. “I haven’t agreed to Hillsdale,” she said in a tone that sounded less amenable than it should when she understood her fate perfectly. Her father had threatened to cut her off should she refuse to marry. “This governess gamble isn’t the worst proposal unless you have someone else in mind. Lord Remington is desperate, and I’m educated fairly well for a woman. My father believed in tutors, even for a girl. I’m without any plans for the holiday, as Papa is on a ship bound for New York as we speak. A strike in one of his plants. I’m an American outcast, but perhaps this won’t make much difference to a reprobate viscount in need of assistance. I can sketch the days away while helping with this girl. I like children. Strangely enough, although I have no siblings, I’m quite good with them.”

And I want to sketch Lord Remington more than I want my next breath. But I need to be close enough to him to do it.

Mrs. Streeter groaned and slumped into the chair behind her desk. “Your father has requested we investigate details of the baron’s situation, so he’s certain of this association even if you’re not. Hillsdale swears on his mother’s health his debt is not worse than he’s admitted. When what he’s admitted is not good. He has a penchant for gaming hells without any talent to support his passion. The bright spot is, he seems rather timid around women. Therefore, there aren’t any he’skeepingif you get my meaning.”

Franny strolled to the chair Lord Remington had vacated and casually settled into it as if she wasn’t seeking a trace of his heat. His scent.The air smelled faintly of raw wood and leather. Her heart gave a frightening kick. “Then trust his information is accurate, as the baron isveryattached to his mother.”

Mrs. Streeter chewed on her lip. “I can talk to your father. Give you more time perhaps to meet someone?—”

Franny interrupted with a flick of her hand. “If not Hillsdale, Papa will decide on someone else. At least the baron is young and rather attractive. If you fancy bashful, light-haired men of small stature. You’re going to factor my return to Philadelphia into the contracts. Should I choose to do that. This leaves me room to maneuver when I wouldn’t have otherwise had that. It’s my dowry he’s after, not my person.”

“At some point, the baron will want an heir, Miss Shaw. It’s more than money with English society.”

Franny glanced at the ceiling, searching for what the viscount had seen. Nothing but a tiny spider crack near the corner and row upon row of industrial crimson pipes running the length of the space. Mrs. Streeter’s husband, Tobias, was an architect, in addition to an entrepreneur and distillery owner. A philanthropist. All this from a half-Romani who had crawled from the gutter to sit atop a kingdom. Coming from a country that valued the common man building an empire, Franny found this extremely impressive.

She could tell Mrs. Streeter she was aware of a wife’s marital responsibilities. Aware, too, of what a physical relationship with a man entailed. She’d made a colossal mistake a year ago that had started her father down the path of seeking a marriage for his daughter, far from scandal. An idea orbiting wildly among affluent circles in Philadelphia. Purchasing a blue-blooded Brit was becoming fashionable when Franny had never been a fashionable girl.

She could also tell Mrs. Streeter she’d seen Viscount Remington exactly three times before today.

The first had snagged her like a hook beneath her skin. A musicale at an earl’s townhouse, a name she couldn’t recall on a day she could barely remember. She’d only been invited because her father and the earl were discussing an investment in railways in the north. She’d been hiding on the terrace, her small sketch pad balanced on the marble balustrade when she’d heard sounds rippling through the open windowat her side. The click of a door, a heavy tread, a whispered sigh of appreciation. She’d leaned to peer inside, expecting to find a couple embracing.

Which would have brightened up a dreary evening considerably.

Instead, she’d found Viscount Remington crouched before an ornate bureau the English loved to call an escritoire. She’d watched in utter fascination as he ran his hand along the fine-grained rosewood, his lips parted in admiration. He had long, slim fingers better suited to a pianist. It’d been the first time—the firsttrueinstance—when she identified raw desire coursing through her body. A yearning so fierce it weakened her knees. She’d had to brace her hand on the balustrade to support herself.

This instance had brought to light her absolute foolishness in a murky parlor in Philadelphia. That had been nothing compared to this. Mere curiosity she’d ruined herself over.

When she’d looked back through the window, Viscount Remington had been gone.

He’d not once glanced at her that night. Or the other two times she’d seen him on the streets of London.

If she accepted this phony governess assignment, he’d have to.

“I’m frightened of the rapture on your face, Miss Shaw. Lord Remington is a complicated man, and his reputation is less than desirable. Women and wood are his main pleasures in life.”

Franny huffed a startled laugh, her gaze seeking Mrs. Streeter’s. “Wood?”

“If you follow through with this outrageous idea, you’ll find out, anyway. He designs furniture.”

Franny blinked, her curiosity growing. The scent of raw woodhadinvaded the space with him, which now made sense.

“A hobby that has grown to be more than a hobby. Although thetonhas no idea, even if they’re sitting in a chair he created. My husband and his partner, Xander Macauley, ship Lord Remington’s pieces and act as cover for the business. It wouldn’t do for a viscount to be openly involved in trade. Tobias even has a desk of Remington’s in his study.” For some reason, Mrs. Streeter’s cheeks flushed at this declaration. “He’s incredibly gifted. And conflicted because his talent isn’tvalued and likely never will be. His father was not kind, to start. His childhood wasn’t a happy one.”

Happy and childhood didn’t belong in the same sentence. At least they hadn’t belonged in Franny’ssentence.

“Miss Shaw, let me be clear. I love Remington dearly, but I wouldn’t want my sister, if I had one, to set her cap for him.”

“I’m not setting my cap for anyone.” The idea was ludicrous. She was plain. Bookish. Shelookedlike a governess. Tightly wound as a clock, according to her companion, Ada, who had been with her since Franny’s mother passed when she was three. Her ability to sketch was the only remarkable thing about Francine Shaw.

And her eyes. They were a rather dazzling shade of gold. But that was it.

Furthermore, she was plump when current fashion preferred reed-slim. Her hair was as badly behaved as she was, bursts of amber streaking through the curly, brown strands, feral unless she severely contained it. She even had a scattering of freckles across her cheeks. Her accent was a flat-voweled atrocity the English found vulgar. It was certain no man would offer for her that wasn’t being paid to.

“Then there’s the matter of your notoriety at the moment. Your father has been vocal about his hopes for you at every event he’s attended. Public discourse the Duchess Society wouldn’t advise, but it’s too late. Unless he’s been living under a rock, Lord Remington will recognize you the moment you step into his home. The moment you say one word.”

“Simply tell him I’ve come from America and need employment. A pet project of the Duchess Society or some such. Distant relation of one of your husband’s shipping partners. Lord Remington won’t recognize me. I’m invisible to men like him.”

Mrs. Streeter stilled, her lips parting in astonishment. “Miss Shaw, shy isn’t unattractive. It may dim the blaze, but it doesn’t expunge it. You’re lovely and unique. It’s a perilous combination.”