Page 65 of His Wicked Little Christmas

She was attracted to Lord Remington.

And had been from the moment she’d seen him crouched before that escritoire. The way he’d studied her over the breakfast table this morning, his eyes near the color of the vast sea she’d crossed to get to him, suggested he felt something as well, however slight.

However for men, attraction was rarely significant.

For women, it could be deadly.

She should know.

Franny paused in the doorway. It wasn’t the library but rather a deserted chamber the viscount appeared to be using as his workshop. There were tools scattered atop a length of stained linen being used to protect the floors. Aged planks she wasn’t sure needed protecting. Remington was on his haunches beside a partially constructed desk, working sandpaper over a rounded wooden block in his hand. Of most interest to her were the sketches he’d crudely tacked to the walls. Paintings had been removed to allow for this, dull squares stamped over faded wallpaper.

Knowing no way to make a delicate entrance, she wandered inside, crossing to the drawings. They were unrefined but workable diagrams, mostly of desks in some version of creation. She’d begun to see pieces scattered about the house that she assumed were his. The style bold and unmistakable, lodged somewhere between elegant and contemporary. For a moment, the sound of the rain striking the windowpanes was the only sound flowing between them.

“Miss Shaw,” Remington said after a charged pause, his voice wavering slightly. It was then she noted the brandy bottle by his hip, the half-empty glass beside it. “You’ve found me. What a surprise.”

She turned from her study of his schematics, unclear what he’d meant by the statement. Unclear about the heat behind his words. Gone was the profligate he presented to society. This man was a simmering cauldron, the ruthlessness he tried to hide shimmering like firelight around him. Perhaps he found it easier to sell the simpler version of himself.

She did that every day.

He gave the wood in his hand, what looked to be a table leg, avigorous buff. “You’ve made changes during your short time in residence. Managing this house less like a governess and more like a woman who has managed her own. Decorations on the banisters and hearths. The parlors open to light, drapes beaten of dust, the scent of decay vanquished. You’re friendly with the servants even.”

“You mean I actually talk to them. I ask their names and about their families. You should try it. Everyone wants to be valued in this way.”

“I wasn’t raised to converse with domestics. Including governesses.”

Franny settled back against the wall, clutching the portfolio to her chest. “You’re angry with me.”

Katherine was sleeping like a child who’d had a wonderful day. They’d decorated the house, brightening up whatwasa dismal residence. Had she done something untoward with the girl? Was it interrupting his meeting with the woman who was rumored to be his mistress?

She didn’t want to contemplate the fury that had sizzled through her when Lady Chapman-Holmes’s lips grazed his cheek. The seductive smile on her face speaking of ownership.

She’d wanted to do a very uncouth thing and sock the woman in her patrician nose.

Franny’s desire to sketch the man was overruling common sense. And what little breeding she had.

Remington went to his knee to steady himself and, placing the wood aside, lifted the glass to his lips. “When you create a hinge for a gate leg, you have to round the teeth’s edges so the hinge swings freely. But not too freely. You bullnose the corners. It’s a negotiation with the wood.” He sipped, his gaze finding hers across the distance. “Like life, a negotiation between what one wants and what onegets.”

She drew a delicate breath, helplessly drinking him in. Competing shafts of light fought for his attention. The wall sconce above battling the candle at his side. His jaw was stubbled in grain so dark he looked like a pirate. His overlong hair tickled the crisp fold of his collar. His shirttail hit his hip; tattered trousers covered his long legs. Working clothes. Nothing he’d wear in the city. The muscles in his shoulders flexed as he stared at her staring at him, controlled displeasure.

“Whathave I done?” she finally asked, fine to be the one who buckled. Women were used to removing pride from the equation.

The viscount released a bitter huff, setting the glass to the floor with a clink. “You look at me like I’m cream, and you’re a starving cat when you’re engaged to Hillsdale? I begin to feel sorry for a reprehensible bloke I don’tlike.”

Franny’s exhalation left her lungs in a rush. So that was it. “I’m not engaged,” she whispered. “The agreements are not signed.”

“Are you sure about that, Miss Shaw?”

“I have to agree,” she said, temper sparking her words. “I’mnotengaged.”

“You’re also not a governess.”

She swallowed, desperately wishing for a sip of brandy. “For the next two weeks, I am.”

“Perhaps,” he murmured and refilled his glass. Then he gazed at her through the curtain of inky hair falling across his brow.

Scooting the glass toward her, he nodded.Have some.

She wasn’t going to deny the offer. Perhaps an English woman would, but an American one would not.