Page 66 of His Wicked Little Christmas

“Why did you do it?” Remington asked as she stepped closer, placing her portfolio on the floor and reaching for the glass. She had to go to her knees, putting them on equal, intimate footing. His scent, leather and something peppery, crept in to tease her senses. As if she needed more to snag her awareness. “To secure a destitute viscount? Couple notches higher than a baron, true. Although deception isn’t typically the Duchess Society’s style. Isn’t Hildy’s style, I should say. I’ve known her since we were in leading strings.”

Franny was taking a sip when he made his claim. She coughed and scrubbed her wrist across her lips, the liquor burning a path down her throat. “Is that what you think? Hildegard Streeter hadnothingto do with this. She was against the idea. Believe me.” Franny would never forgive herself should her bit of whimsy damage his relationship with his friend. “I was there, in the corner of the room when you burst in. I volunteered for this.”

He rocked back on his heels, giving her a thoroughly carnal review. She was dressed informally as well.Tooinformally. A sleeping gowncovering every inch of her, but without the undergarments in place to contain her generous curves. Her hair braided and hanging over one shoulder, stray strands she could never control dusting her brow and cheek.

She looked a fright, she was sure.

He lifted the bottle to his lips, his gaze inscrutable. “Not possible. I would have noticed you.”

“We’ve attended at least two of the same events in the past six months. Maybe three. Occupied the same parlor four days ago, and you had no idea I was there. I can prove it. Mrs. Streeter, she called you Chance.”

He scowled, the arrogant cur not liking to lose even so much as a silly argument. “You must have been hiding. I would have seen you.” He dragged the bottle across his bottom lip. Her belly clenched, a perilous signal to her growing attraction.Oh, he was beautiful in the light. “The enchantress has teeth, I see.” With a wicked expression she couldn’t decipher, he snatched her portfolio from the floor, untied the leather bind, and began flipping through the sheets. As if he had the right to.

“I saw you once before, at the earl’s musicale,” Franny blurted, breathless and panicked, aroused and bewildered. When he saw her sketches, the jig was up. “You were running your hand over an escritoire. I was on the veranda. I noticed you through the window. I wanted to sketch you, that’s why I told Hildy I would come. Truthfully, I forced her hand.” He continued to flip through the sheets, blinking rapidly, engrossed, while she babbled.

Her fascination was laid out in bold strokes her art instructor had stated were too extreme a representation for a female. There weren’t many sketches of Viscount Remington yet, but the number was increasing. Rose Hill had proven to be inspirational, creatively. She could only thank the gods she’d not included anything risqué. Those were stuffed in the bottom of her portmanteau—derived from imagination only.

Although the trip up the staircase that first night, following along and watching his taut bottom flex had helped.

“You’re quite gifted.” He closed the portfolio and presented it to her with a sheepish, slated twist of his lips. He had a scar bleeding into thetop one that she longed to press her tongue to. An image she’d never in her life envisioned.

Recognizing her absurd cravings, she grabbed her artwork and brought them back to her chest like a shield. “It’s nothing. A hobby.”

“It’s attraction, Miss Shaw. We all feel it from time to time. Some more than others. It’s rarely convenient. Although I’ve never seen it displayed in such an authoritative manner. Not personally. Tons of it on exhibit in museums, of course.”

“I wanted to sketch you. That’s all it was. All itis. It’s what artistsdo.”

Remington grinned, the bounder. Spreading his fingers wide across the floor for balance, he leaned in like a feral cat.Damn and blast, she wanted his hands on her. “If this an extreme case of infatuation, I find myself unduly flattered. Hell’s teeth, you set up a novel deception simply to capture my face in charcoal. I believe this is the most any woman has ever done to establish contact with me. One not looking to be a viscountess, that is. There was a determined chit that shall go unnamed who climbed a tree to get into my bedchamber last year.Thatwas noteworthy. I found I couldn’t turn her away after such tremendous effort, in case you’re wondering.”

Franny rose to her feet with a growl, jealousy and embarrassment eating a hole in her belly. “It’sart. I don’t want any part of your blasted title! I truly don’t want any part ofanyone’stitle. Those are my father’s dreams. I may have to fulfill them due to my own transgressions, which aren’t a topic for discussion, but that’s not your concern.”

“Ah, yes, your young baron. Can I say, I’m more than happy to examine this dilemma of yours.” He made a lazy X over his heart with his crossed fingers. “Our discussion will stay in my sparse parlor-cum-workshop, between friends. Or between governess and employer. We’re still playing those roles, correct?”

“Whatdilemma?”

He was smirking, though he covered his mouth to hide it. She preferred this, even if it vexed her, to his anger. “Lust, sweetheart. Yours for me. Americans seem less concerned about hiding what they feel, which is unusual for an Englishman. We’re not the most expressive of souls. And when we are, usually it’s the man who has to break theproverbial ice.” He flicked his hand between them, signaling there was anus. “This is bloody refreshing.”

She spun on her heel, returning to his wall of sketches. “You’re laughing at me, like the rest. Thetonthinks I’m foolish and inappropriate. Vulgar. Why should you be any different? When it was my father who dragged me to this godforsaken country. My art is all that is mine alone.”

She felt him move behind her, invading her space but without touching her. His brandy-laced breath slipped past her annoyance, melting her already fragile resistance. “I need you. Through Christmastide. Katherine likes you, and she was happy today. I saw it.” His husky plea streaked in her ear, warming something inside her that had been cold for months. For years. Forever. “I’m not making fun of you. That isn’t what this is. I’m an outsider in society myself. I always have been. Even if society doesn’t realize it. They don’t know the man, just the blessed title.”

Franny lifted her hand to trace the imprecise marks of his drawing. Her fingers shook, and she pressed her knuckles to the wall to quell the reaction.

He reached to steady her, his arm aligning itself alongside hers as if he was showing her how to discharge a rifle. “It’s a writing table.” Taking her hand, he drew her fingertip along the parts as he rattled them off, his voice oozing the same liquid charisma she bet he used when he charmed someone out of their gown. “This is the pen tray. The leather skiver, twin tooled in gold. A brass keyhole lining to the frieze. Tapper legs, capped and footed with gilt capitols and mounts. It will be the most gorgeous piece in England when I’m done. I’ll have one in Carlton House, you watch. Prinny, or the King now, I suppose I should say, will beg for it. The one love of my life, this work. Like your art, I understand. Ido.”

“I can do better representations for you,” she murmured, struggling to lead him off course. He was half-foxed, and she was smitten. She knew enough from her past mistake to realize this was a lethal combination. Yet, she let herself stand there, mere inches separating their bodies, awareness as thick as London’s fog encasing them in sensual heat. “I could try.”

Remington straightened, his hand falling from hers as he stepped back. “They’re my designs, each and every one. But my drawings aren’t good. It’s a problem. Nevertheless, when I’ve tried to describe what Iwantto an illustrator, it’s been off. I can’t find anyone who can capture my vision.”

The challenge was there, the need to solve it undefined and reckless. To please him in this way. “What do I get in return if I do this for you? If I’m able to capture your vision on paper?” She turned to find his intent gaze focused on her, unwavering. Absurdly, she loved that he was intelligentanduncompromising. “Consider it repayment for misleading you, even if my intentions were genuine.”

“There must be a trade.” He tapped his chin in thought. “How about this? I’ll sit for your sketches.”

Her hand clenched around her portfolio. She struggled for a clever response when she wasn’t a clever woman. Her witty retorts always arrived an hour too late.

His lips tilted, a small dent that could possibly be called a dimple pinging his cheek. That lank of hair jutting out, calling her hand to smooth it. “Can I ask about clothing, as much of the portraits I’ve seen feature men who are… how shall I delicately say this? Unclothed. I feel I should call you Franny if you’re set to see me in the buff.”

Her cheeks burned while lascivious images assaulted her mind. “Your normal attire”—she flicked her hand toward him, brow to toe—“will be adequate.” Although she longed to know. If she asked him to disrobe, would hedoit? “But you can call me Franny. I don’t mind.”