Page 68 of His Wicked Little Christmas
The man in those sketches had a regal, confident bearing—when Chance was uncertain. About life and his place in it. His ruse was nearly as great as hers. He played the charming viscount while struggling to locate the person beneath. A burden deposited on his shoulders at the ripe age of nineteen. When he’d had another passion altogether.
He worried over his relief when he’d realized Francine Shaw hadn’t played him for a fool. She had her own troubles. Transgressions, she’d called them. Who knew what bit of mischief had had her running to England. Anyway, what did he care if his temporary governess was after his title? Like a thousand and one inane chits before her.
But he did care.
He blew a frosty breath into the sky, wishing for another glass of brandy.
This realization was disconcerting indeed.
Chapter Five
Where a Forlorn Viscount Opens His Heart. A Little.
Kat had been staring at him for the past ten minutes from her spot on the faded Aubusson. She had a ragdoll of unknown origin clutched in her fist. She’d wandered in with a biscuit and the toy, settling herself on the floor without a word.
Strangely, he found the sound of her frayed breathing comforting. She had a stuffy nose from yesterday’s activities in the snow, but he figured the fun had been worth it.
Chance placed the quill aside and leaned back in his chair. He was in his study, a chamber that had housed the resident viscount for generations. Although, he’d changed enough about the room to drive out the ghost of his father. Mostly. Starting with a desk of his own design. New curtains. Wallpaper. The little he could afford had gone into this space to help eradicate the memories.
Now, he would channel his meager funds into the nursery. The girl needed a better one than she currently had. Here and in London. He was set to sell two desks next week, which would provide blunt through the summer. He hoped. Tobias Streeter had offered a loan if he fell short, but he was hesitant to take an offer that indebtedhim to anyone.
“You’re a viscount,” Kat murmured while he sat there formulating what he could possibly say to start a conversation with a child. “Is that higher than a king? The last uncle I stayed with was the second son of a baron. He was ancient and smelled like peas. But he gave me gumdrops on occasion.”
Chance rolled his lips in to hold back his laughter. “Much lower than a king. And I’m not your uncle. I’m your cousin through my mother’s side of the family.Yourmother was her second cousin, I believe. That would make me your third.”
Kat gave an inelegant shrug, smoothing her hand down the doll’s snarled ginger yarn hair. “I don’t remember her.”
Chance traced his finger over a blemish in the wood that he particularly loved. He’d chosen this piece for the desktop because of the mark. He’d always thought beauty lay in imperfection. “I don’t remember mine very well, either.”
Kat glanced up at this, seemingly startled to find they had anything in common. “You don’t?”
Chance shook his head, wondering at speaking twice in two days of a woman he rarely recalled except in his dreams. It was being here, at Rose Hill. Where he’d lived with his mother until her death. Then at the tender age of five, he’d been shipped to the city to reside with a father who clearly hadn’t wanted children. “She was lovely. I have her eyes and not much else. She was kind. Patient. She liked gardening and spent much of her time in the conservatory. Which is now in shambles.”
Kat thought hard about this, twisting her doll’s braid around her finger. “Can I be the next viscount? I can fix it up.”
Chance’s heart gave a hard thump. “That will go to my son. The eldest. Even if I have a daughter first. But you will be their older sister.”
She sighed longingly. “No girls as viscount. That’s not fair.”
Chance gave his teacup a spin. “No, it isn’t.”
“Franny says women must work twice as hard in this world to make up for the inaccuracies.”
He laughed, charmed. “Inequities.”
Kat rose, the doll dangling from her fingers. She crossed to the desk and with confidence born of youth, circled his diagram into view. Her nose wrinkled with her frown. “Your desk looks crooked. One leg isshorter than the other. Franny is a much better artist. Maybe you should ask her.”
“Actually, she’s working on a drawing for me. Perhaps two even.”
Kat’s bright green eyes flicked to his. She chewed on her lip, debating, then blurted out, “She said you sent for gifts. For Christmastide. For me.”
He recovered quickly. It was not the first time a woman had stunned him with the notion that he’d overlooked a special occasion. “I think rather than tell you, I’ll let it be a surprise. Aren’t surprises better?” he asked, wondering what he could find in the village at short notice.
Kat grinned and shifted from foot to foot. “I like surprises.”
He was reaching before he had time to ponder the decision. His hand covered hers. It was small, her skin warm and… quite perfect. She turned, linking her fingers with his.
He hadn’t held hands with anyone since his mother’s passing.