Page 7 of His Wicked Little Christmas

Georgiana stepped back as Dex stepped inside. His gaze snagged hers before circling the room and settling on Jane. Chauncey, Dex’s valetsince he was a boy, stumbled in behind him, his arms filled with all manner of jars and tins.

Dex delivered his donations—flour, sugar, jam, cider, ale—and gestured to the carriage parked outside. “The footman is unloading more; what I was able to gather quickly. Blankets, clothing, candles, coal, wood. Please distribute to those in need.” Glancing around, he fidgeted adorably, recognizing every morsel of attention in the room was fixed on him. A flush swept his cheeks and Georgiana’s body heated in response, her reaction thankfully hidden beneath layers of cotton and wool. “My majordomo was notified about an overturned coach on the main road. The countess’s staff mentioned she was delivering much-needed supplies to the village when I arrived at her home. So I circled back and ransacked Markham’s cupboards.” He frowned and tugged a rather abused top hat from his head, his gaze drifting away as he slapped it against his thigh.

A ghost of a smile crept over Georgiana’s face. Dex had been worried. An overturned carriage his concern when she’d been set to arrive at Markham Manor. So worried he’d come after her when the plan had been for her to go to him.

“My coachman is experienced with icy roadways,” she murmured, just for him. “Quite knowledgeable. Lovely handle of the reins. A regular whip.”

He grunted, throwing her a look both amused and discomfited. She’d never, not once in her life, seen the like with this man. Without trying, she’d knocked Dexter Munro on his muscular backside.

She wished she knew how she’d done it so she could do it again.

With a gentle nudge from Georgiana, Jane explained the dire situation in the village; Dex promised to assist, with apologies for his family’s unwitting disregard. Jane was grateful, asking with genuine concern about the duke’s condition, which Dex told her remained unchanged. Once the pleasantries were concluded, he bowed, popped his hat on his head, and tightened his scarf, a length of deep emerald knit exactly matching his eyes. “I must be off. I have an appointment.”

Catching Georgiana’s gaze, he mouthed,with you.

After wishing everyone a happy approaching Christmas, she and Dex stepped outside and were immediately sucked into a blindingsnowstorm. Chauncey staggered to her carriage and, with a thump on the trap, set off down the lane, leaving her standing in ankle-deep slush beside Dex’s luxurious conveyance.

“My coachman also has a lovely handle on the reins. And a warmer brick than yours, I’m guessing,” Dex shouted over the gusts ripping between them. She shivered, unbelievably more from his penetrating regard than the storm. With a low sound of impatience, he shrugged out of his coat and slipped it on her shoulders. A multi-caped greatcoat tailored for a man of impressive size, it hung nearly to her feet.

Time suspended, heat from the worsted wool stealing through her body. Closing her eyes, she drew in his scent: leather, bergamot, man. Bringing herself back, she blinked to find his head cocked in deliberation, snowflakes sticking to his dark lashes, to the curved brim of his hat. “What’s that look for?”

He released a furtive smile and assisted her into the carriage. “Nothing much. I simply think it looks better on you.”

As they rolled away from the Fletcher’s cottage, the wheel hit an icy patch, and Georgiana gripped the ceiling strap with a whispered oath. “Is this to be my adventure, Dex? Overturning in a Derbyshire ditch?”

He glanced over from his position across from her, shifted his long legs, the heel of his boot neatly trapping the hem of her soiled skirt. “You’re the only person to call me that. I think of myself that way, too, which is odd, I suppose. And when I’m here, I feel like Dex Munro.” He looked to the window, brow creasing as he retreated to his own space. “Strange when I’m not sure I know him well.”

“Who do you feel like away from here?” she whispered, caught in the intimacy of the carriage’s shadowy interior, the landscape of barren, milky white they traversed, the wind a shrieking moan against the sides of the conveyance. Hushed breaths and the scent of buckskin and frost, smoke from the Fletcher’s hearthfire, mint, cinnamon, soap.

He didn’t answer; she didn’t press. Only huddled into the fragrant folds of his coat and let the motion of the carriage soothe her. They lumbered over the stone bridge crossing the River Derwent, closing in on Markham Manor. Even amid the fierce storm, she easily located the imposing dwelling nestled among vast woodlands, the rocky hills and heather moorland land she’d once known as well as her face in a mirror.

This quiet ease was one of the things she remembered about Dex’s friendship, their ability to simplybe. They’d been able to spend time together but apart, no false effort to construct a house of words. Dex with his rocks, she with her books, Anthony with his drawings. She’d never been comfortable exposing her true self in the presence of anyone else.

She sat back against the velvet squabs with an inward, private sigh, her gaze touching on Dex as he stared out the window, love and dread and regret lingering in his eyes. Heartbreaking to realize this moment was more intimate than any she’d ever shared with her deceased husband.

Markham Manor was haunting and magnificent. A chaotic blend of Tudor and Jacobean architectural styles, the enchanting house enthralled but did not charm—much like Dex.

With a dying duke in residence, the staff hadn’t made any effort to decorate for the holiday. Servants were scarce, the hallways chilled and cheerless as if the dwelling was already in mourning. Wilkes, the butler for as long as Georgiana could remember, escorted her to the Oak Room, the oldest in the house, while Dex went to check on his father. The ever-efficient servant had tea and biscuits delivered, the fire stoked, candelabra lit, Dex’s coat taken from her and hung to dry, leaving her to roam the vast space with her mood falling between anxious and eager. She gazed at the carved oak lining the walls, remembering Dex had once told her the first duke purchased the paneling from a German monastery in the 1500s.

The weight of time and age and experience hung heavy in the room. She tucked her finger in a sculpted nook, wondering what it must feel like to shoulder responsibility for this home and everyone serving it, every tenant living off the land, the village inhabitants. Quite a burden, she imagined while studying the four-hundred-year-old panels.

She poured tea, then sipped as she walked, noting how Dex had re-engineered the space for his use. Sculptures once scattered about had been relegated to a dark corner. A sketch that looked to be created by amaster lay perched against the imposing mahogany desk, in its place on the wall an unframed map was tacked. Crates of varying sizes sat before the east gallery’s shelves, floor to ceiling, obscuring the rows of books though the scent of leather covers and moldy pages lingered. She’d spent much time here as a child, borrowing from the library of her dreams. Running her finger over a cracked spine, she wondered what Dex had planned. The ghastly weather meant their adventure had to be conducted inside the house.

An adventure of the mind. Her favorite kind.

She’d only tagged along on the others, racing over boggy moors and exploring damp, often dreary caves, digging up fossil and stone, because Dex had asked it of her. Anthony, too. And she’d have been damned before she let them leave her behind.

She placed her teacup on the desk and traced a brand burned into one of the crates. Munro Geological. Fierce and unexpected pride swept her. Despite her secretly wishing Dex wouldn’t roam so far from home to fulfill his dreams, he’d fulfilled them and then some.

He moved behind her before she realized he’d entered the room, and she went from relaxed to aware in one second.

Reaching around her, he glided his hand over a label glued to the crate. Unexpectedly and with absolute clarity, she imagined his fingers tracing words written on her skin. “We packed this one at the Messel Pit just outside Frankfurt. A bituminous shale mine abundant in fossils. Geologists are called in to safely remove the artifacts, identify and record them, then ship them back to the requested museums. So these are only mine on loan.” He laughed softly, his breath streaking past her cheek, dancing inside her ear. “I try not to pilfer though I’m often tempted.”

“There’s much work to complete,” she murmured, moving away from Dex and the teasing scent stealing into her nostrils with each breath, his heat branding her as surely as he’d branded the crates housing his artifacts. Moving away from the compulsion to turn and walk into his arms, a heedless action undermining her effort to compile a list of suitables, two names written on a folded sheet and tucked beside the lapis in her bodice pocket.

Her foolish wager, her promise to help a family friend find his duchess.

The woman who would warm Dex’s bed, share his laughter and his wisdom, his stubbornness and his joy, have his children, things Georgiana had once wanted. Impossible dreams now. Her shameful marriage had ruined the chance for her to enter into an agreement like that ever again.