Page 70 of His Wicked Little Christmas
Seduce her, you’re bloody good at it.
But he sat, immobile, aroused beyond measure. Dazed. A thousand responses flowing through his mind, not one worthy of her. Glowing with the rush of finding a treasure no one in England had discovered, he stumbled into the moment, unsure. Franny Shaw was the most delightful piece he’d ever encountered. She actually said what she meant. She was honest. Beautiful. Kind. Giving. Unique.
And…no. One. Knew.
There had to be something wrong with her. Theremustbe something wrong with her. No chit could be this perfect.
The colossal difference in their upbringing unfurled like a carpet between them as they stared, lost to the sensual fog enveloping them. She’d not been taught that one didn’t discuss seduction in such a forthright manner. One didn’t admit attraction unless the reputations involved were irretrievably tainted, and so far, onlyhiswas.
She hadn’t been taught that you hid everything from everyone toprotect yourself. He didn’t have enough courage to display himself thusly.
“I think you’d better go,” he whispered, his voice ragged. If she continued to gaze at him like this, her desire his for the taking, he was going to drag her to the door, lock it, and shove her against it. Helovedtupping standing up.
And he would make sure she left unable to ever,everforget him.
“I have sketches of the desk. Two versions. As you requested, I placed the?—”
“Leave them,” he growled and grabbed the folio from her hand. “I thank you in advance. I desperately need assistance. I do. However, either you’re leaving this room right now, or I’m coming around the desk to kiss the blessed breath from you. Push you against the wall and show you what the heat of my regardreallyfeels like. My desire to erase every thought from your mind is blindingly compelling. Draw the air from your lungs into mine. Send you into a molten puddle at my feet, one I’ll happily follow. It’s your choice, of course. Completely. Your. Choice. But I’m shaky. And close to making it for you.”
She hesitated, damn her. Lifted her hand to her lips and gave them the lightest caress. His body lit as he scrubbed his hand across his own. Rawwantpierced him, weakening his resolve to do the right blasted thing for once.
He was rising, done, ready to test this attraction between them when she released a quivering sigh he would take to his grave, turned, and fled through the open doorway.
Leaving a provoked viscount to sift through the remnants of his yearning.
Chapter Six
Where a Curious Heiress Ponders the Rules of Attraction
The village seamstress jabbed her with a needle without Franny feeling a thing. Which was her own fault. She’d never been able to stand still during fittings with her modiste, which could account for her gown’s shortcomings.
This fidgeting, however, was due to Viscount Remington.
Since the incident in his study, she’d been walking around in a fever dream. Her skin sensitized to the slightest caress of muslin or lace. Her breath teasing lips that were bruised from her touch and sadly,onlyher touch.
Damn and blast, she thought hotly. He’d taken something from her without her even realizing she was relinquishing it. And he hadn’t even let her sketch him as he’d promised.
Although, he’d occupied her dreams for two nights, his body covering hers, the fantasy bleeding into a mix of heat and sensual urgency, her frustration staggering when she woke to an empty bed and cool sheets.
Strangely enough, they were working together. Or workingapartmight be the better way to describe it.
They were passing her sketches back and forth, in ways that limited the chance they’d find themselves alone in the same room again. She’d gotten used to deciphering his scribbled modifications in the margins, the sheets left during the night on a desk she’d appropriated in a library that regrettably contained few books. She returned the revised drafts to his workshop each morning.
They were getting close to the design of the desk he wanted in Carlton House. Theirs was a partnership unlike any she’d envisaged she would have.
Ada knew something had happened between them. Franny couldn’t get much past her. Consequently, her companion had not let Franny out of her sight.
Until the Duchess Society stepped back into the picture.
Hildy Streeter had stopped by the evening prior to check on a situation she’d not agreed to, and upon seeing the gown Franny had selected to wear to Lord Grimley’s ball, quickly located a seamstress who could modify one of hers. She was taller than Franny, her curves less plentiful, but with a skilled craftsman, it would do. Georgiana Munro, the Duchess of Markham, Hildy’s partner in the Duchess Society, had also arrived and was currently trying to arrange Franny’s hair into something resembling a chignon. Ada wasn’t skilled, and Remington had no maid on staff who was.
“I shouldn’t be going.” Franny stilled lest the needle make another strike, but her toe tapped a furious rhythm on the carpet. “Lord Grimley and I haven’t been introduced. My father hasn’t done business with him even. No one is expecting me. I’m an American version of a wallflower. Worse. I promise you that I add nothing to the event.”
Hildy seethed in ladylike decorum from her spot on the threadbare settee jammed in the corner of Franny’s bedchamber. The hulking furniture did not fit the space. Like most of the rooms at Rose Hill, this one was a jumble of masculine embellishment and blatant neglect. “Being recognized by Lady Chapman-Holmes of all people made the decision, Miss Shaw.Everyonein Derbyshire is expecting you. Lord Remington stated publicly that I knew about this governess arrangement, almost as if I was your chaperone. So, you’ll accompany me and prove it. There are rules to uphold. The baron agreed to the latest set ofcontracts, and we’ve forwarded them to your father’s local solicitor. Hillsdale was unsettled by the rumor of you being in the residence of a notorious rake, even if properly accompanied, so he arranged for transport he cannot afford, and he’ll also be in attendance.”
“Can’t blame him, considering the viscount’s horrid reputation,” the duchess mumbled around the hair clip jammed between her teeth. “Dogs like to fight over their bones, don’t they? Maybe Remington assuming care of a child will polish off a few of his rough edges. It won’t make the hungry mamas harass him any less, that’s certain, but perhaps he’ll forgo a mistress for a bit. That would help.”
“Bother,” Franny whispered, her heart giving a jarring thud. The thought of Chance Allerton and his sizzling glances, and Baron Hillsdale and his tepid ones, occupying the same space made her want to crawl beneath her ratty counterpane and hide until spring. While the thought of the viscount’s many mistresses made her want to break something.