Page 72 of His Wicked Little Christmas
Although this event was smaller than most, sold as a winter celebration in case the melted snow mucked across the marble floor, the pine branches tacked to every ready surface, it wasn’t a clear reminder of the season.
Winter simply meant it was too frigid to open the veranda doors to invite even the suggestion of fresh air. So here he stood, the scent of sweat mixing unpleasantly with lemon verbena and pine. Every starving mama in the room giving him a jaundiced eye because he’d yet to sign so much as one dance card. He dragged the toe of his Wellington, not boots meant for dancing, mind you, through a layer of chalk on the floor. In use so one didn’t go careening across marble, landing on one’s bum. An occurrence which would have made the festivities a bit more interesting at least.
“You’re going to have to dance with someone, mate. Your role as anobleman, innit? Give the unattached ladies some hope for the future? Their mother’s stares are starting to torch my skin,” Xander Macauley said, shoving a beverage that Chance prayed was stronger than champagne in his hand. “Glad they don’t want anything to do with me.”
Macauley was Tobias Streeter’s partner, London’s finest smuggler since Streeter had stepped down when he’d gotten married and started a family. Both men had grown up in the slums and now ruled parts of the city most had never visited orwantedto visit. Macauley owned a shipping company, a distillery, and half a dozen other incredibly profitable ventures. Rumor was, a gaming hell was next. Chance’s partnership with Streeter, Macauley & Company had earned him enough blunt to keep from being so desperate he would have signed every dance card in the building during the first ten minutes of his arrival.
And as friends, they’d protected his identity. No one in thetonknew Washburn Furnishings was his. Washburn had been his mother’s maiden name.
Although he couldn’t avoid marriage to some dazzlingly wealthy blue-blooded chit forever. Even with his love promise. Only this morning, he’d found a rather substantial leak in the roof at Rose Hill. In a back parlor. One that could potentially bleed him dry to repair. His chest ached when he thought about the care the estate needed. A life that now included a little girl.
Lifting his gaze to the gilt-edged ceiling, Chance tossed back half the drink—scotch, thank God—in one punch.
“There you go, Remington, grease the wheels for the night you’re set to have. No need for sobriety for this.” Macauley leaned his broad shoulder on the column Chance had chosen to hide behind, elegance in nonchalant repose.
Chance grimaced and finished off the scotch, welcoming the path it burned down his throat. What did Macauley know about it? He had enough blunt to fund a country’s takeover and absolutely no expectation that he’d marry anyone above an opera singer or possibly an actress. He could fall in love with hismistressand make it come out all right. As long as he didn’t try to climb higher, he was fine.
“Quit frowning, mate. Your night has just gotten a lotmore interesting.”
Chance swiveled to face the ballroom, his gaze sweeping the revolving couples, then climbing the spiral staircase at the opposite end of the hall. He blinked, momentarily blinded by a thousand candles’ glow. Awareness shot down his spine before he recognized her, landing regrettably in his nether region. A response he struggled to hide with an arm dropped low.
His cock never played fair. Not once in his life.
This is what he’d feared but hadn’t needed to see. Her beauty on display. Franny Shaw after someone with knowledge of English fashion got their hands on her. Her hair, for once contained in a stylish coiffure, sparking in the light until it glowed. And the gown. Layer upon layer of crimson silk leaving absolutelynothingto the imagination. She looked like she’d been sewn into the bloody thing. He nearly groaned as his gaze ate her up, feet to brow and back again. Like a gift he yearned to unwrap with histeeth.
Hildy had arranged this. Dangling the chit before him when sheknew—oh, he wasn’t fooling anyone—he was attracted. Frankly, his pulse started throbbing when she entered a room. He exhaled sharply, trying to ignore the way her breasts shifted as she descended the stairs into the ballroom.
She had the most gorgeous figure he’d ever set eyes on.
And unlike the others, her mind and heart were quite remarkable, too.
Macauley grinned, jamming his elbow into Chance’s ribs. “Ah, the look on your face might make this dull-as-shite country jaunt noteworthy, as your posh set likes to say. Noteworthy as hell. I’m suddenly glad I accepted Streeter’s offer. Your governess is a far sight prettier than I’d heard.” He whistled softly between his teeth. “That is one delectable piece. Without the silly English prattle to deal with.”
Chance slammed his glass on the tray of a passing footman, causing the servant to balance it with both hands before it tumbled to the floor. “Stay away, understood? She isn’t like the ones you keep.”
Macauley chuckled but there was a brutal edge racing beneath it. “She’s not like the ones you keep, either.”
Unfortunately, this was true.
“Hold up,” Macauley whispered and took hold of his arm. Henodded to the bloke elbowing his way through the crowd to get to her. “Her betrothed, am I right? Even I occasionally take a look at the gossip rags. You don’t need to get there panting like a horse out of the gate.”
Chance yanked his arm free as Hillsdale arrived at the bottom of the staircase—just as Franny was set to officially enter the madness. He could have sworn the baron glanced back with a triumphant smirk. “They haven’t signed any agreements.”
“Hold on, I need another drink if we’re discussing marital contracts,” Macauley groused, going in search while Chance stood there, tucked behind a column, pondering the sentiment that had his belly tied in a quivering knot.
Franny went through the motions; he’d give her that. Smiled at the baron. Made a feminine show of offering her dance card, which Hillsdale signed twice with a flourish. When everyone knew two signified intent. She took a glass of champagne and sipped carefully. Only Chance noted her stiff posture, overly precise. The uncomfortable stretch of her lower back. The charcoal stain on the tip of her glove. The wrinkle on her bodice.
No one in this bloody country had any idea she wasrealbeneath the posturing.
The most unique woman in the room.
Somehow, it had settled in his mind that Hillsdale was marrying her for her money. And he’d accepted this. But when the baron gazed down her bodice, his face getting the look only an aroused man’s did, Chance realized he was entering virgin territory.
He’d never been jealous of any woman. Not once, ever.
“Drink this,” Macauley muttered and bounced a tumbler off Chance’s clenched fist. “We’re not brawling tonight, at least until his babe is born. Streeter made me promise. No more. He’ll be here any second with a wife glued to his side, a chit who has little tolerance for our antics. That gives us six months or so to exercise our wisdom. Hildy told me I had it in me to be better if I’d only try. Fetching simple, innit? But for me, nothing about women seems simple.”
Chance took the glass and sipped, his gaze fastened on Miss Shaw, who had begun to waltz with the baron. Her step was sure, almost athletic, impressive for a girl he imagined hadn’t grown up waltzing.Chance had learned from a pitiless French instructor when he was twelve, at his father’s command.