Page 73 of His Wicked Little Christmas
It had been harrowing and unpleasant, like much of his childhood.
Finally, on a swift turn, Franny caught his gaze. Her cheeks were rosy from exertion, but the bloom on them increased when she looked at him. Her silky smile reminded him of a gold- and-pink dusted dawn, brightening everything it touched. A buoyant sense of wonder stole through him. It was seconds that they stared, no more, but it was enough to confirm that Chance wasn’t the only entranced soul.
Somehow, this knowledge bound him to her with invisible threads of need.
It was easy,soeasy, to imagine what he’d do to her if given the opportunity. He’d start by unfastening the buttons of her bodice. Sliding the silken bundle from her shoulders to pile at her feet. Chemise ties loosened. Lace swept aside. Breasts straining for attention. Nipples pebbling as he tugged them between his lips. He wanted to mark her, change her. Turn them inside out. Situate himself between her thighs and stay there until she screamed.
He wasverygood at persuading without saying a word.
And he wanted to persuade Francine Shaw more than any woman of his acquaintance.
Without tearing his gaze from her, he asked, “Macauley, can you get something here by Christmas?”
“Three days until the day, mate. Gonna cost you. But I control half of the shipping channels in London, so anything can be bought. And I do mean damn near anything.” He slipped a cheroot from his waistcoat pocket and wiggled it between his lips. “As your friend, because blunt is tight, I suppose it’s gonna costme. For the girl, I’m guessing? I can secure any toy you wish to put your hands on.”
Chance rubbed the glass back and forth across his lips. He could ask Macauley for this favor when he wouldn’t ask Tobias Streeter. Because Hildy’s husband was in love and at the stage where he wanted everyoneelseto be. Macauley didn’t believe in love. In fact, he often compared the emotion to an infection. He’d never suspect Chance was doing anything aside from trying to get into a chit’s drawers. “Her presents are hidden at the bottom of my wardrobe. Doll, new clothes, sweets. Even a puzzleof a duck in a lake or some such. She’s swimming in gifts. What I need is for the governess.”
Macauley grunted, the unlit cheroot bobbing between his lips. “Ah, there it lies. This entire city is collapsing around me. Love, marriage, children. It’s ghastly. I may have to move to the continent.”
“This is nothing romantic. Just art supplies. I can give you a small list.”
Macauley blew a breath though his teeth, removed the cheroot, and tossed his scotch back. “Hildy will bash you over the head with her umbrella should she find out. The Shaw chit is one of hers now, you know that. The bloody Duchess Society. The American is in knee deep, God help her.”
Chance couldn’t stop himself from asking, a blunder he blamed on the scotch, “Have you ever felt something you didn’t want to, Mac? Even once? Like you stumbled across a treasure in the most unexpected place?”
“Under someone’s skirt, you mean? Sure, lots of treasure to be found there.” But his gaze immediately skipped across the ballroom, defying his indifference. Chance followed it only to find the Duke of Leighton’s sister, Lady Philippa, standing by the window, plotting her escape. Blond, beautiful, and animated in a way that drew a man’s attention, she was dangerous. A reckless chit who pretended not to be. The worst kind. Tooeverythingfor Xander Macauley, a blackguard who would never be allowed near her.
It would be irony of a sort ifthatwas the chit who brought him down.
Leighton and Macauley were friends, of sorts. If you counted being thrown in the Thames as friendship, which had happened last year. Leighton the one doused, Macauley the one standing on the riverside laughing. But Macauley going after Lady Philippa would ruin everything. The man couldn’t be that foolish.
Chance peered into his glass, wishing for more alcohol. “I guess your silence means no.”
“Send me the list of supplies you need,” Macauley growled and strode away, headed to the drink cart in the corner.
Leaving Chance to watch his bogus governess twirl in the arms of her betrothed.
Franny was starving. Lightheaded, her stomach growling incessantly.
She wasn’t used to going hours without a bite to eat.
But she’d followed the modiste’s advice, and her borrowed gown had held.
After being escorted back to Rose Hill by Tobias Streeter and his contingent, she headed directly for the kitchen—and the plate of lemon scones she’d spied before leaving. Shrugging from her coat only to find Chance Allerton sprawled on the bottom step of his grand staircase like an expectant father.
He’d been at the ball, studying her from the perimeter of the dance floor much like he was now. Emotion she couldn’t discern lighting his vivid blue eyes. She’d heard the whispers about him. He’d refused to waltz, angering every ravenous mother in attendance, then rudely disappeared. There were numerous theories about where he’d gotten off to. A new mistress, a card game in a back parlor, a brawl with his hoodlum friends, but near the truth of possibly being sick of occupying a room swarming with sycophants.
Franny hated to admit it, but she’d felt a burst of relief at seeing Lady Chapman-Holmes in the crowd after Remington left. He wasn’t with his old mistress. However, he could have been attending anewone.
She was jealous… but no one needed to know.
He glanced up as she halted at the staircase. Close enough to catch the scent of bergamot clinging to his skin, the faint hint of scotch riding the air. His hair was a gorgeous disaster, disheveled from handling. His cravat untied, the ends dangling down his chest. His jacket tossed over the banister, shirt undone enough to expose his collarbone. Sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing muscular forearms that almost no man in thetoncould claim. He’d gone from masterfully attired to lord of a country manor in a blink.
She didn’t have to try hard to imagine him with no clothing whatsoever.Another of her secrets. She had a vibrant imagination where he was concerned.
“Katherine is asleep in the nursery. Your companion is with her, on a settee that looks to be barely holding her. I think, despite her frightening demeanor, she’s actually good with children.”
“She’s very good with children. She’s simply not good with men.”