Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Where a Dejected Viscount Comes Calling
Franny had taken Kat’s Christmas presents when she fled.
Which was fair as she’d purchased them.
He’d been determined the little girl would have her bloody gifts.
But his absconding governess was one step ahead of him, never realizing she had gifts , too.
Those damn art supplies Xander Macauley, true to his word, had delivered the night before.
Chance had wrapped them in a length of tartan, one in his family for generations.
Remnants of the lone, black Scottish mark on his mother’s side and even included a crimson length of twine around the bundle that now looked ridiculous.
Or hopeful, depending upon one’s perspective.
After Franny had bolted from his bedchamber the night before, in frustration, he’d finished sanding a desktop, then ridden his horse, Talbot, through the snow-capped fields until they were both panting from the effort.
When he returned to Rose Hill at daybreak, his decision had been firmly in place.
His mind calm. His body sated, thanks to a certain tenacious termagant’s loving attention.
He’d only needed a few moments to search his heart, breathe deeply of the crisp winter air. And think .
Then he’d known.
Love . This was love he was feeling, blind and unrelenting.
For the woman and the girl.
He was giving in. Gladly giving up a life he didn’t want for a new one he did.
He’d never felt the like, a sudden rush of emotion weakening his knees when a woman crossed within viewing distance.
Her unique scent enough to have his heart skipping a beat.
And… an American . This fact delighted him for many reasons it shouldn’t.
Her unsuitability made her perfect for him .
He couldn’t dictate the future, but he wanted Franny Shaw in his life.
Wanted her laughter, her wit, her kindness raining down upon him.
Finally, he could picture someone when the word viscountess whispered through his mind. Mine traveling greedily behind it.
Perhaps the biggest surprise of all, he wanted to be a father to Kat. He wanted to fill Rose Hill with laughter and joy. Hers, to start. Then, the others to come.
With this certainty pillowing him like mist, he’d gone in search of his girls to find he had none in residence. Back to a lonely, creaking, dusty manor in the middle of Derbyshire. The dying pine branches attached to every available surface a reminder of his idiocy.
The answer was obvious. Franny deserved a sincere proposal.
Without questions in his eyes this time.
In a bit of a funk, he’d traipsed to his bedchamber, ignoring his disaster of a bed and the sensual aroma clinging to the air like a chill, and dug around in the side table, extracting his signet ring.
It was temporary, of course. Until he had funds— hers, ironically—to purchase something more personal.
However, he did quite like the scripted R circled by roses, modeled after the estate that had been in the Remington family for centuries.
The small ruby he predicted would look stunning against her creamy skin.
She was extraordinary enough to appreciate it.
So here he stood on Tobias Streeter’s country portico on Christmas morning, a gift for the woman who had led him on a merry chase to the very spot tucked awkwardly under his arm.
Snow swirled inside the collar of his woolen coat, dusting his cheeks and brow.
Chance rapped on the door of Hampton Hall once more, feeling the reverberation through the thick oaken slab.
It was bloody freezing, and he was nervous.
Which made him annoyed and more nervous.
His situation worsened when the door was opened not by an aging majordomo, but Tobias Streeter himself, his canny grin saying things Chance didn’t want to hear.
Macauley strode up behind his business partner, clapping his hands.
“Before noon, I told you! The men in this circle are falling like diseased birds. You, the Duke of Markham, now Lord tup-‘em-and-leave-‘em. And for what? Bleeding marriage . Which I’m sick to stones of hearing about. Have to get rid of every mistress you’ve ever had, Remington, you understand that, right? The Duchess Society won’t allow you to keep them. On a short leash forever, mate.”
Tobias snaked his timepiece from his fob and flipped opened the silver case. “Shite on a shingle. Another ten minutes, and I would have won. And he won’t miss the women. I’ve tried to tell you, Mac. If he found the right one, he’ll only want her.”
Skeptical, Macauley snorted around the cheroot dangling from his lips.
“You owe me another ten, Street. He brought the bloody present. Didn’t even try to save his dignity by sneaking in the domestics’ entrance.
Hands full of his embarrassment. Gads.” He gestured to the tartan with a devilish smile.
“Nice trimmings, mate. The American is going to slice that heart of yours into tiny pieces and wrap it up with that length of plaid.”
While Tobias dug around in his trouser pocket for the wager he’d lost, Chance brushed past them, elbowing Macauley in the gut along the way.
Macauley rubbed his belly, the cheroot bobbing.
“Is that what I get for delivering the best art supplies money can buy? German, those charcoals, not the pathetic English gear. And the drawing pad is Italian if you cared to notice. I called in a marker, a right fine one with a distributor of some very illegal but lucrative items, to get these on the quick. I’ve smuggled for the man for ten years now, and he’s always owed me .
Some show of friendship, this abuse, innit?
And all to help another man walk the plank. I must be mad. ”
“Where is she?” Chance glanced around the deserted foyer, the sound of muted conversation and a child’s laughter traveling down the corridor. He would thank his friend and thank him well, once he’d accomplished his mission.
Now that he knew he was sunk, he felt a dire need to share the news with the woman in question. Immediately .
Then Franny Shaw, God love her, did something that made everything right .
Made everything perfect .
In a fury, a blur of cream and gold, the scent of lilacs snaking into his soul, she was hugging him, his bundle of German and Italian regrets jammed between them.
His arm closed around her, bringing her as close as possible with the package between them.
Tears stung his eyes, lay thick in his throat.
She was a miracle he’d somehow stumbled upon.
A rose in a field of weeds. The most exceptional person of his acquaintance.
She and Kat the start of his family. Franny didn’t care how her affection appeared to his friends.
To society. She didn’t mind that he was poor.
That he’d fumbled the task of proposing the first time around, trying lamely to tell her he might love her.
That he said silly things and acted like an arse half the time.
She wasn’t asking him to plead, grovel, beg.
Or holding a grudge and causing him to apologize endlessly.
All things he would have done.
She only cared about him showing up .
He rather thought he could do that more often. Perhaps be an outstanding husband to match her brilliance if he worked hard enough. Aside from his furniture, he’d rarely been good at much of anything.
“You came,” she whispered against his lips. Glancing down, she noticed the blunt end of a charcoal pencil sticking out of the tartan. “With presents. Oh, Remy, you darling, darling man! I didn’t want to set up the race, such a foolish game, but I did, silly Ada, and you came.”
“ Remy ,” Macauley whispered in disgust as Tobias Streeter dragged him across the gallery, away from the embracing couple. “This is almost as tragic as you and Hildy.”
“What race?” Chance asked, dipping his nose into her silken strands and breathing deeply for the first time in hours.
Days. Years. Helplessly lost, his body beginning to react, he started calculating.
One hour of gift-giving with the group, a brief luncheon, forty-five minutes tops, then when Kat went down for her nap, he would take Franny to the closest bedchamber or a linen closet even and?—
“I recognize that look. Later ,” she whispered.
“I’ll leave my balcony door unlatched. I’m on the first floor, you can make it up, I’m sure.
There’s a very sturdy oak outside.” She giggled and began to plunder the package, unfolding the tartan, sighing in delight at the offering.
“This is the finest set of charcoals I’ve ever seen. German, my .”
He stepped back, still holding the gift, as if he was watching a scene in a play.
Sunlight, a rare, mid-winter burst, pierced the windows at her back, glazing her in radiance.
Her eyes were a potent, golden hue, her hair shot through with amber.
She was simply the best he could wish for in a life of broken promises, others and his own.
He wanted her in a multitude of ways with a fierceness that shook him. Curiously, most of them having nothing to do with his cock.
Wife . If she said yes, she would be his wife.
“We’ll have to live here for a bit. Derbyshire, Rose Hill,” he murmured instead of asking. A coward to the end. At least, this way, he could gain her initial response. “The city when we have to. House of Lords and all that bother.”
“I’ll go where you go,” she returned, flipping through pages of a sketchpad that was, even he would admit, the most superb he’d seen outside an artist’s salon.
Macauley knew his smuggled products. “And Ada, of course. She’ll learn to like you.
Give her time. She and Kat are getting on so well.
I’m overjoyed they seem to like each other. ”
“There’s an easel on the way, too. Another week perhaps.
A few more odds and ends.” He shifted from boot to boot, looking for a place to set the bundle.
His signet ring was burning a hole in his waistcoat pocket.
“There’s a parlor on the western side of the house that gets light throughout most of the day.
Would make a decent studio of sorts. If you’d like.
” He settled her gift atop a mahogany sideboard, shoving aside the length of pine and holly serving as holiday décor.
A pencil rolled free and bounced across the floor.
He bent to pick it up, his back to her. “I even have a friend, a well-respected artist, who teaches classes. Only men, to date. I’ve already contacted him about working with you.
I think he would, covertly because the world is not designed for women, once he sees your work. ”
“Chance. Remy . Look at me.”
Setting the charcoal aside, he followed her directive. She’d come up behind him with a furtiveness that surprised him. The beat of his heart was drowning out the sounds of a holiday gathering rippling through the house, snatching his ability to take a full breath. “Do you have something to ask me?”
Her lips were curled at the edges. Delight and a hint of mischief transforming her face.
For some reason, the latter gave him the courage to spill his secrets.
Machiavellian tendencies, he understood.
Could work with. That she wasn’t the typical proper English miss perfected the moment.
“The viscountess part won’t be fun. I can guarantee that much,” he mumbled and tunneled in his pocket.
The signet ring was warm from its press against his chest.
Taking a breath, he presented it to her. A promise. A future. Like Macaulay had said, his heart for the taking. Possibly to be cut into slivers. “It’s all I had time for. I’ll find you the most glorious in London when we return.”
Her smile grew to incredible proportions.
She had the loveliest one he’d ever encountered.
She slipped it on her ring finger, when he wore it on his pinkie, and the fit wasn’t horrible.
Not horrible at all. “I love it.” She wagged her hand, catching a ray of sunlight on the ruby.
“I want it. I want you . I have, I think, from the first moment. Caressing that escritoire at the earl’s fete.
I could only imagine your hands running all over me . ”
“You will then?” He gave the ruby a light tap, trying to control what was happening— hardening —behind his trouser close. The future promise of her body closing around his was becoming the loudest thing in his head. “Marry me? Help me raise Kat. Have more children if we’re lucky.”
She wound her arms around him, tunneling her fingers through his hair and bringing his lips to hers. “Yes.” She nipped his bottom lip, then backed way, causing him to follow. “Although, you’re missing three words every girl likes to hear. ”
He pressed his brow to hers, roping his arm around her waist and settling her against him.
Letting her feel what she was doing to him.
“Francine Shaw, if I adored you less , I’d be able to say more.
Say it better. I love you quite madly and without hope of recovery.
I only know I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in this life. ”
“Yes, then,” she whispered and pulled him into another sinking kiss. “I will marry you. Because I love you, too. Madly. If the easel arrives by Thursday, that is. If not, all bets are off.”
He laughed, his heart breaking. But for the first time, in a good way. “Happy Christmas, my sweet viscountess.”