She blinked at Felix. “You expect me to stink my fingers in fire without imbibing?”
A snort came from the massive armchair.
“What was that, Fitzy? Did I hear something come from that quiet corner over there?” Felicity asked loudly.
“Just think it’s funny you’d say you need liquor to do something reckless, sister,” Fitz mumbled back to her.
Felicity shrugged. “True, but it does make it more fun if you’re a bit bosky.” She turned to Georgiana and winked.
Felicity was a joy, impish and fun and a little bit naughty. Georgiana loved her. She was like a best friend and sister, all wrapped up in one. A small twinge stirred in her heart. Something Georgiana had never had. No sister, nor best friend. She had friends growing up, but no one she was able to get close to. Her family lived in a strange in-between, above the middle-class, but below the elitehaute ton. Her mother didn’t want Georgiana associating with other girls whose families were in trade, and the young ladies of the ton didn’t want to sully themselves with associating with her.
“Fitzy, will you be joining us?” Felicity called to her brother. Then she leaned toward Georgiana and whispered loudly, “Fitz never joins us. Too delicate. Too worried about burning his appendages.”
Georgiana chuckled. She hoped once she and Fitz moved into his London town house, they’d still be able to visit with his family often. She would miss this camaraderie. The only other time she’d had such friendship was with her beloved Bernie. A sharp jolt went through her chest, and she let out a slow breath. Sometimes the grief came streaking back out of nowhere.
“I personally like my fingers. Thank you very much,” Fitz said, sounding very much like a cantankerous old man.
“I don’t think she was talking about your fingers, Fitz,” Felix’s deep baritone chimed in.
He caught Felicity’s gaze, and they glanced at their brother and broke out in sniggers.
Georgiana frowned and turned to her husband—who was quickly turning an alarming, blotchy red.
“What—” Georgiana began.
“A few years back,” Felicity said eagerly. “We were playing snapdragon and one of the raisins Fitz pulled out was especially hot, still burning with a flame. He’d dropped it right on the front of his breeches.” She grinned, devilish delight dancing in her amber eyes. “Burned his co—”
“Felicity Mary Jennings!”
“I beg your pardon, Mother,” Felicity said, not an ounce of contrition in her expression or tone. In fact, the young woman’s grin only grew.
“It wasonetime,” Fitz gritted out. Her poor husband was still bright red. “And it gets brought up every year.”
“Only because you haven’t played since,” Felicity pouted. “I hadthoughtyou were competitive. Or did you burn off your whirlygigs as well?”
Georgiana’s hand flew to her face to cover her snort.
But apparently, Felicity’s taunting was all for naught.
“It’s not going to woooork,” a slowly-returning-to-normal-coloring Fitz sang. “Some things are more important than winning.”
Georgiana smiled softly. The hint of the playful side to her husband? Another layer pulled back. Another dangerous layer. She wanted to pull them all back until she found the true man underneath. Nothing but raw and naked Fitzwilliam Jennings.Mmmm, naked Fitz.She growled at herself.Stop, Georgiana!
Felix chimed in, drowning out her growl, “I’d have to agree, protecting one’s cock trumps winning.”
“Children,” Lydia reprimanded. But there was no bite in her tone, and she hadn’t bothered to look up from her embroidery. A small smile even tugged at the corner of her lips. This was clearly all very normal behavior for the Jennings.
“That is beautiful embroidery,” Georgiana murmured to Lydia, studying the cloth: a book with initials overlayed on it.
Lady Bentley glanced up at her and broke out in a full smile. “Thank you, dear. I like to embroider handkerchiefs for my children. I’m always needing to embroider new ones for Fitzwilliam. He goes through them like a child with sweetmeats. You know, with the poor dear’s propensity for sweating.”
Georgiana looked at her husband, who was gazing at her in wide-eyed terror—she swore his eyes were larger than his spectacles—his blush fully back in place.
“Oh, don’t look so horrified, Fitzy,” Felicity said. “We all know how you’re nervous and jittery and anxious and sweaty and stuttery and awkward and—”
“We get it, Flick,” Fitz bit out.
“—you know, we always wondered if perhaps Fitzy had a different father. Because where in all of Christendom did all those qualities come from?” Felicity continued, despite her brother gnashing his teeth at her. “If he wasn’t the spitting image of Father, I’d have had my doubts.”
