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Franny

Littlebredy, Dorsetshire, England.

May 1800.

LADY FRANCINE ARLINGTON'S feet ate up the ground, her black hair whipping across her face, wind battling against her flight. But her eyes never lost sight of the old oak tree. He wouldn’t catch her; she wouldn’t let him—even if she wanted him to.

There was something thrilling about being chased, about her blood thrumming in her ears in the same rhythm as her pounding feet. Especially when it was him chasing her. Because it meant she’d broken through. She loved when she pushed him to the point he resurfaced. It seemed harder and harder to do with every passing year.

She reached the tree, jumped onto the chunky knot on the trunk, and propelled herself onto the lowest branch. Legs dangling and kicking wildly, she heaved herself up onto the thick branch until she sat in a crouch.

That was always the most difficult part. She popped up and gazed into the tree canopy, a grin spreading across her face. Thick branches spidered out from the massive trunk like fat octopus legs. Smooth scaling from here.

“Lady Francine, get down from that tree this instant!” Rupert Winthrop, Lord Hampton, demanded. He hastily flattened his disorderly mop of brown curls and glared up at her with those mud-brown eyes of his. Not that Franny minded mud. It was quite fun to play in. But not for Reserved Rupert. Mud was offensive. Perhaps she should push him in some.

What a most excellent idea, Franny.

She stepped up on a bulge in the trunk, moving higher. “I rather think I’ll stay up here, thanks!”

She glanced down and chuckled. He stood straight as an arrow, like he had a giant stick up his bum, as usual , attempting to make the most of his four and a half feet.

“Girls don’t climb trees!” he said, the squeak in his tone completely ruining his attempt at chastisement.

She turned, and one hand gripping a branch, leaned precariously from her perch, stretching her free arm out wide. Lord Hampton gasped, and she bit back a laugh. He was such a little chicken. She was truly doing him a favor. Pushing him. Taunting him.

Daring him .

“Last I checked, I am a girl, and last I looked”—she waved her free arm down her front—“I am in a tree. I do hope you don’t use such logic when you’re in the House of Lords one day.”

“You are impertinent. You will not get away with such—”

“Perhaps it’s not that girls can’t climb trees,” she cut him off, goading as thick as honey coating her voice. “But that Pompous Perty doesn’t know how.”

Franny turned and resumed her scaling. She tilted her face up to the canopy, dappled light dancing through the large green leaves, flickering over her eyelids. There was nothing more freeing than climbing a tree. If only she could scale all the way through the large, fluttering oak leaves straight up to the sky. Take flight like the birds. And fly away… Where? She didn’t know. Anywhere was better than here.

“I can too climb a tree! It is just not proper behavior for a lord. Nor a lady. I happen to behave civilly. A word your governesses clearly have forgotten to teach you.”

Franny wrinkled her nose. Civilly? Ick . No one in their right mind wanted to behave civilly. She glanced down at Lord Hampton. His lips were turned down in a disapproving frown on his chubby-cheeked face. How did one master such arrogance at the young age of twelve? Insufferable bacon-brained ninnyhammer.

“Mmm. The little lord doth protest too much, methinks.”

His head recoiled, and his mouth opened and closed as strangled, indignant sounds sputtered out.

She grinned down at him. “That’s Hamlet . I am sure it would offend your delicate lordly sensibilities.”

“I’ve read Hamlet ! And I can climb a tree. If it’s easy enough for a girl to do, it cannot be very difficult.”

“Well, Perfect Perty. Let’s see then.” She sat down with a thump and scooted up against the rough bark of the tree’s trunk. She leaned back, eyes locked on Lord Hampton. Would he do it? Would he actually do something fun? Her heart rate picked up.

He tilted his nose up at her, the effect completely ruined by his chubby cheeks. Poor Lord Hampton. It was hard to appear imperious when your cheeks looked like they were full of nuts. The self-important squirrel.

“I am above such unseemly behavior.”

Egads, he sounded just like his dreadful mother. The woman sucked the fun right out of life with each breath she took. It’d gotten worse after his father had fallen ill. More and more of the things he said sounded as though they were lifted straight from his mother’s mouth. And Franny’d had to prod harder to find the boy she thought she might like. Her belly twisted. Sometimes she worried there’d come a day when she’d no longer be able to find that boy. But for today, she would keep trying.

“All right, suit yourself.”

Perhaps a damsel in distress would be too much for Perfect Perty’s lordly honor to ignore. She’d show him how much better life could be if he had a little fun. She crawled forward, laying out over the thick branch. She grabbed onto a thin sapling and leaned to her left.

“Woo-oahh!”

She snapped the sapling.

Crack.

“Franny!” Rupert’s high-pitched yelp sliced through the tree canopy.

She wiggled and draped herself lower over the side of the branch, gasping theatrically. “Rupert, save me!”

She peered beneath the branch she was dangling from, and by Jove, Rupert was climbing the tree! He leapt up to the first branch, mimicking her steps from earlier. Not half bad. For a pompous lordling.

“Hold on, Franny! I’m coming!”

He climbed frantically, wildly, straying from the trunk to where the branches thinned out. Oh dear, he wasn’t paying any attention. He was going to propel himself onto a branch that couldn’t hold his weight. Franny quickly righted herself.

“Rupert, slow down. Watch where you are climbing. That branch is much too—”

An ominous creak moaned from the tree. Rupert froze.

With deliberate slowness, he turned toward her, and their gazes met—perfectly in line from where he stood on his branch and she lay sprawled on hers.

The tree let out another groan.

The whites of Rupert’s eyes dominated against his flared pupils, his pinched lips quivering.

“Eyes on me, Rupert. Step toward the trunk. I am here with you. I will keep you safe.”

He remained frozen. Dear Lord, now was not the time for the stick up his bum to make him permanently stuck.

“Come now, Rupert. Small steps toward the trunk. Focus on me, on my eyes. What color are they? Focus on that.”

“Green,” he breathed and shifted slowly back toward the trunk. “They’re green, with gold around the pupils.”

Franny’s chest fluttered like the large oak leaves surrounding them. She pushed back up to sitting, staying with him, never leaving him.

“There you go. Now grab onto the knots of the trunk. You can look away from me now. See the branch below you to your left? You are going to lower yourself onto that branch. That is a nice fat branch. Perfect for you and your large lordly ego.”

He shot her a glare that was sure to cut down future opponents in parliament. Too bad for him, she was immune to his haughtiness. She stuck out her tongue and waggled her eyebrows. His large cheeks split into a grin. Her heart gave an extra powerful kick. Blast and damn. Rigid Rupert knew how to smile.

He lowered himself onto the branch and straddled it.

“Perfect. Now you are well on your way to mastering the art of climbing trees,” Franny said. “Just ensure you choose branches that can support the weight of your pomposity.”

His eyes narrowed into slits, and he glared at her, but his cheeks were still bunched in a small smile. “Yes, now I will always be able to follow you up here. You can no longer get away from me.”

A shiver stole down her spine. She didn’t understand why, but something in the way he said the words had her heart clattering in her chest.

“Rupert!” A shrill glass-breaking voice rent the air.

Rupert whipped around toward his mother’s call, tilting precariously to his left. Franny reached for him, but she was too far away. Arms flailing, Rupert tipped over the side of the branch—and disappeared from view.

“Rupert!” Franny yelled, already deftly slipping off her branch and jumping down to the one Rupert had been sitting on. Gripping the trunk in a large hug, she slid down the tree, the coarse bark cutting into her palms as she coasted down to the ground. She landed with a thud, the impact reverberating through her joints. She ran to Rupert, her brain still vibrating in her skull, but she hardly cared. Rupert lay stock still, flat on his back in the grass.

“Rupert! Talk to me, Rupert!”

He let out a sudden gasp and broke into a fit of coughing, chest heaving.

“Rupert, are you well? Does anything hurt? Is anything broken?”

“I-I am well. Wind. Knocked,” he choked out.

Franny let out a breath on a whoosh. Thank the Almighty.

“Rupert! My goodness, Rupert!” Lady Rutledge’s scream reached a new level of shrillness, and Franny winced, digging a finger into her ear.

Franny helped Rupert up, and his mother jerked him away. Hands on his shoulders, she shoved him an arm’s length away and scanned his person.

“How could you be so reckless, Rupert,” she scolded.

A large hand landed on Franny’s upper arm and wrenched her back. She ground her teeth, swallowing down her sharp inhale. The hand dug into her flesh, bone crushing. All laughter, delight, and even worry over Rupert’s fall dissipated. A child’s sandcastle dried out, blown away by the wind. Replaced by a numbing emptiness.

She glanced up at the hard, angry visage looming over her. Her father’s jet-black brows nearly met in the middle, his lips disappearing into a thin line.

“What if you had been badly injured? What if you had died ?” Lady Rutledge demanded. “Where would I be then? Your father is ailing and could pass any day now. And you risk your neck by doing something as undignified as climbing a tree? Do you have no thought for your dear mama? You would risk my welfare being in the hands of your father’s distant cousins?”

Franny’s lip curled up. Poor Lady Rutledge. Rupert glanced at Franny then, his eyes accusatory as he glared at her. No, not Rupert. Lord Hampton. Once again, Rupert was gone.

Lady Rutledge turned toward Franny, her lips pursing. “And you . You and your reckless behavior putting an heir’s life in danger.” She turned to Franny’s father. “Has she not had a proper governess or tutelage? You allow her to run wild like a…a heathen! She is nowhere near fit to be a marquess’s wife.”

The hand on her arm tightened, and Franny sucked in a breath. She wiggled her toes. Breathe through it, Franny . The bruises always faded.

“You have nothing to worry about, Lady Rutledge. We are still in the process of finding…the right governess for Lady Francine’s temperament. I assure you, we will find one who can mold her into a proper young lady.” He glared down at Franny. “She will be ready when the time comes.” His voice came out calm and polite and cajoling. To anyone other than Franny. Franny knew exactly what that tone meant. It meant discipline. It meant danger.

“Be sure that you do. I will be speaking to Lord Rutledge about this.”

Her father’s jaw ticked, and the sound of bone grinding against bone sent a chill skittering down Franny’s spine. Her father abruptly yanked her towards their estate. She stumbled, struggling to keep up with him.

“Never fear, Mama, she will never behave in such a way when she is my wife. No wife of mine will resort to such unbecoming behavior.”

Franny snarled at Rupert.

“Enough.” Her father’s voice was forebodingly quiet as he gave her a slight shake. “How dare you jeopardize the betrothal. Not another word. Not another look. We will have words as soon as we return. I hope you enjoyed having your filthy mongrel of a dog around. Because he is being disposed of immediately.”

Franny’s heart plummeted. No. Not Jasper, her field spaniel. Her eyes welled, but she blinked hard, refusing to let him win.

“Please, my lord. I promise I will behave. I will be the perfect young lady.”

“As though I haven’t heard that countless times before.” His voice dripped with disgust. “I have been too easy on you. The dog goes.”

Franny turned and glared at Rupert’s back. The starched lordling was strutting toward Rutledge Manor with his mother.

If you think climbing a tree is the worst I can do, Pompous Perty, you are in for a surprise. I promise you, there is much more in store.