10

Franny

Littlebredy, Dorsetshire, England.

A GREEN-AND-GOLD liveried footman handed Franny down from the carriage. She shook out her faded burgundy traveling skirts and looked up at the monstrosity that was Rutledge Manor, a place she had seen a million times before. Why did it look and feel different now?

Three levels of grey stone and diamond-paned windows towering into the overcast sky stared back at her. And now she would walk up the twenty-three steps—she knew, she’d counted them as a child—leading up to the columned entry as Lady of the Manor. Perhaps it felt different because this would be the first time she ever went inside. Inside, where her future awaited. Uncertain.

A short distance away, Rupert handed his horse off to a stable boy. His horse. Franny glared at the mutton-headed man, ire bubbling up inside her. He rode the entire half-day’s journey instead of joining her in the carriage. She’d tried to seek him out before they departed, but he’d already left.

Rupert walked over, his gaze locked on something over her shoulder. He was always staring over her blasted shoulder.

“Won’t even look me in the eye, my lord?” She couldn’t hold back the bite from her words. But she never claimed to be a saint. Far from it. And after last night, she was raw, vulnerable. A vulnerability that needed to be hidden behind spikes and thorns.

“Pardon?” His gaze slowly, casually , drifted to hers, his brows lifting in a bored expression. But his lips were pressed into a thin line, and he tapped his leg twice. Not so bored and calm, are we, Rupert? Sometimes she wanted to reach out and tug on those stupidly tight lips, loosen them up a touch.

“The way you seem to be avoiding me, I would question your status as a man…” she murmured as they marched side by side toward the line of servants awaiting them at the bottom of the stairs. “If it were not for last night, of course.”

“We are not discussing last night.”

“Oh, but I think we should. Discuss last night. How you bolted. Left me naked after a very thorough bedding. To sleep in the stables. And then, this morning—”

“Enough!” he hissed.

She stiffened at the vehemence sharpening his tone. At the memory of that same word thrown at her, but a different man, a dark study, obsidian eyes. She shoved it down. Refused to let it gain purchase. But she couldn’t prevent the way her heart shriveled and closed in on itself for protection.

They stepped up to the servants, and she forced her lips upward, infused her voice with false cheer, and buried her hurt in that place deep inside where no one would find it. They went through the line, each servant stepping forward to greet her—the new Lady Rutledge.

Rupert introduced Mrs. Higgens, the housekeeper. The familiar, pretty, mature woman smiled warmly at Franny, her cheeks bunching in her heart-shaped face, blonde tresses neatly piled atop her head. Her soft blue-grey eyes twinkled as she dipped a curtsy, and it immediately set Franny at ease. This wasn’t like Pinehurst Abbey, her father’s estate. She had allies here. And she knew many of these servants, having snuck onto the Rutledge estate more often than she ought to have. Something her husband knew nothing of.

“Good afternoon, my lady, and welcome. I speak for myself and the rest of the staff, that we are beyond pleased to serve you as our new mistress. If there is anything you need, we are here to assist in any way.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Higgens.” And this time Franny’s smile was genuine.

After the last servant bowed, Rupert and Franny fell into step behind Mrs. Higgens and made their way up the stairs and into the manor.

“Mrs. Higgens, if you would escort Lady Rutledge to her rooms and ensure she is well settled. She will also need a tour of the house.” Rupert’s voice rang through the ivory-painted entry, climbing up the height of the three-story ceilings.

He stepped away, his feet moving swiftly against the light cream-and-grey striated marble tile as he headed toward the hall at the back of the entry.

“You are leaving?” Franny called after him.

He paused and looked over his shoulder, his face blank. “Yes, I have business matters to attend to. I am sure you are fatigued from the journey and will be happy to have some time to rest.”

She clenched her fists. He was so sure , was he? He was so wrong . “Would you not want to partake in some tea with me, my lord? Or a walk on the grounds?”

His lips flattened. “Unfortunately, these business matters are pressing. I have been pulled away from them for much too long…” Because of her. Because of the inconvenience of their marriage. “Mrs. Higgens will need to show you the household accounts as well. You will have much to occupy your time.”

“Perhaps I could join you, assist in some way,” she said, reaching for something, anything, to keep from being cast aside. A sticky and uncomfortable sensation slid over her skin. “Or just keep you company…” Ah, yes, desperation—one of her bosom chums. Lord, she was pathetic. Why did she even want his intolerable company?

Because you’d take intolerable, if it meant somebody wanted you.

Lord Rutledge pinched the bridge of his nose, and her blood iced over. This time, she couldn’t stop the memories from barreling back. A forbidding study. Her father making the exact same gesture. A cold frost encased her heart.

This would all have been so much simpler if you had just died along with your whore of a mother.

She barely heard her husband’s words over the dull thrumming in her ears. “You will go with Mrs. Higgens and that is an order.” He abruptly spun on his heel and strode down the hall.

She flinched with each sharp footfall.

“And here I thought this was supposed to be our honeymoon,” she whispered after his retreating figure. Apparently, her success at consummating their marriage wasn’t much of a success at all. And clearly, he didn’t share the same feelings about what had passed between them last night.

“Come, my lady,” Mrs. Higgens said softly. “Let me show you to your rooms.”

Franny glanced at the housekeeper, and the pity she saw in the woman’s drawn expression was almost as hard to swallow as Rupert’s rejection—no, not Rupert. She thought after last night she could think of him as Rupert, but she was wrong.

Lord Rutledge’s rejection.

“Once you are settled, perhaps we can start your tour off with the tennis court if that would please Your Ladyship,” Mrs. Higgens added. “I know that was a favorite place of yours growing up.”

A bit of the brittle weight that had settled inside Franny broke off, leaving her feeling slightly lighter. She tried to return her housekeeper’s smile but couldn’t quite manage it. It was one of her favorite places, her sanctuary, where she had been safe from an oppressive man. And it appeared she was still in dire need of it.

The schlapp of Franny’s feet echoed against the stone floor of the Rutledge tennis court, rebounding around her through the cavernous arched ceilings of the room. She looked up and spun in a small circle, smiling at the thick, dark-brown timber supports.

The tennis courts always reminded her of a medieval keep. She could imagine this room—with its stone floor, plastered smooth stone walls, and wood-and-iron towering ceilings—the great hall of such a keep. Her keep. The princess of the keep.

That had been the way she viewed this place as a child. Her escape, a place where she could pretend, dream, of a different life.

“Excellent thought on starting our tour here, Mrs. Higgens.” Franny beamed at her housekeeper.

Mrs. Higgens smiled warmly back at her from where she stood in one of the archways leading out to the court, the place where players would switch sides during a match.

“Now it is yours to frequent whenever you please, my lady. Not that any of us minded sneaking you in and out of here. Goodness knows it doesn’t get nearly enough use as it should. Sitting here for centuries largely untouched.”

Franny ran her hands over the netting of the galleries that lined the court. She could picture the crowds gathered behind the netting to view the match. Though, if this were a medieval keep like the one in her fantasies, there wouldn’t have been netting, just the rectangular window-like openings that ran nearly the entire span of the wall.

A much more dangerous game—for viewers and players back then. Guests had died being hit during matches, been severely injured. The balls used for the match were heavy and hard as rocks. Great for chucking at infuriating husbands.

She paused at the final gallery, giving the netting a firm shake. The toll of bells clanged through the expansive room. The winning gallery. Bells that signified a point.

Her gaze landed on a racket and ball resting against the main wall on the opposite side of the court from where she stood. Excellent. Time to work off her riotous emotions.

She’d love nothing more than to hide away here and play tennis, pretending she wasn’t a day into her marriage and already a hindrance to her husband. But that wouldn’t put her in her husband’s good graces. Nor in his bed. The reckless urge to push boundaries gripped her. And if she wasted the day away in here and Lord Rutledge found out, she was sure to face a stern lecture about a lady’s obligations.

She shouldn’t want that. Her fingers twitched, and she twisted them in her skirts, her husband’s retreating form flitting across her mind. Yet, she did. Because she knew—had always known—misbehavior guaranteed attention. And at some point…it had become some sort of twisted game: proving she was every bit the disgrace they expected her to be. Worse.

Rebel, Franny , her subconscious whispered. They think you’re terrible? You’ll see their bet and raise them even more outrageous behavior.

She drowned out the voice, doused the heady thrill starting up in her veins at the thought of showing the world just how reckless she could be. This marriage was her last chance. And she had a feeling that making her husband even more cross probably wasn’t the best way to go about things. Even if every impulse inside her was screaming to revert to defiant behavior.

“Lord Rutledge mentioned the household accounts,” she called over her shoulder. “Are there any other things I should be aware of that will require my attention?”

“The main thing upcoming is the Midsummer’s Eve festival in two weeks’ time. The Manor always provides the feast for the festival. If Your Ladyship would like, you can take part in the preparations.”

Franny snatched up the racket and ball and twirled back to the housekeeper. “Oh, how fun! I have never attended a Midsummer’s Eve festival.” She’d heard talk of the festival, but she’d never managed to attend. Once she’d been old enough to enjoy it…she couldn’t visit the tenant village any longer.

Mrs. Higgens’s eyes crinkled. “Yes, it is quite the merry time.”

Planning a festival sounded much more fun than household accounts . Perhaps there would be some parts of this Lady Rutledge business she would find enjoyment in.

“Is that something the Rutledge family typically assists with?”

“Yes, the dowager planned what would be included in the feast, and then it was sent down the day of the festival.”

That seemed a promising sign. If the dowager was involved, it was surely something Lord Rutledge would approve of.

Franny meandered over to the serving court. “Do they not attend the festival? Are there any other preparations needed?”

“They do not do more than provide the food for the feast.” Mrs. Higgens’s soft blonde brows drew together. “I don’t believe Lord Rutledge, nor his mother, have ever attended, nor his father, even when he was well. However, the festival is quite an involved event and there are many preparations that need to be made if Your Ladyship would like to participate. Perhaps a trip to the village is in order to get an idea of what assistance would be beneficial.”

Excitement bubbled up inside Franny. A trip to the village, to the tenant farms! She hadn’t visited the Rutledge tenants in years. It was almost enough to make her forget the uncertainty surrounding her marriage. Almost.

“I think that is a fantastic plan, Mrs. Higgens. When can we arrange a trip to visit the tenants?”

“Oh, you need not worry about making a trip to the village, my lady. Lord Rutledge and the dowager always send a servant. We would be happy to inquire for you.”

Franny threw the ball up in the air and caught it. Yes, well, this Lady Rutledge was going to do things slightly differently. Perhaps she could set into motion a shift in the Rutledge family’s approach to engaging with their tenant community—and at the same time impress her husband. Oh, that would show him. She bit her lip against a wicked grin. She would prove him thoroughly wrong. And she would glory in it.

“I will go. They are my tenants, and I would like to hear from them myself.”

Mrs. Higgens nodded, her cheeks bunching in a smile. “I think that is a lovely idea, my lady.”

Franny tossed the ball up, brought her racket back, and whacked the ball with all her might. It flew over the net straight into the grille netting, a cacophony of clanging from the net’s bells resounding through the court. Point.

Oh, how wonderful it felt to hit something. To let out the frustration, the confusion, the fear. That she was destined to a future of disapproval and rejection. But she refused to give up without a fight.