Page 12
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Rupert
Rupert peered at Franny from his seat across the Rutledge dining table. Head bowed, crowned with a mass of black curls, she absently stirred her soup, not eating, not speaking, just stirring.
Her lady’s maid had woven gold ribbons through her elaborate coiffure, and she wore a pretty, albeit somewhat weathered, olive gown. He quite liked the effect it had on her eyes. When he happened to get a glimpse of them. Which, so far, this evening had been very rare.
He had always been struck by her eyes. They appeared to be some combination of a forest in the height of summer, a striation of deep greens with the sun’s gold light bursting around the pupils. They were the bane of his existence growing up. He’d never been able to look away. Get them out of his head. Out of his dreams.
Even in the dim candlelight he could tell she was somewhere else, quiet. Not typical Franny. And he was the reason. The hurt on her face when he had left her in the hands of Mrs. Higgens came rushing back. He winced. Not left. Abandoned, you arse .
He hadn’t meant to abandon her. But she wanted to talk about last night. But he couldn’t talk about last night, not without the rage he felt for himself flaying his sinful skin from his bones. He thought a hard ride would help, that maybe if he rode hard enough, he could outrun the shame. But the minute he saw her being handed down from the carriage, remorse had swallowed him whole again.
He’d lost control last night, and he never lost control. He had taken his wife like a brute, bitten her, made her bleed . Granted, that was typical of virgins. But, Christ, she had been a virgin. It was painful for maidens, even when a husband was considerate and gentle. And he’d rutted her like a bull. He hadn’t even asked her if she was well afterwards. He was making a complete muck of his marriage, and it was only day two. He needed to make it up to her.
He cleared his throat. “Is there something particularly interesting in that soup of yours?”
She lifted her head, sending a smile that didn’t reach her eyes his way. “Oh, no. It is a quite delicious soup, my lord.” Her gaze dropped back to her bowl.
Yes, it must be quite delicious , given she hadn’t even tried it yet. And there was that “my lord” again. Why did she keep ‘my lording’ him? Formal and quiet Franny was never a good sign.
Unease crawled over Rupert’s skin. He discreetly scanned the table, laid out with the Rutledge’s finest China. His gaze homed in on a dish to his left covered by a sterling silver dome, and he narrowed his eyes. He glanced sharply at Franny. Suspiciously subdued Franny. Quite clearly displeased-with-Rupert Franny. She wouldn’t—
His hand shot out, and he lifted the lid. Pheasant. Roasted. Not alive. Not a collection of field mice…like that time he had left his coat unattended while skipping stones by the pond.
“Are you well, my lord?” Franny asked, eyeing him as if he had lost his faculties.
He supposed he had.
“Yes,” he said gruffly. “Quite well, I was confirming I wasn’t going to discover a family of field mice instead of roast pheasant under here.” He carefully lowered the lid.
Her lips twitched. Ah, we have a sign of life! His heart skipped across his ribcage.
“I would never , my lord.” She blinked large green innocent-but-not-innocent eyes at him.
He snorted. “Perhaps not at dinner.”
She pressed her lips together, but they curved up a minuscule amount. He noticed. He always noticed with her.
He bit back his own smile and brought a spoonful of the almond soup to his mouth. The creamy, nutty flavor rolled over his tongue. Ah, one of his favorites.
Franny finally took a spoonful of hers. He loved the mix of saltiness with sweetness. The spoon slipped between her dusty-pink lips. The contradiction. Her eyes fluttered shut. Salty and sweet. Like she would be . She hummed her appreciation and licked the corner of her lips. He hastily glanced away and reached for his wine, readjusting in his seat.
“Did you enjoy your tour of the house?” he asked, desperately grasping for a distraction from the tightness in his breeches.
She tensed. He grimaced. Out of all topics, he chose that? Could you be any more daft?
“Yes, the manor is quite lovely, my lord. As is Mrs. Higgens. I spent a wonderful afternoon with her.”
Not with him. Point taken.
“How was your afternoon, my lord? I do hope you were able to catch up on your pressing business.”
He glanced away. Was she punishing him, then? With her “my lording”? Was this Franny’s typical pushing and prodding and poking?
“Rupert,” he murmured.
“Pardon?”
“Rupert will suffice. There is no need for such formality.”
She leaned forward and darted a wide-eyed gaze around the room. “Even in front of the servants?” she asked quietly, lips barely moving.
He leaned forward, putting himself dangerously close to her, the color of her eyes so vivid at a couple feet apart that they threatened to trap him, steal what little sense was left in his brain. He frowned. She must have succeeded, because he couldn’t rationalize her hesitancy. Why on earth wouldn’t they use first names?
“Of course, we are husband and wife, after all. I think that warrants the familiarity of first names.” The tension in his brow eased, and he smiled to himself. “Though I would prefer if you refrained from your notorious nicknames.”
Franny stared at him unspeaking, her face void of expression.
He opened and shut his mouth. Why was he stumbling over this dinner so terribly? He was an apt conversationalist. It had been drilled into him from a young age. Mother always said, one couldn’t be a notable figure in Parliament if he couldn’t convince others to support his cause. Apparently, the skill completely deserted a person when said opponent was one’s wife.
With infinitesimal slowness, a soft smile curled her lips. A soft smile that curled inside him, did something to him he didn’t understand. He lifted his gaze to her eyes, glowing in the candlelight, no longer flat, now as warm and alive as the candles’ flames. But why? What had happened to cause such change?
“Rupert.”
Her words, breathy and whisper-soft, drifted between them and floated there, along with the breath from his lungs. Because his name on her lips took away his ability to breathe. Lord, she was beautiful. Perhaps granting her the privilege of his name was a mistake. It was dangerous—his name on her lips. Lips he wanted to touch and taste and take his time with.
“If it pleases you,” she added quietly at his continued silence.
Yes, yes, it did. His cock thickened in agreement. No! Dear Lord, what was wrong with him? She simply said his name, and he was ready to clear the table—of everything but her. Not a wise scene to imagine, Rupert.
He cleared his throat gruffly and infused his voice with low formality. “Yes, it err… does.” His eyes almost fell shut. Smooth, Rupert.
He began sawing away at the pheasant as the servants removed the soup dishes. Silence stretched, and his mind went completely blank. Speaking topics. Weather? No, too boring. Politics? He peered at Franny. Probably not the best topic if he wanted to avoid any possibility of confrontation. He didn’t know where his wife’s political interests lay, if she had any at all.
He paused in his carving. He didn’t truly know much about his wife’s interests at all. Beyond her tendency toward mischief, of course.
Perhaps the best place to start is with an apology.
Why did that thought crawl over his skin like icy trickles of water? There was something inside him that rebelled at apologizing to the raven-haired hellion who sat across from him. For so many years, she’d been the bane of his existence and the unwanted center of his fantasies. Apologizing to her felt…unnatural. Like he was letting her win.
The image of her mischievous smile and flashing green eyes came unbidden, framed by a canopy of leaves as she dangled from a tree above him.
“Perhaps it’s not that girls can’t climb trees,” Franny goaded. “But that Pompous Perty doesn’t know how.”
He’d given in, let her win. And how had that ended? Him flat on his back, barely able to breathe, followed by a lecture and an hour of doing lines about proper behavior for young lords. She’d won too much back then, made him a fool. But they weren’t children any longer. And those days of petty defiance were over. His wife deserved an apology.
“Franny…” he began, and his voice got caught in his throat. Egads, it should not be this hard to apologize. “Isincerelybegyourpardon.”
Her ebony brows pinched, and she tilted her head. “I’m sorry?” She drew out the word, her tone lilting up.
“That is what I was trying to say. I must sincerely beg your pardon.” He curled his fists on his thighs. Forced himself to hold her gaze. Because he wanted her to know he meant the words, even as he struggled to call them forward. “For our wedding night…leaving you. And for not making time for you earlier.”
She blinked at him, and something in her visage—the way it went soft, from the color of her irises to the press of her lips—had a warm buzzing starting up inside him. “I appreciate that,” she said quietly.
The buzzing intensified, his heart feeling too large for his chest. He had pleased her. A foreign occurrence with him and Franny. One he’d very much like to make happen more often.
“If you happened to see any rooms on your tour earlier you would prefer to redecorate, please don’t hesitate to work with Mrs. Higgens.” He placed a slice of pheasant on her plate and then one on his own. “As Lady of the Manor, it is yours to do with as you please.”
Her shoulders bobbed in a little shrug. “All the rooms seemed nice enough as they are.”
She popped a bite of pheasant in her mouth.
“You do not enjoy decorating and upholstery then?” he said, his gaze locked on the fork sliding between her lips.
She let out a breathy laugh through her nose as she chewed. She swallowed and dusted her mouth with her napkin. “Truly, Rupert? You think I would want to pick out paper hangings and curtain patterns?”
“Well, I suppose not. I do not exactly know what you like to do outside of your typical improper behavior.”
Her mouth tightened.
“Apologies,” he said hastily. Look at that. Apologizing was already coming much more naturally. “I meant I do not know what acceptable ladylike activities you enjoy.”
The lines around her mouth deepened, and she shook her head. She let out a deep woe-is-me sigh and plopped her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her interlocked fingers. “It is called fun, Rupert. I like to have fun. There are no acceptable ladylike behaviors I enjoy. There are acceptable behaviors I put up with. I endure. Like your self-important comments.”
He frowned. “I don’t mean to sound self-important—”
She snorted.
He glared harder at her, but she only sat back, quirking her knowing brows at him. Which he chose to ignore.
“Regardless, you cannot run wild over London when we return. You must enjoy something that adheres to suitable decorum for a lady.”
“Do you hear yourself? Do you think anything that qualifies as suitable decorum is enjoyable? I understand I cannot be climbing trees in London, but goodness, if I want to climb that lovely oak by the Rutledge stables in the privacy of my own estate , I will.” She picked up her wineglass, swirling the deep red liquid. “Something Proper Perty wouldn’t know much about, I suppose. What does Proper Perty do for fun? Do you even know how?”
“We will revisit the climbing of trees later,” he said pointedly. It was one thing to climb as children, but as an adult? “But, for fun. I suppose I have the running of the estates, the tenants’ yields, addressing any concerns raised with my family’s steward, and now that I’ve joined the House of Lords, I have much to focus on there, learning and developing my reputation.”
She made an odd face at him, then her eyes rolled heavenward, gaze searching the ceiling.
“What…are you doing?” he asked.
“What do you mean, what am I doing? I am eating dinner.”
“No, your face. You’re wrinkling your nose up very strangely.” He glanced up. “Is there something interesting on the ceiling?”
“I was looking for divine intervention. And my nose?” Her lips twitched. “It’s called a look of disgust, Rupert. Because what you just listed? Ick. Those things are most definitely not fun.”
He frowned at her. God forbid someone have responsibilities that they tended to. Franny thought one could run wild, and life would take care of itself.
“I have a duty to uphold—”
Her nose did the wrinkling thing again, and he stopped short.
“You are always cinched as tight as a horse’s saddle, Rupert. You cannot be consumed by your duties every minute of every day. What do you do to let loose? There must be something you do to relieve all that tension.”
You, I would love to let all my tension out on you. Over. And over. And over.
His eyes widened. “Golf,” he blurted.
Her chin jerked back. “Pardon? Golf…as in what the Scots play?”
He nodded stiffly, barely preventing a wince. Had he truly admitted that?
“You,” she said skeptically, “play golf?”
“Not exactly play.” He laughed nervously. “Mother would never approve of such a thing. It is not an acceptable leisurely pursuit for a gentleman. But I have a set of clubs, and sometimes I head to the pond by the hunting lodge and take a few swings. See how far into the pond I can hit the balls. It helps to relieve the tension on particularly stressful days.”
“That is fascinating.” She was leaning forward again, looking at him as if he was some rare specimen at the British Museum. “Will you teach me?”
“Teach you…” he said.
“Yes, to do the golf!”
His lips quirked.
“Is it very hard? The balls are quite small, yes? I would imagine I would miss quite often.”
He laughed then. Franny with a golf club was a terrifying thought. One did not willingly put weapons in Franny’s hands. He had learned that when she’d somehow maneuvered him into a mock fencing match with a pair of branches as children.
“I am sure we can find some time for me to show you how to swing a club. And yes, it is quite easy to miss, but once you get the technique down, it isn’t so hard.”
She smiled at him then, a gloriously full one, rosy cheeks bunching up over the corners of her lips. His heart rate picked up, tapping erratically against his throat. He was the cause of that smile. Finally, this dinner was looking up. He grinned back at her before digging into his pheasant. Something eased inside him. His shoulders loosened, the pressure behind his temples slipping away.
A little while later, the servants cleared the table and began laying out dessert.
Franny squealed, clapping her hands. “Look at all of this, Rupert!” Her gaze roamed over the elaborate spread of strawberries, roast peaches, rolled wafers, sugar puffs, and assorted biscuits and pastries. Cook had truly outdone herself. “I cannot possibly decide what to try first.” Her hand shot out, and she grabbed a sugar puff, dipping it in the chocolate sauce and taking a large bite.
He rolled his lips in and choked back a laugh. Yes, cannot possibly decide. She was so full of life. What must it be like to be so free? Her pink tongue darted out to lick up the chocolate stuck on the corner of her mouth, and his mouth went dry.
“Delicious!” she exclaimed.
Delicious—she had that right.
She reached for a strawberry and dipped it in the whipped cream—his eyebrows lifted—taking with it much more whipped cream than strawberry. Her lips closed around the plump fruit, and she devoured all but the stem in one bite. Heaven, help me. He shifted in his seat. That mouth had always tempted him, always taunting and teasing with saucy retorts. And this was a whole new height of torment. How was he to survive dessert?
He hastily looked down at the table. Right, by distracting himself with dessert. He reached for a chocolate stuffed pastry. He would just not look up. A fine idea. He took a bite of the pastry. The flaky, buttery confection melted with the bitter-sweet chocolate filling in his mouth.
“Mmmm,” Franny hummed in delight.
Her moan hit him straight in the cock.
Don’t do it, Rupert.
He looked up.
Franny held a frosted pastry and was currently inserting it into her mouth. I told you not to look up . He bit back the desperate noise crawling up his throat. Why did she have to choose the phallic-shaped dessert?
Her lips closed over it, and her eyes slid shut. The pastry broke off, some of the vanilla cream filling dribbling over her bottom lip onto her chin. He struggled to take in air.
Something wet ran over his fingers. He glanced down. At the pastry he had unconsciously strangled in his hand, the chocolate filling dripping over his fingers.
He hastily wiped his hands on his napkin. He couldn’t take any more of this. His heart hammered in his chest, that same pulse hammering in his cock. He glanced at Franny, currently licking her fingers clean. His muscles clenched, twitched with the need to get closer to her.
Remember what happened the last time you lost control, Rupert?.
He tried to push away the depraved thoughts. Tried to drown them out with the sermons he’d been raised to live by—the ones his mother had deemed most important, the ones she had made him copy over and over until they were etched into his mind like scripture on stone.
But visions of Franny bent over the table assaulted his mind, unable to be suppressed. Her hair wrapped around his fist. His breaths shook his frame. His palm making sharp contact with her backside. His hands trembled. He needed to get back under control. He squeezed his eyes shut tight. But it only made the deplorable visions more vivid.
“Rupert? Is something wrong?”
His eyes snapped open, and he was met with a pinched-brow Franny, head tilted at a questioning angle.
“Apologies,” he said tightly. “I suppose I’m not feeling well. We should probably hurry this up.” He needed to get away from her, and quickly.
Her face fell.
And with it, so did something inside of him.
He didn’t understand why he couldn’t even have a simple dinner with his wife without these temptations assaulting his mind. He’d always had forbidden fantasies about Franny. But now that she was in close proximity—and his . Now that he knew what it felt like to sink inside her. Tight. Wet. Hot. His heart rate picked up. It was so much worse.
Perhaps she had been on to something. He needed to release this tension. If he worked off the stress and debase desires, he’d be able to hold them at bay. Protect her from his demons.
A stilted silence settled over them. He discreetly glanced at her. She gnawed her lip, pushing around the raspberries from the tart on her plate. Lord, the sight of her disappointment was akin to a fist to the gut.
Maybe that was the answer. Another activity his mother would never learn about. Almost no one knew of the sandbags he’d hidden away in the wine cellar, tucked away in the shadows of the cool stone room.
At Harrow, Derek and Rafe had taught him how to defend himself, and he’d realized how effective throwing a punch was at ridding him of the weight that always seemed to settle over him. The rush of exertion, the satisfying thud of a fist meeting resistance—it cleared his mind. But, of course, he couldn’t go around punching men and getting into fights. Not exactly suitable for someone with Parliamentary aspirations.
So, he’d set up a small space he could sneak off to when the pressure got to be too much. He could only imagine what his mother would say if she knew. But it had saved him many times, especially as he’d gotten older, and the pent-up sexual frustration and unrelenting expectations grew more and more stifling.
He kept his face averted and on his plate as he hastily finished his dessert. He couldn’t allow his control to break like it had on their wedding night. He’d hurt her, frightened her. And that had been tame compared to the things he wanted to do to her. The dessert roiled in his gut. Yes, this stilted silence was better. Safer.
After dessert he’d sneak away to the cellar, exhaust himself to the point he couldn’t even form thought, then fall into bed.
Table of Contents
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- Page 12 (Reading here)
- Page 13
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