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Franny

Franny sat down at the breakfast table. Alone. She picked up a piece of toast and the butter knife. Two days since she had lain eyes on her husband. She impaled the butter, carving out a small slab. Two days living a hauntingly similar life to the one she had just escaped. No, Franny. That wasn’t quite true. At least here she had bountiful meals, not meager offerings or scraps or, if she had done something particularly disobedient, sometimes nothing at all.

He had arrived home late yesterday and proceeded to skip dinner. Avoiding her. She didn’t understand why his avoidance seemed so much more painful than her father’s. She ground her teeth as she scraped the butter over the toast. And then the wretch slept somewhere other than his room.

She forced the not-quite-melted butter into her toast. She knew he’d slept elsewhere because she’d stormed into his bedchamber, only to find it empty. Her knife stabbed through her toast straight to her plate. The shrill scrape of metal against China echoed through the breakfast room, and she twitched at the abrasive noise. She carefully set down her toast and knife and inhaled, slow and deep. She would not let the insufferable man ruin any more of her days.

Franny poured herself a cup of tea, spooning in two sugar lumps. She cradled the cup, the warmth of the steaming hot tea soaking into her palms. Was there anything better than piping-hot, freshly brewed tea? She took a small sip, the sweet sugar and bold tea melding over her tongue. She relaxed, settling deeper into her chair. See, she didn’t need Rupert. She had tea.

Her gaze fell on a pile of papers next to a lone cup at the head of the table. Her eyebrows lifted. His Lordship lived. She lifted her chin and looked away. Not even his place setting was worthy of her attention.

Though…she discreetly glanced back from the corner of her eye. Perhaps a peek at the papers. It’s not as if it was the equivalent of her speaking to him. Because he didn’t deserve that .

Franny ambled over to the head of the table and paused, gaze darting around the room. All footmen faced straight ahead. A skitter of apprehension danced uncomfortably over her skin. They are not like the Earl’s servants, Franny . These servants smiled at her, spoke to her. Her lady’s maid, Sally, even jested with her. They didn’t avoid her, fearing their Master’s wrath, knowing if they got too close, they’d be dismissed. They wouldn’t tattle on her. And Rupert wouldn’t retaliate the way the Earl had, either.

She squared her shoulders and stood taller. She was the lady of this house. I can do as I bloody please.

She picked up the papers and began scanning. And blinked. This was…a proposal for a foundling home? Rutledge, You well know that one of my talents is persistence. Ironcrest calls it nagging, but as it produces results, I don’t give a bloody fig what you call it. I am reaching out to you again to see if you would partner with myself and Ironcrest on the foundling home endeavor. Despite your previous declinations, I am well aware of your support of the home, so do not expect this to be the last letter I write you. I will wear you down, Marquess of Dunmore

A foundling home…that Rupert refused to support? She didn’t understand. Why in the blazes would he not want to help orphaned lonely children in need of a safe place to live? Franny looked back down at the letter. She already liked this Marquess of Dunmore. Lucky for him, he’d just gained an ally.

Clutching the papers to her chest, she marched out of the breakfast room. This was evidence of how little she knew her husband. If he wouldn’t speak to her, she would have to find out who he was on her own.

She walked into his study, shoved the niggling apprehension out of her way, and headed straight for the monstrous rosewood Chippendale. How better to learn about one’s husband than rifling through his desk? She smiled to herself as she approached the intricately carved, gold-embellished desk. She scoffed. Dear Lord, even his furniture was pretentious.

The surface was tidy and relatively bare. Two books neatly piled one atop the other, an inkwell and freshly sharpened quill, and a blank sheet of paper. Best to start with the drawers then.

She placed the letter on the desk and pulled open the bottom drawer first. No one ever hid anything interesting in the top drawer, did they? She grasped a sizable stack of papers and dropped them next to the foundling home letter and collapsed into the desk’s chair.

Various requests for his presence at events that Rupert had refused. Why would he keep these? A dinner to discuss religious dissention and reform. An invitation to Whites for drinks and a debate on electoral expansion. She flipped through the papers—more of the same. She placed the pile of declines to her right, frowning at them. This was much over her head. She had never received invitations. Was it common practice to hold on to past invitations, for events one hadn’t even attended?

She reached for the next paper and paused. ‘ Draft for November Parliamentary Speech.’ A speech Rupert was to give? Her gaze flew over the paper.

“Preserving support for the Church of England is vital. Those who choose to deviate must bear the legal consequences, the inability to hold public office, nor attend prestigious university. Highlight the following: The danger of accepting a broader spectrum of religious beliefs. The need to remain steadfast in their current electoral landscape. The risk of expansion, specifically to middle-class, where the uneducated opinions of those of a lower class would jeopardize the security of the country.”

Her chin jutted back. The uneducated opinions of those of a lower class . Dear Lord, her husband wasn’t just intolerant of her and her unrefined ways, he was intolerant, period. Her heart hung heavy in her chest. Politics may be something Franny knew little about, but she knew those of a lower class . She had spent many days with them growing up. They had provided her safety, sustenance—with no expectations of anything in return—when it was otherwise denied by the Earl.

Her heavy heart sank to the bottom of her stomach. Franny had never truly known Rupert. Their interactions as children and young adults were artificial; nothing more than light antagonization and teasing. She hadn’t thought when she discovered the type of man he was—

“What do you think you are doing?”

Her gaze flew to the doorway, and her breath lodged in her throat. There he stood. Her absent, stupidly handsome husband. Curls fell over his brow, navy jacket and beige waistcoat pressed without a wrinkle in sight, cravat perfectly tied. Breeches stupidly tight. Weren’t they supposed to be baggy so he could sit? He probably couldn’t sit with the giant stick up his arse anyhow. The only sign he wasn’t as perfectly put together as normal were the dark circles underneath his eyes.

Franny straightened, rolled back her shoulders, and let out a slow, calming breath. Did he think to make her feel like she was doing something wrong? If so, he was not as smart as he led others to believe. Because she did what she wanted, without apology. If Franny had learned anything in her first one-and-twenty years of life, there was very little in the way of punishment that she could not withstand.

“I am learning about my husband. Considering he has been avoiding my presence for the majority of our marriage, this was the only option I had left.”

His jaw worked as he glared at her.

“I have been busy,” he said stiffly.

“Busy?” She winged a brow. “Running scared?”

His mouth whitened.

She lifted the letters of declines, shaking them as she opened her eyes wide, blinking so dramatically it made her dizzy. “Busy with all of the events you turned down?” She tossed them down on the desk’s surface and picked up Lord Dunmore’s letter. “With your refusal to help the plight of orphaned children?”

He stood stock still in the doorway, his only movement the flare of his nostrils.

“Explain it to me, Rupert. Lord Dunmore’s proposal seems an admirable—an incredible —cause. And his letter…it led me to believe a sense of familiarity. Possibly a friend?”

He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him.

Click.

“It is above your understanding.”

Her mouth dropped open. Pardon me? Something sharp and hot flashed through her. She snapped her mouth shut and smiled sweetly at him. As sweet as the poison coating her tongue.

She lifted her fingers to her mouth, fluttered her eyelashes, and tittered. “Please explain it to me then, all-knowing husband. Please enlighten my poor, incapable brain.”

A light flush spread across his cheekbones, and he looked away. “It is complicated. I do not disagree that it is a worthy cause, but circumstances do not allow for my support. There are many charities and foundations in need of support. Long-established, well-known institutions. There is better visibility there, more opportunity, and less risk.”

Her mouth went slack again. “Are you telling me, Rupert, that you are not joining Lord Dunmore because of your image?” she asked incredulously.

He dragged a hand over his face, stretching his eyelids down. He looked a bit deranged. Which he clearly must be if this was the way he thought. If these were the beliefs he held.

“I have discussed at length with Mother. We have determined it best for me to throw my support elsewhere.”

Ah . And now it all made sense.

She took a deep breath and spoke softly, staring hard into his warm brown eyes. “Let me ask you, Rupert. Do you ever determine what is best for you?”

A hollowness gnawed at Franny’s chest. He did whatever dear Mama said. Except when it came to Franny. Neither of them had wanted her, but the contract was inescapable. They were stuck with her and she them.

“Do you even believe any of what you wrote in that speech, Rupert?” she asked in a whisper. “Or are you just being a good boy and doing as Mummy says?”

Anger flashed in his eyes, and he advanced on her. He stopped on the other side of the desk, planting his hand on top, papers crinkling under his palms.

He leaned toward her. “I am my own man,” he growled. “That is my speech. I believe those things.”

There was too much vehemence in his tone. Who are you trying to convince, Rupert? Me? Or yourself?

He gritted his teeth. “It is like you deliberately refuse to understand, Franny. While you run around like a reckless child, heedless of propriety, blind to consequence, the rest of us were forced to grow-up— and grow-up young . Some of us don’t have the luxury of your selfish indulgence. I have responsibilities, a duty, one I was bred to fulfill. Not all of us can behave as if the world exists solely for our amusement.”

She nearly laughed, even as each word added to the leaden weight in her stomach. If only he knew. Amusement? That had never been in the vocabulary of her childhood. She shook her head and stood.

“Parliamentary Perty doth protest too much, methinks.”

His fist slammed on the desk, and she jumped. Her gaze clashed with his, his pupils swallowing his irises. “This would all be so much simpler if you could just be an obedient wife. Understand your place. Instead, you wreak havoc at every turn. Running naked on the estate. Rifling through my desk. I don’t know if I can even take you out in public without risking embarrassment.”

The breath solidified in her lungs. Choking. His words fisted inside her and tore her lungs right out. Her mind flew back to a different study. A different black gaze.

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

She stiffened, steel-coated armor falling into place as she stepped around the desk, hardening and wrapping around her as she walked up to him. He turned to face her, and she stopped mere inches from him.

“The only embarrassment in this room,” she said, her voice a whisper of disgust, “is you.”

She spun on her heel and strode from the study, slamming the door behind her.