21

Rupert

Twigs snapped under Rupert’s boots as he hastily made his way through the dark forest. A cacophony of chirping and buzzing insects filled the night air. And people said the country was peaceful and quiet compared to London? The nearly full moon gleamed through the trees’ leaves, partially lighting Rupert’s way. Though he didn’t need any light. He knew this walk blindfolded. And he knew she’d be there.

Hoped.

He had to speak with her. After their quarrel in his study…

His eyes closed for a breath, and the cutting words he’d thrown at her came flooding back. Filling his throat and slicing like sharp shards of glass. He needed to apologize. That appeared to be the mantra of his marriage. An owl’s hoot echoed hauntingly from the shadowy canopies above.

Franny knew how to find those raw parts of him, expose them, and she didn’t just hit them. She twisted and squeezed and cut them open. She brought out every dark and ugly part of him. He had never lashed out in anger before, slamming his fist like a barbarian, raising his voice as if he were lowborn. But she had found a nerve in that study, one he feared had everything to do with the unsettled feeling that had fallen over him lately. The distant, deep croak of toads filtered into the forest from the pond. She was wrong, clearly confused.

He was his own man.

He pressed his fingertips into his face, dragging them down in a slow pull that was at odds with the quick crunch of his boots in the underbrush. When he had walked into her room to find it empty, bed linens still perfectly arranged, panic had gripped him. But only for a moment. It had hit him almost immediately—where she’d be. He picked up his pace. Hoped she’d be. Ice flowed through his veins, panic rearing its ugly head again. She wouldn’t have left him. It was just…one never knew how far Franny would go.

He stepped out into the clearing, the telltale sound of the katydids’ repetitive calls louder here in the grassy meadow.

And there she was.

Beneath a midnight sky peppered with stars.

Grateful for the light of the moon now, he strode toward the ruins. He could just make out her white night rail clad figure through the perfectly preserved archway that stood on its own, the rest of the castle long gone. Various dilapidated walls remained, nothing more than a discordant heap of stones in most cases, except for one cylindrical tower largely intact.

He paused at the archway. Franny walked aimlessly through the ruins, dragging her hands across the smooth stone worn down by centuries of rain. The moonlight danced over her, her sable waves glinting, her pale skin appearing nearly white.

And here he was, a voyeur to her nighttime interlude.

Not for the first time.

She tilted her head back, face proffered to the heavens. His heart joined forces with his lungs and stole his breath. Not even the heavens were worthy of her, of her wild spirit, of her beauty. And where did that leave him? So far beneath her that he would never be able to climb high enough. High enough to reach her feet and beg for forgiveness.

She stretched her arms wide and slowly twirled in a circle. When she spun around to face his direction again, it was a young girl’s face that greeted him. The same pert nose, the same wild black waves, but with the apple-cheeks of youth. How many times had she snuck here in the middle of the night as a child? He had lost count of the number of instances he’d stumbled upon her. The number of instances he hadn’t. And the ensuing disappointment.

“Fancy seeing you here, my lord.”

He jumped, so lost in thought, he hadn’t realized she had seen him. He opened his mouth—but then frowned. She was facing away from him…

“It has been some time since we last spoke,” Franny said warmly.

What on earth? He scanned the ruins. Was she meeting a lover? A fire lit low in his stomach, quick and fast, fueled by the driest kindling. He clenched his hands into fists. The man was not long for this life.

“A promenade sounds lovely.” She wrapped her hand around the air next to her, took hold of an invisible arm, and proceeded to slowly move about the ruins.

The fire inside him subsided. She was…imagining a suitor? A lover? The indistinct murmur of her words floated to him, and though he couldn’t make out what she said, it was clear by the warmth of her smile, the softness of her movements, she was happy. Happier with this conjured suitor than with him. He dropped his gaze to the ground, his heart thumping painfully in his chest. The fire was completely doused now.

Her soft laugh reached him, and he glanced up.

“A dance sounds lovely, my lord.”

She lowered into a curtsy, holding the thin skirts of her nightdress out in each hand. She began gracefully gliding around the ruins, and if the placement of her arms were any indication, Rupert would wager she was dancing a waltz. His lips twitched. Of course, Franny would be scandalous even in her dreams. His mother was always droning on and on about the vulgar dance. He leaned against the archway, consumed by the sight of his wife. She hummed a tune, the soft haunting melody, barely audible over the noises of the night. There was nothing vulgar about what he was witnessing. It was beautiful. Poetic.

It struck him, watching her twirling about with her nameless suitor, that she had never danced at a ball. Never attended one. Never been granted the opportunity by her father. It was no secret the Earl was a horrible man. What must it have been like to be raised by such a man? And now she was stuck with Rupert. Handed from one cruel man to the next. Was he as bad? As cruel? He was pathetically weak. Because he didn’t want to know the answer.

He swallowed hard. She had never been allowed a say in her life, never allowed the simple pleasures all young women dream of. Dances, courting, flowers, discreet looks behind fans. Instead, she had been forced to marry him, and instead of flowers, he had gifted her a litany of scoldings and restrictions. He hadn’t given her a wedding gift. Instead, he had given her insults and injuries.

She threw her head back and laughed, moonlight shimmering over the porcelain curve of her neck. His mouth watered, and his body lurched in her direction, overwhelming need pulsing through him. His arm shot out, hand gripping the archway, his body vibrating under the force of his cracking restraint. Cracking like the stone under his palm. All he could hear through the blood rushing in his ears was mine, mine, mine . He was a fool to believe she was truly his, even if the law said it was so. He was a fool to believe he was worthy of her.

Franny slowed to a stop and curtsied. She lifted a hand to her fantasy suitor. And bloody hell, Rupert found himself envious of the imaginary gentleman who had the privilege of kissing his wife’s hand. A gentleman. A true gentle man.

A gentleman is always in full possession of his faculties, adhering to life’s guiding principles. Without such principles, vulgar passions take root; life veers into disorder.

A coldness washed over him and seeped into his skin with creeping slowness. At the truth in his mother’s words. Rupert was coming to see he was incapable of being a gentleman around his wife. When he wasn’t cutting her down with his words, he was attacking her like an animal. Their last conversation—if it could even be called that—had made one thing painfully clear: his wife had a very low opinion of him.

Wanted nothing to do with him.

He didn’t blame her.

Rupert might not be able to be the husband she’d dreamed of, but he would do what he could to make her happy, give her some of the things she hadn’t been granted in her past circumstances. At least in that, he wouldn’t fail her.

He’d always known this marriage was merely contractual. He would do well to remember that. Something deep inside protested, but he silenced it.

He backed out of the archway, stare never leaving her person. She twisted lightly back and forth, skirts dancing about her ankles. His gaze shot to her feet, her bare feet, where she danced about on tiptoes. A woodland nymph. Nothing more than a dream. Ironic that she was flesh and blood, yet still a fantasy.

Always a fantasy.

He turned and disappeared back into the woods.