Page 22

22

Rupert

Rupert flipped open the family Bible and turned to the most recent family record page. He could practically hear his mother’s anguished cries as he scrawled Franny’s name below his. Francine Emmaline Winthrop. His wife.

The muscles in his face tightened as a wave of emotion rolled over him. Emotion he couldn’t quite define. It was a sort of aching happiness. Because his marriage wasn’t going the least bit well—Lord, that was putting it lightly. But even though they struggled, seeing her name below his…he wouldn’t want it to be anyone else’s.

He wished he could figure out what the secret was. To finding a common ground. Where he wasn’t devolving into a brute. Where Franny behaved, understood why it was so important to not purposely defy propriety. He let out a dry, sardonic laugh and started flicking through the marriage settlement on his desk. Of all the things he’d expected in regard to enforcing propriety, ensuring his marchioness actually wore clothes hadn’t been one of them.

An efficient knock sounded on his door and his gaze found his housekeeper’s. Mrs. Higgens dipped a curtsy. “You called for me, my lord?”

“Yes. I need an order placed at the village dressmaker. Can you please work with Lady Rutledge’s lady’s maid and have some dresses made for my wife?”

“Of course, my lord. Do you or Her Ladyship have any specific requests?”

“First, please be discreet. I would…ah, prefer if Lady Rutledge isn’t aware of this.”

His housekeeper’s features softened, and though her lips didn’t smile, her blue eyes did. He hadn’t seen her look at him like that since he was a boy. Affection. Approval. He used to seek it out when he was younger, seeking warmth, validation. But his mother had swiftly reminded him of his place. Servants were there to serve. After all, what would it say about him as a Marquess, as a man, if he sought affection or approval from them? The only attention that mattered was Father’s and Mother’s.

He cleared his throat. “A few day dresses should suffice for now. Something colorful, patterned.” He couldn’t imagine Franny in anything but bold colors. Vibrant. “And one slightly more elegant. For the Rutledge family portrait painting.” He glanced back at the marriage settlement, running his finger down, searching for Franny’s birthdate. “Something in a deep green, I think…”

He stilled. Staring at the date beneath his finger. Three days prior. Her birthday had been three days prior. And he’d missed it. Hadn’t gotten her anything.

Not just that, you bloody arse. It was the same day you left.

He dropped his head in his hands. Fuck.

“Is something amiss, my lord?” Mrs. Higgens’s voice pierced through his self-loathing.

He scrubbed his hands down his face and forced a smile. “No, everything is well. That will be all.”

She turned to leave, and an idea struck. “Actually—”

She spun back around, standing at attention.

“Is Mr. Lennox still in business?”

Mrs. Higgens’s eyes widened before she quickly composed herself. “I can look into it.”

“Excellent. I want a field spaniel puppy from his next litter.” Franny had always had one trotting after her when they were young children.

Rupert quickly jotted down Franny’s birthdate and then stood. He had one other thing he needed to do, and then he needed to go see his wife.