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Rupert

A low hiss escaped between Rupert’s teeth as he lowered himself into the bath. Steam rose from the surface of the piping hot water, and he groaned, settling back against the wall of the copper tub, water sloshing up to his neck. His skin prickled, the sensation slowly fading as his skin acclimated to the extreme heat of the water.

The strong scent of juniper and cypress filled the misted bathing chamber, and he drew in a lungful, the air crisp in his chest. His aching muscles eased, and he sighed. He dropped his head back, eyes sliding shut. His muscles may have relaxed, but his mind was anything but.

She wanted to leave him.

Pain wrapped itself around his heart like a snake, slowly squeezing. The knowledge he’d driven her to such despair cut off his blood supply. What kind of man had he become? He had always prided himself on his adherence to propriety, always acting the perfect gentleman. But he wasn’t. Not truly. Franny had the right of it. His lips curled back. Pompous. Pretentious.

No wonder he barely had any friends. No wonder none of the other boys at Harrow had wanted anything to do with him. Because he was always acting as if he was somehow better, knew better, than everyone else. The only two who put up with him were Derek and Rafe because they were immune to Rupert’s pomposity, too dark and arrogant themselves to take offense. That was the kind of man he had become. An arrogant bastard.

Bastard.

She was a bastard. And because of how he treated her, how he had always treated her, since the day they first met as children, she thought that fact mattered to him. His gut twisted, and he grimaced. She was right. In a sense. If it had been anyone other than her, if he had found out another in society had that black mark on themselves, he would have cut off association. Priggish Perty could never lower himself to be seen with an outcast. God forbid it blemish his perfect societal image.

If he had found out before the marriage… Would he have broken off the betrothal like she’d said?

Yes .

His throat closed in on itself.

He hated himself.

He dropped below the surface, the weight of the water, of his self-hatred, closing in over his skin, heavier the farther down he slid. Soul-crushing. The cuts on his face stung under the heat of the bath. He reveled in that sting. His lungs strained for air, but he pushed them to their limits. He didn’t deserve the air. Not the air she breathed.

He burst out of the water, droplets flying, waves splashing over the dark copper sides of the tub. His ribs lurched, his lungs gulping in oxygen. He couldn’t be this man anymore. He didn’t want to be this man anymore.

Beads of water dripped down his face, into his eyes. He drew his knees up and rested his elbows atop them, cradling his head in his hands. What did he want? To unbecome everything he was. He fisted his skull, fingertips digging into his scalp, squeezing. And become everything she wanted—everything she needed. He didn’t even bloody know what that was. Let alone where to begin.

Maybe he should write to Derek. A weighted breath exploded from him, the sound echoing harshly through the bathing chamber. At least Derek would have some advice on warming up to Franny. Yes, he would start there. And in the meantime, he would do his best to push past the pain of this night. So that they could try to move forward.

Rupert reached for a cloth on the stool next to the tub and dipped it in the water. He scrunched it in his fist, clenching tightly, tracking the water as it flowed over his knuckles. His eyes burned and blurred. How was he—were they—to get past this?

She wanted to leave him.

He rubbed the washcloth over his face and pain radiated through his cheek. And with it, the events of the night. The man standing in front of Franny. Franny’s neck wrenched back. Arms secured behind her back. His wife in danger. And if he hadn’t gotten there when he did? His fist tightened over the cloth. Assaulted. Beaten. Raped. Dead? Because she wanted to leave him. A week and a half into their marriage. And she wanted to leave him.

His hands reached out—desperate for anything to hold on to, to keep him from being pulled under by it all. A roar ripped from his throat. Rough wood slid beneath his fingertips. A deafening crash.

Nostrils flaring, he stared at his fragmented reflection in the full-length looking glass opposite him. Cracked. Shattered.

And atop the broken shards: the stool—and his heart.