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Franny

Franny slowly chewed the tender bite of partridge as she studied Rupert down the length of the dining room table. Studied the nearly black bruise that had settled under his right eye. Settled just like her guilt. And her vexation. She had been trying to speak with him all dinner. But he was proving to be quite tight-lipped. And had sent a very clear message when he’d had their places set on opposite sides of the long table.

“Did you venture outside today, Rupert? It was the most glorious day.” She sliced off a piece of the meaty heart of the artichoke on her plate. “I had a lovely walk around the pond.”

She glanced at Rupert, still staring down at his plate. Not deigning to answer her. Not deigning to look at her. She popped the artichoke in her mouth and chewed vigorously as she glared at him. Ah, she could choke the man!

All meal, he’d denied her attempts at conversation. Avoided her all day. Except for the constant check-ins by the servants where she was required to report her well-being so they could relay it back to His Lordship . Franny was happy to tell him how she was doing her bloody self. She supposed it was a good sign he’d shown up to dinner at all. She almost laughed and hastily took a sip of wine to drown her hysteria. How sad was that? A good sign her husband even showed up . This tense affair was progress. Pathetic.

If she could just get him to look at her, then she could apologize.

It wouldn’t hurt if he apologized, either.

She stabbed the last piece of partridge on her plate with her fork. What a mess they were—the self-important and the senseless. Her being the latter.

She swallowed the partridge and reached for her glass of claret. She swirled it and watched her husband. She had attempted to broach many topics of conversation. He hadn’t answered a single one. And now the servants were clearing the table and readying it for the final dessert course. Not a single word the entire meal.

I cannot do this right now.

Her heart deflated. In her rash behavior, spurred by her own hurt, she had wounded him. More than she had any idea she was capable of. But now she knew—learned in the worst way possible—that she hadn’t imagined there was something between them. Whatever she felt, he felt it, too. If she could only get him to speak to her. The question was, did she stand down and try again at their next interaction, whenever that may be, or did she start pushing the only way she knew how?

“Did you attend to any pressing business matters today?” she asked, only a hint of a barb in her voice. A slight push. Was she really supposed to hold back for an entire dinner when he was acting like an unbearable arse?

Rupert glanced at her finally, and her heart crawled up her throat at the storm in his brown eyes, at the unnamable emotions battling there. Then they died before her eyes, everything from his gaze to his features going flat.

The servants filled the endless length of the table with desserts. A beautiful spread of fresh fruits was laid near Rupert’s end of the table: deep red cherries and crimson apples nestled amongst velvety burnt-orange peaches. Raspberry tarts, a variety of biscuits, and small glass bowls filled with toppings of whipped cream and dipping sauces followed.

Absolutely delicious. And she had an appetite for none of it. The last item, a magnificent trifle in a stemmed crystal dish, was set out and then silence fell heavily over the room, the absence of clinking China and movement of servants deafening.

“I almost went for another swim today,” she said casually, picking up a shortbread biscuit. She made her decision. She’d tried being polite. Now she was going to poke. And poke and poke and poke. Until he broke. “But I couldn’t possibly disgrace you in such a way again.”

Rupert’s eyes flashed with life, lips tightening. And…he promptly looked down and served himself a piece of raspberry tart.

Argh! Where was a hard object to throw when she needed one?

She played nice, and it did nothing. And clearly, no matter what she said, he was going to ignore her. She was making zero progress acting the demure, respectable lady. Acting like Franny always seemed to get his attention. Was it really that surprising she was defiant?

Poke, poke, poke.

She stood.

His gaze flew to hers. She walked along the side of the table and stopped before the beautiful fruit display, a handful of paces from Rupert. He watched her. Warily.

As he should.

She picked up a peach and chucked it at him.

He ducked to the side, the peach whizzing by his ear. Damnation.

“Did you just throw a peach at me?” he asked, mouth agape.

She flashed a sweet smile, loving his wide-eyed shock, that handsome slack-jaw.

“Yes, my lord, I did.”

She reached for another one, but Rupert lunged forward, lying out flat against the table. He grabbed the fruit tray, dishes clattering, and pulled it out of reach. Just before her fingers landed on a piece of fruit. She quickly scanned the table and darted for the platter of biscuits, but he was too quick. Once again, her fingers met with only air.

He smiled stupidly smugly at her and leaned back in his chair, his waistcoat covered in smashed raspberry tart. He thought it was that easy?

Oh, Rupert. You poor, overconfident fool.

She grinned, a face-splitting, gleeful grin, and his smile faltered. She rucked her skirts to the knee and climbed onto the table.

His jaw practically hit the floor.

She crawled to the plate of fruit, her fingers finally closing around a plump, juicy peach. And hurled it at him. He raised his hands just in time to protect his face. But at least she’d hit him.

Franny reached for another. The tray slid in front of her—right off the side of the table, crashing to the floor. She glanced up at a glaring Rupert, standing now, leaning over the table, hands poised. Ready.

His teeth were bared, nostrils flaring. Paired with the bruise under his eye and cuts on his face, he was…magnetic. In the most mouthwatering of fashions. Her heart knocked against her ribcage as she arched a brow and started inching toward the trifle, never dropping his gaze.

He shook his head, his face slackening. “No. You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, but I would, Rupert.” She wasn’t sure there was anything she wouldn’t do when it came to this man. When it came to trying to get through to him.

She glanced at the trifle, just within reach. She reached out and grasped the stem of the glassware. A large, firm hand landed on her wrist, halting her. She slowly unwrapped each finger from the stem of the glass and pulled back her arm, but Rupert never let go of his hold.

“You will get off this table. Right. Now.” His hushed words were hard, a warning.

With his assistance, she rose to a sitting position, and he tugged her, none too gently, to the end of the table. The tension in his frame eased slightly, his grip on her wrist loosening. Poor Rupert. There was no threat that could subdue her.

Franny jutted out her chin, holding his gaze. “I don’t think I will.”

She inched the fingers of her free hand along the soft table linen until they encountered a dish. She dipped a finger in experimentally. Whipped cream. That would do.

“Franny…get off the table. Or else I will do it for you.”

She grabbed a fistful of whipped cream and shoved it in his face. He sputtered for a heartbeat. And then the room tilted, and she found herself flat against the table, arms pinned to her sides with thirteen stone of angry male atop her.

“You are impertinent!” he yelled, his face hovering above hers, a glob of whipped cream dripping down his jaw.

She lifted her chin mulishly. “And you are insufferable!”

“Well, you are impudent!”

“That basically means the same thing, Rupert! You can’t use synonyms when insulting someone.”

“Is that so?” He glared at her. “Well, you’re insolent !”

“Ahhh!” The exasperating oaf!

She thrashed wildly, but there was no hope for it with her arms restrained against the table, with the heavy weight of him straddled over her.

Franny turned her head from side to side and her gaze caught on the plate of cherry souffles, fresh cherries decorating the platter. She extended as far as her neck would allow and managed to grab a cherry with her teeth.

His eyes stretched wide. “What on earth—”

She spat the cherry straight in his face.