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Rupert

Rupert gripped each end of his club and lifted it over his head, bending his arms back at the shoulder as far as he could. The tight muscles in his back protested, but he pushed back farther, shifting his arms from side to side. He brought the club down and shook out his shoulders, already feeling looser, some of the tension easing. Some of the soreness from the brawl the other night dissipating.

He placed a ball on the grass in front of him, then took a step back and stared out at the still water of the pond. The sun glinted off the surface of the water, relentless on the cloudless day. The cheerful melody of a willow warbler drifted on the light breeze. An ironic juxtaposition to the thundering storm raging inside him. He hadn’t spoken to his wife since their…dinner the prior night. He had sent her a note saying he had retrieved her broken locket and would have it repaired. But otherwise, they hadn’t crossed paths. Yet.

Rupert breathed in deep, closed his eyes, and exhaled. Seek solace in your contented haven. He opened his eyes, gaze landing on the vibrant green head of a drake lazily paddling through the pond. This was his haven. The spot he came to…to forget all of who he was, who he was demanded to be.

He rested his club against the grass and swung it back and forth, keeping his arms loose, preparing for his practice swing. He straightened his left arm and, keeping his right elbow locked to his side, brought his club back. He let it fly. Swish. The club sang as it coasted along the surface of the grass.

If he could clear his head, calm the frenzy of emotions raging inside him, then he could approach Franny. She was correct—they needed to talk. But he needed a semblance of composure or else their discussion would be a futile effort. Heated emotions and impulsive actions never served anyone. He knew this, was raised to suppress unruly emotions. But Christ, when it came to Franny, everything unraveled. He didn’t understand why. Everything with her was sharper, stronger. She shredded his control until he was left with nothing but raw feeling. She made him feel too deeply.

He rolled his shoulders and stepped up to his ball. Once again, he set his arms and brought the club back up over his shoulder. He paused for a breath, inhaling deep and sliced through the air, letting out all the anguish.

Swishhh clack .

Pleasure radiated through his arm from where the ball had made contact with the head of his club, warmth spreading up and through to his chest.

His gaze flew to the pond just in time to see his ball land directly between the two Mallards, rings rippling outward from where it had penetrated the water’s surface. There was nothing more satisfying than a perfect swing.

He could do this. He could swing away the fury, the fear, the sense of failure.

With the toe of his boot, he rolled another ball in front of him from the pile he had dumped in the grass earlier. A vision of Franny flashed in his mind, hurt plastered across her face as he’d railed at her in the hall.

Failing his wife.

His chest constricted. The danger she had faced. The thought of what could have happened. That he could have lost her forever. That she wanted to be lost to him forever…

Rupert shook his head. He lined up his club, shifted his weight, and settled into position. He brought his club back, and with a sharp swing, hit the ball. Thwack. It skated across the water, skipping along the surface.

He stretched his neck from side-to-side. No matter. He toed another ball into place. His next swing would be better.

“My lord.”

Rupert jumped at his butler’s voice. “Yes, Sanderson?”

“You requested you be informed of Her Ladyship’s whereabouts. It appears she has ordered a horse to be readied.”

Rupert’s heart rate picked up. Everything is fine. She is just going for a ride. Get a hold of yourself.

“Thank you, Sanderson. I shall make my way over there.”

Sanderson gave a clipped nod and then hesitated.

Apprehension skittered through Rupert. “Sanderson…?”

“She was dressed in breeches, my lord.”

Rupert took off at full speed.

Rupert burst into the stables and hastily scanned the center aisle. A rich chestnut with white socks stood with leads secured to the knotted alder stall walls lining the aisle. A groom was settling a saddle on the stallion’s back. Rupert clenched his teeth and strode toward the horse and groom. His gaze darted around the barn, looking for any sign of Franny.

A flash of movement drew his attention, and his gaze fell on her , jet-black hair woven in a tight plait, brown boots leading to breeches that clung to those legs that went on for days, a loose lawn shirt doing nothing to hide her femininity. He growled low and rough. It rumbled from his throat like gravel. Hooves shifted nervously in the hay behind him. Franny’s head whipped toward him, and when her gaze caught his, she stilled.

He advanced, and her eyes widened. She stumbled backward, gaze darting around the stables. He knew the minute she caught sight of the tack room. She lurched toward it, but he was only a step behind now.

He strode inside and slammed the door, the iron hardware rattling. He caught up to her, chest bumping into hers, forcing her backward until she pressed into the wall next to the saddle racks. He drew in jagged breaths, the earthy smell of beeswax polish and leather filling his senses.

“How dare you try to leave me again.”

She shook her head slightly, but he gripped her chin, stilling her. He tightened his grip, and she swallowed.

“You won’t leave me, Franny. If I have to fucking tie you up, so be it. There is nowhere— nowhere —you can go where I won’t find you.”

“I’m not leaving you, Rupert.” She stared hard into his eyes. Those fathomless green eyes. Open. Honest.

Could he believe her? The thought of her trying to leave him again… His throat worked, growing thick like tar. He struggled to swallow, incapable of words. Maybe the tar would harden there in his throat, suffocate him, and end his misery.

“Rupert,” she said softly.

But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t . His eyes burned. That familiar ball of pain, the one that was like a parasite determined to eat him from the inside out, built in his chest, in his gut. Since the beginning of their marriage, he’d been hit left and right by warring emotions, like the fists of a ruthless brawler intent on murder. And they were all barreling to the surface. Combining with the events of the past fortnight and slamming into him, knocking the breath from his lungs just like the time he’d fallen from the oak tree as a child.

Him rutting her like a beast.

Her destroyed back.

Her riding double with another man.

His angry outbursts and cutting condemnations.

Her on her knees behind the tavern.

Her leaving him.

He dropped his hand from her chin and backed away until his back hit the tack room door.

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His mind raced. What would he even say? Apologize? Rail at her? Declare his love for her? His thoughts tangled in a knot so tight he couldn’t tell one from another. Ice streaked through his entire body, his insides curling in on themselves like dying vegetation in a winter frost. The pain, the love, it was agony.

There was too much feeling roiling inside of him, clawing and tearing at his insides, determined to destroy him. The muscle in his chest hammered, too fast, too erratic. He needed to leave. Before his ribs cracked, his skin ripped apart, and every volatile emotion roared to the surface. Before he fell apart.

A tear broke free, and he angrily swiped it away. Fuck. Men did not cry . Men were strong. His insides twisted, writhed and sweat dripped down his back. But you are weak. His skin was on fire, burning him from the outside while everything froze over from within. Failure. Failure. Failure.

The storm was going to swallow him whole. He needed to escape. He needed to outrun it. God, would he ever be able to keep the torment at bay long enough to speak to her?

He tugged at the door latch.

The door didn’t budge.