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Franny

Franny watched as Rupert pulled frantically at the tack room door, throwing his entire body into it, the muscles of his back flexing through the thin, straining fabric of his lawn shirt. The door wouldn’t budge. She sent up a silent prayer of thanks to whatever being was watching over them. Because they desperately needed this.

She slowly approached him. She hadn’t missed the tear sliding down his face. His back expanded wide with each ragged breath. And a horrible realization dawned on her. Before her marriage, she had been her father’s prisoner. This marriage was her chance to escape. But Rupert? He was his own prisoner. Her heart withered in her chest as she watched her husband war with himself, battling to break free. To run from his oppressor. Himself.

She glanced at his clenched fists, up to his bare corded forearms, dark hair dusting the lightly tanned skin, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. No coat. No waistcoat. She chewed her lip, unsure what that might mean. She’d never seen Rupert so…simply attired.

Franny settled her hand on his forearm, and the heat of his skin shot up her arm. He whipped around, his black gaze latching onto hers, his nostrils flaring violently. She hesitantly lifted her hands to his face, knowing the panic, the fear, even the rage, coursing through him, had him seconds from snapping. It was his pattern.

In gentle, measured movements, she rested the tips of her fingers on either side of his face, her thumbs settling by his chin, stroking tenderly, methodically. She traced the dark black and purple bruise that had formed under his right eye with her gaze. A bruise she was responsible for. A reminder of why he didn’t trust her. A hollow weight settled in the pit of her stomach.

“Rupert,” she whispered. “Focus on me. I’m here.” She gripped his face tighter. “I am not going anywhere. I truly was only going for a ride.”

“But you’re wearing breeches.”

She smiled at the hint of a whine in his voice, the hint of the small boy he used to be, the hint that he was still so very young and trying to be a man far more seasoned than his one-and-twenty years.

“Yes, because I’m me. Do you truly think I would ride anything but astride?”

The muscles in his face eased, softening beneath her touch.

She took a steadying breath and admitted the truth of her ride today. She wanted nothing but honesty between them, she wanted communication and trust and—if she dared to hope—acceptance.

“I was going to ride down to the tenant farms.”

He instantly stiffened, his face marbleized.

“To check on preparations for the festival, nothing more. I am not going to avoid our people, Rupert. I am going to interact and talk and laugh with them. I hope one day you see that there is no shame in that.”

He opened his mouth, the dangerous flicker in his eyes glowing bright. But she cut him off.

“I will be more mindful of my actions going forward,” she said softly. “I won’t ride double with another man. I understand now how that appeared.”

A wave of pain rippled across his features. She hadn’t realized she had the ability to hurt him in that way. She hadn’t thought he’d care.

When exactly did you ever think about him, Franny? When did you ever think about how your actions affected anyone other than yourself?

Self-disgust burned in her belly. How utterly selfish she had been.

“Please believe me when I tell you, Rupert, I want no other man but you. I went down there that day because I needed a distraction from the pain of knowing I will always be a nuisance, an impediment. To you.”

She was proud that her words did not break nor quiver, even though inside she was trembling. She forced her protesting lips to curve and attempted a teasing tone. “Even if that distraction was as shameful as repairing a fence.”

Loud knocking filled the room.

“My lady, my lord, is everything well? I heard a commotion and the door shaking.” Sanderson’s stifled voice drifted through the door.

“It appears the door is stuck, Sanderson,” Rupert called, his voice even and commanding, not showing a hint of his upset. Ever the Marquess.

The latch wiggled, then something thudded against the door, and then silence. “It does indeed appear jammed, my lord. We will address it immediately.”

Franny had never been so glad to be locked in a room. She gently brought his face back to look at her. She stared into his eyes, the fire in them slowly dying. She infused as much sincerity as she could into her own, praying that he could see the truth in her eyes. “I’m not leaving you, Rupert. I promise.”

The spark dissolved from his eyes, replaced by a look so lost her heart splintered. “But you were going to. Because I’m a beast to you. I am a monster when it comes to you.”

She shook her head, but he continued.

“I pushed you to such lengths you put your life at risk. I pushed you to the point you left me .”

His body quaked under her fingers, and she was afraid he would truly break this time. Not snap and lose control. But splinter, shatter, disintegrate. She had to hold him together. She would.

“I am so angry, Franny,” he said hoarsely, his voice shaking as much as his body. “At you. At myself—” His brown eyes welled, the soft light streaking through the window glimmering over them like the sun’s rays on the pond outside. “I am so confused.”

Her heart hurt for him, for them. A tremendous, clenching ache settled in her chest, enveloping the damaged and neglected muscle that resided there. She slowly lowered her hands from his face and took his hand in both of hers and tugged until he followed her.

“Why don’t we do something different for a change?” she murmured. “Why don’t we sit down and talk while we wait for someone to get us out of here?”

She sat against the back wall and gave him an encouraging pull. He slid down the wall and settled next to her. She drew up her knees and rested her arms atop them, twisting her fingers as nerves danced under her skin. Time for them to talk. To hash this out.

“You may have been behind my rash decisions,” she said into the silence. “But they were that, Rupert. Rash. And completely and utterly daft.” She looked at him and caught him staring at her. She could lose herself in those warm brown pools. “I shouldn’t have left you,” she whispered. She hadn’t truly wanted to.

“Then why…?” His mouth moved to form more words, but that was all that surfaced.

She looked away, like the fleeing coward that she was. “This marriage was my only hope for a new life. One where I wasn’t invisible, not a disappointment, not a burden.” Her fists tightened on her knees just like her stomach did inside her, but she forced herself to say the terrifying words. “It hurt too much to face a future so similar to the life I lived before. I couldn’t bear that same treatment from you. Not when you mean something to me.”

“God, Franny—” His voice broke, and she glanced at him. “I am so sorry. That I made you feel that way. That I was the cause…”

She bobbed her shoulder and forced her quivering lips into a weak smile. “I still should have never left. You were right when you railed at me the other night. I don’t think before I act, and in doing so, I put myself in a horrible situation.”

He scooted closer to her, their faces only inches apart.

“I don’t think it has ever mattered to me before,” she whispered.

He gently gripped her chin, the touch jarring in its contrast to his harsh hold from earlier. His thumb coasted over her bottom lip, and he searched her eyes. “Whatever do you mean?”

“No one has ever…” Her gaze darted away. But it shot back to him when he gave her chin a gentle squeeze. She swallowed hard. “No one has ever cared what happens to me, Rupert. My only value was what I was able to gain through our marriage contract. Living a life like that…” She lifted one shoulder and let it drop, limp, tired, defeated. And she finally admitted aloud the dark truth that she even kept from herself most days. “You eventually stop caring what the consequences of your actions are. No matter how dire.” Because sometimes, those dire consequences seemed more appealing than the current life she lived.

“Franny.” Rupert’s hoarse whisper echoed through the room, his brows and forehead a corrugation of despair.

They sat like that, eyes locked, something unspoken hovering between them, something that felt a lot like farewell. Farewell to who they had been and a dawning of who they truly were for the first time: the real Rupert, the real Franny.

“Has he ever—did he hurt you?” he finally whispered into the quiet.

Her lips curved up, though the moment called for anything but a smile. It struck her as ironic how when something was so sad, so tragic, it ended up being almost laughable. “In many, many ways.”

His hand drifted up over her jaw and tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. He focused on her ear, brows plastered together, like her ear had said something offensive. “Physically?” The word seemed torn from him, like he didn’t truly want to know the answer.

“Yes—”

His gaze snapped to hers, turbulent brown seas.

“It was not so bad, Rupert. Truly.” She tried to comfort him, bring him back before he got lost in his own storm. “Mainly bruises from too-hard grips. If I had done something particularly disobedient, the back of his hand. Honestly, the neglect and indifference, the absence of affection, the things he took away from me, things I loved and cared about—that all hurt much, much worse.”

He leaned his forehead against hers, and she let out the last of the pain her father had caused her. “He didn’t ever care for me, Rupert. He always made that clear. The night before our wedding, he told me he wished I had died alongside my mother. When he said it, I realized that was what I felt radiating from him all those years—every look and every word bled with his antipathy for me. So, I am reckless. I don’t think—nor care—for the consequences that will befall me. And with that, I haven’t taken into consideration how my actions affect you.”

He pulled back and stared at her with those stormy brown irises. But what was brewing there was no longer rage, it was resolve, it was passion.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

He shook his head jerkily. “You cannot even begin to understand what it would do to me if something happened to you, Franny.”

Something warm and thrumming sprouted in her chest. It was small, easily fizzled out, but building. It felt like hope. And it felt petrifying.

“I know I have done very little to convince you of that fact,” he said, leaning into her, his cheek grazing against hers as he buried his nose in her hair. “But you have always been important to me. I have always been drawn to you. As a matter of fact, it has always been quite exasperating, the pull you have on me.”

She let out a small huff. She could imagine it would be—Perfect Perty being drawn to Fault-filled Franny.

His voice dropped, barely a whisper against her ear. “You’ve haunted my dreams for the longest time, Franny. Only you, always you. I fear the secret obsession I harbor for you. The way I want you…it terrifies me. Makes me feel like a madman.”

Whatever was growing in her chest sprouted leaves, blooms, basking in the warmth of his words.

He pulled back, his brows pinched in earnest. “So, please, avoid putting yourself in harm’s way. And I will try to avoid being such a dreadful bloody cad.”

Her lips curved, this time without protest, and a soft chuckle burst from her lips. “You are not so very dreadful… all the time.”

“Am I not?” He attempted a smile, but it was a truly pitiful effort.

He dropped his stare to his lap, and his hand fell away. Her heart constricted at the hesitancy in his tone, the despondency in the sag of his shoulders. She caught his hand and brought it back to cup her face, closing her eyes at the feel of his strength, warmth, solidity against her skin.

She opened her eyes and interjected as much teasing as she could muster in her voice. “I’ll admit, Perfect Perty is not nearly as perfect as he thinks he is.” She glanced down at his lips and back at his eyes. “But he is not without redeemable qualities.”

“We are quite the mess, aren’t we?” he murmured, staring straight into her eyes, taking a hold of her.

They were. But if she loved him now, if he possibly did in return, while they were at their worst—she could only imagine what they could become at their best.

His lips brushed over hers, and with that light touch, her thoughts melted away. His thumb slid gently over her cheekbone, caressing, and then she found herself gathered up and placed in his lap. His kisses continued leisurely, each of them sipping from the other. His hands mimicking his lips, coasting up her ribs notch by notch.

Franny reveled in it. She loved the wild side of Rupert, but this tender side of him… Dear Lord, if a heart could swell to exploding, hers was on the verge.

She clung to him, running her hands over the thin linen of his shirt, her hands uncovering every hidden part of him. Firm chest. Strong, thick collarbone. Rounded, solid shoulders. A confused, passionate heart. She had never had the chance to take her time and explore her husband. To discover.

Farther up she drifted, tracing the corded muscles of his neck, then finally delving into that soft chocolate brown hair. She tangled her fingers in those curls. Wouldn’t it be lovely to be so tangled up in him, she could never be freed?

Rupert broke away from her, rubbing the tip of his nose over hers, then placed a soft kiss there. The feeling in her chest grew. Whatever they had here was fragile—brimming with possibility—but fragile.

He leaned back until their gazes held and her hands fell away. He stared at her, everything from the set of his brow to the firmness of his jaw declaring the seriousness of what he was about to say.

“I always want you to be unapologetically you, Franny. Your uniqueness is what makes you brilliant, captivating…irresistible.” A sheepish grin spread over his face, bunching one cheek, and he looked so boyishly handsome. “I’ve always secretly been quite jealous of you.” His grin faded, and her heart reached out, grasping for it back. “Sometimes I fear I lash out at you out of jealousy. That is a mark of a weak man. Just know you don’t need to fit into someone else’s mold. No matter what the world says. No matter what I say. If I ever say anything otherwise, you know I’m being a priggish toad.”

A soft snort escaped her, and though her lips curled up in a smile, a burn built behind her eyes, a sharp sting in her nose. Serious, reflective, yet he poked fun. And she was proud of him for that small piece of levity. Something he would never have lowered himself to before they married. Priggish Perty was changing.

“I’m going to be better for you, Franny. I swear it.”

“And I you, Rupert. It’s awfully selfish of me to say damn the consequences of my actions, not give a thought to scandal and how that affects you. My husband. We are supposed to be a team. I should have considered the impact on you. And I do. Care about that. Even if I made it seem otherwise…”

The right side of his mouth curved up. “We are not very good at this marriage business, are we?”

She brushed a forelock of curls off his forehead. “No. Truly, we’re horrible at it. But we’ll figure it out.” Her gaze flitted to his. Won’t we?

He nodded, and her heart twirled in her chest. She fidgeted with his hair longer than necessary, but she couldn’t stop touching him, needing any part of her to be touching any part of him, always.

“The blasted curls,” he grumbled. “I have always hated them. I can never seem to get them to behave.”

Her lips split into a grin. “I believe that is why I love them so. The one part of you that you could never tame.”

His face softened, the corners of his eyes crinkling lightly. He picked up her hand and pressed it against his heart. “I suppose that makes two untamable parts of me now,” he said softly.

“Two parts…?”

“You.”

Oh.

She launched herself at him, her mouth crashing down on his. It was quick and hard and carried the force of all the hopeful emotions swirling around inside her. He chuckled against her attack, his arms coming around her and securing her just as tightly to him. Like he felt the same desperate urge she did to be as close as possible. As close to each other as possible.

Franny finally pulled away, and his mouth chased hers. She pressed a finger to his lips and rolled hers inward to prevent a grin. “You know, you don’t always have to be that way.”

His brows squished together. “Pardon?”

“Tamed. Strait-laced. Never toeing your boot over the line of propriety and convention. You can have fun. You can misbehave . You can be whoever you want to be, Rupert. Unapologetically you .”

He gave a hollow chuckle. “If only it were that simple.”

“It’s never that simple,” she agreed. “But what is the alternative? To live someone else’s life? That is no sort of solution.” Come on, Rupert. Come out from under your mother’s thumb. “There is such thing as moderation— balance .”

He stared over her shoulder, unspeaking. Gone. Somewhere deep inside himself.

“Just know that man is always welcome with me.” She ran her finger over where his shirt came together at his collarbone, tracing the buttons. Her finger vibrated as a low, thoughtful, “mmm” fled him. Will you be brave enough to be yourself with me?

She traced his furrowed brow with the pad of her finger, and his gaze flicked back to hers. A soft smile played at her lips. “You know… I think it is kind of perfect.”

He cocked his head, curiosity flaring in his eyes.

“Us.” She bit her lip and couldn’t resist bouncing her eyebrows. “Blend my madcap ways with your unwavering manners, and maybe—just maybe—we’ll find the best of both worlds.”

He grinned. “You might be on to something.” His features softened. “Wife.” And the amount of affection in that one word had her heart melting into a puddle on the tack room floor.

“Speaking of you being Mr. Manners…” she said. “Why are you in nothing but a lawn shirt, sleeves rolled up to your elbows? I nearly fainted in shock at the sight,” she teased. She fingered his collar, the backs of her fingers skimming over his throat. “I do hope this becomes a habit.”

A cheeky glint lit in his eye. “I was by the pond golfing. Wearing a coat does not lend itself to swinging a club. I prefer fewer restrictions, so I typically partake in just my lawn shirt.”

She straightened, bouncing slightly in his lap.

“You were golfing? How fascinating! You had said you would teach me, and I’d love to see what it’s like. Would you show me now? Would I be able to try? Would I?”

He laughed, a rare dimple popping in his right cheek. “I would, but in case you’ve forgotten, we are stuck in a tack room.”

She rolled her eyes. “Do you truly believe a locked door could ever stop me? Fate threw us a bone, and I took advantage.” She glanced over at the window above the tack room worktable. She looked back at Rupert and arched a saucy brow.

He grinned, shaking his head, disheveled curls flopping in exasperation at her. “Shall we make our escape?”

Warmth danced against her breastbone, around her heart, and she returned her husband’s grin. Perhaps there was hope that Pompous Perty would be able to shed his strait-laced skin.