Page 34

34

Rupert

Rupert glanced up from his correspondence and discreetly studied his wife. The last time he’d looked her way—which could only have been a mere minute or two ago—she had been in front of the hearth, exploring the ornate carvings and embellishments of the marble mantel. Now she was on the opposite side of his study, trailing her fingers over the spines of the books filling the floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases covering the entirety of the wall.

His lips twitched. She hadn’t stopped moving since he sat down behind his desk. The swish of her lavender skirts, the light pad of her slippers, and her occasional hum should have grated—would have grated before. But instead, he found he quite liked the soft noises that signaled her presence. Craved it. Required it.

The unsettled feeling that had been bothering him lately, the heaviness, the tension…was gone. He resumed sifting through his correspondence. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe it was unrelated to what had transpired in the tack room a few days earlier. Something had changed that day. He glanced at his wife again. For the better.

Franny had called him out after their turbulent collision in the dining room. That he couldn’t always run away when they had an argument, when things became tough. The problem wasn’t that he wanted to run—he was raised to handle conflict, to debate with tempers flaring, and emotions running high, as was often the case with politics.

The problem was, for some reason with Franny, it wasn’t just his emotions that got the best of him; it was his body, his mind . It was part of the reason he feared he was going mad.

The way his heart raced, his mind contorted until rational thought evaded him, his chest seized like it was moments from cracking open from the violent storm inside him. He truly believed in those moments he might die unless he outran whatever force was trying to crush him. But his ability to run was taken from him in the tack room.

And he didn’t die.

That suffocating, choking force didn’t kill him.

He survived.

Because of Franny.

Odd that she was the reason he lost control, yet she was the only one who could bring him back once the panic overtook him. And she didn’t once judge him for it. No disdain. No reprimand. Just acceptance and support, faults and all. Faults—something he’d been taught to eliminate, never to accept.

But what a bloody fucking relief it was.

Rupert paused at a sealed letter from Derek. He grabbed his letter opener and went to slice through the letter when a pair of hands settled on his shoulders, delicate fingers spreading wide over the muscles there, muscles that immediately stiffened. The clatter of his opener across his desk echoed in the room. Small hands drifted lazily up and down his arms. His blood hummed, his heart—and other things—kicked up.

Breathe in, breathe out, Rupert.

There was one thing that hadn’t been addressed since the tack room. And that was Rupert’s inability to be gentle with his wife. He refused to bed her again until he found a way to temper his desires. After he learned of her father’s abuse? God, he was just as bad. Bruises from too-tight grips, she’d said. Like the ones he’d left on her.

Her small hands kneaded his taut shoulders, digging into the meat of his back. He wanted to melt into it. Give in to it. He knew Franny had enjoyed what they’d shared so far. Well, perhaps besides their wedding night—he grimaced—he’d quite literally rutted her like an angry bull. But there was no denying her enthusiastic participation, her body’s response, and the beautiful sounds she made. God, she was a dream. His fantasy.

But there were still parts of his fantasy she hadn’t truly witnessed yet. The parts that scared even him. You can be unapologetically you, Rupert . What would she say if he told her the truth? Of what he really wanted?

“How fairs your correspondence?”

Her soft words skimmed over his ear, and his eyes slid shut. She was leaning close to him. Too close. He knew because the heat of her was seeping into him. He inhaled slowly, methodically.

Mistake.

Lemon. Grass. Earth. Wild.

He nearly groaned. She made it impossible to stay in control. How did she manage to make a sentence with correspondence in it sound enticing? She might as well have said she was desperate for his cock with how eagerly it was jumping against the fall of his breeches in her direction.

He cleared his throat. “It is not the most riveting of tasks, but it must be done. Though…your touch is distracting. If you wouldn’t mind removing your hands from my person while I finish this up?” he said tightly.

Her hands disappeared in a flash. Rupert, you imbecile. He turned, catching her hand in his. Her back was ramrod straight, the stiffness extending all the way down her arm.

“I apologize for my curtness, Franny. I—”

She pulled her hand from his grasp and waved it dismissively, a strained smile curving her lips.

“It is quite all right.” Her expression cleared, her eyes brightening. “Oh! Is that a letter from Lord Dunmore? Is it regarding the foundling home?”

Rupert chuckled. How she could jump from one thing to the next in a blink… Lord, it was endearing. He sliced open the letter.

“I imagine something of the sort.”

His words faded away as he recalled his last letter to Derek. About Franny. Asking for advice on winning her back. Heat slapped his cheeks. He held the letter far in front of him like it was plague ridden.

Franny walked around the desk and plopped into the chair on the other side. She settled her elbows on the table and leaned forward, resting her chin in her hands. Stared at him. Waggled her brows.

“Well, read it, then. Don’t just sit there.”

Rupert swallowed and carefully opened the letter. He kept his face expressionless, but a litany of curses ran through his brain the further and further he read. His friend listed numerous ways Rupert could ingratiate himself with his lady. All of which were scandalous. Some of which were quite detailed. Every single one utterly tempting. But none of which Rupert trusted himself to try with Franny. Not if he wanted to avoid devolving into a brute.

Bloody hell. He had wanted help with wooing his wife. And instead, he’d received a list of licentious activities. He could just picture Rafe hovering over Derek’s shoulder, laughing uproariously as the man composed the letter. Rupert was destined for torment the next time he saw his friends.

And these things—he tugged at his cravat, struggled to keep his breath even—these things only fed into his darker desires. Tie her up? God, yes. Slap her c— what? His eyes shot wide. Good Lord. People did that? His cock throbbed. Apparently, parts of him liked that idea. A lot. Why couldn’t he just want to have regular sex with his wife?

“Rupert…are you quite well? Your face is turning an alarming shade of red. Has Lord Dunmore written something to offend you?”

He hastily folded the letter. “Yes,” he said, his voice an octave higher than usual. “It was merely about the foundling home again.”

She frowned. “He has offended you? About the foundling home?”

“Er, no. I meant it was concerning the foundling home again.”

“Well, have you reconsidered?” she prodded. “Ignoring what anyone else thinks, what would you want to do, Rupert?”

He blew out a breath, his heartbeat settling at the welcome distraction. “Frankly, I love the idea. While not all in the same manner, the three of us essentially grew up without fathers. Rafe and Derek without mothers as well. But we all had the privilege of noble birth and the security that came with that. I would very much like to provide that security for the parentless children who have none.”

Franny’s pinched brows relaxed, a soft smile spreading across her face. “I believe it merits a conversation with Lord Dunmore then. I am sure your mother will come around when she sees the great work you are doing.”

Rupert huffed, fiddling with the folded letter in his hands. “I highly doubt that. She’ll have a fit of the vapers if I tell her I will be partnering with Lord Dunmore and Ironcrest on anything. I can hear her now, waxing on about the damage it will do to my reputation and parliamentary ambitions.”

Franny stared at him for a long while, the only sound the soft ticking of the ornamental clock on the mantel.

“Do you not think,” she began slowly, “that your reputation could weather such an association…better than a child without a home on the streets of London?”

Rupert sat back and gazed into those earnest green eyes. At the brilliant, thoughtful—and yes, reckless—woman who sat across from him. And he had no words. Because when she reduced it to its simplest form, the choice was unmistakably clear. And the fact that he had not been able to come to that realization on his own… Well, it showed just how lost he truly was, just how misguided his beliefs were.

“Rupert?”

“I am ashamed, Franny,” he said quietly. “Of the fact that I hesitated at all in making this decision. But not only that…I believe I am ashamed of the man I have become.”

Her petal-soft palm settled over his hands, and she pulled one free, bringing it before her mouth. She pressed gentle kisses across his knuckles, and damn him if he didn’t find it erotic as hell.

He was hopeless when it came to her.

She smiled over his knuckles, and the look she sent him had his heart slamming into his chest.

He was hopelessly in love with her.

“I believe it may be a tad melodramatic to say such a thing at a mere one-and-twenty. What a sad life it would be to think you could not change in any capacity for the rest of your life.”

The corner of his mouth pulled up. Wasn’t that the truth?

“My lord. My lady,” Mr. McGill’s voice broke through the moment, and Rupert tugged his hand away from Franny, to safety—away from her tempting lips—to look at his steward. “The inventory for the St. John’s Eve feast is all accounted for. Would you like me to take care of having the goods delivered again this year?”

A pang pulled in Rupert’s chest, the strongest pull of his yearning to attend the festival he’d ever experienced. His mother’s words tried to surface, but he shoved them away. It seemed as though he actually succeeded in burying them more often lately.

“If you could arrange for the delivery, that would be quite helpful, Mr. McGill,” Franny said. “But I would like to coordinate with the delivery, as I would like to be there when it arrives.”

McGill nodded and backed out of the doorway.

Franny turned back to Rupert, her teeth worrying her bottom lip, shiny white teeth biting into pink plump flesh. It wasn’t fair her teeth got to dig into that flesh.

“Rupert…”

He blinked and lifted his gaze to hers, her green eyes glimmering with the same uncertainty that was etched all over her face.

“I know the last conversation we had in this very study regarding our tenants was not a pleasant one. You made your views—and your mother’s—quite clear. But I stand by what I said. They are our people. Fostering a sense of unity, showing appreciation, that you value their hard work, is not shameful.”

She paused. Hesitated. Shifted. She was so clearly nervous, and he hated that he’d made her so. That she worried this would create another riff between them.

“Speak your mind, Franny. I want to hear how you feel,” he said quietly. Her eyes met his, and he swore they smiled at him with how brightly they glowed. “Remember, this is the new thing we’re doing.” He winged a brow. “ Discussing things. Lord, what have we become?”

Her lips twitched. “Oh dear. How boring we’re becoming. Hurry, chastise me, my lord.”

They shared a small chuckle. Little did she know a bolt of desire shot through him at her words. How he’d love to chastise her. Punish her. The way his adrenaline spiked during their clashings, the way she drove him to distraction. He loved it, was addicted to that feeling. But he didn’t want that to be their relationship in truth—just a game they played, a delicious fantasy. Lord, he was deranged.

“You were saying?” he prodded, shoving away the convoluted lust attempting to cloud his mind.

Franny drew in a slow breath. “Our class may put us above them, but those very people you and your mother think so little of are the ones who saved me, Rupert. They are who made it so I could endure all those years living under the Earl’s rule.”

An uncomfortable, thick film of self-loathing settled over him. It was itchy and made his skin crawl, and he wanted to be rid of it.

She leaned forward. “I am not going to guess at why your mother believes what she does. But I know the Earl and how he treated his tenants. Trust me when I say that is not a man you want to emulate.”

Rupert opened his mouth, but hesitated. Why was it that whenever his wife spoke, he questioned everything he had ever been taught, everything he had thought he had understood about the way things should be done?

“I plan to go, Rupert. And I hope that you will join me. I hope me going will not disappoint you.” Her words ended small and soft, and they tore his heart apart more aptly than a cutlass.

“I am pleased you are going, Franny. I think this change in the way we Winthrops interact with our tenants is full of merit. Despite my earlier protestations.”

Her eyes lit up, gold stars bursting in green irises.

“However.” Her beautiful eyes dimmed the instant his lips started forming the word, and it was as though the entire room dimmed as well. “I have much to do here, and joining in a day and night of revelry will only detract from it.”

He forced as much sincerity as he could behind his smile. This would work out well. It provided him with some time away from her, away from temptation, while she was doing something she enjoyed. Where she could be happy. “I will look forward to hearing all about the festival when you return.”

A smile curved her pink lips, but it was one of those smiles that only affected a person’s lips. The light behind her eyes was still gone, the corners of her eyes didn’t crinkle, her cheeks didn’t bunch. A smile that didn’t do anything a smile should.

“I am glad you take no issue with me attending,” she said softly. “That means a great deal to me. But please think on it. I would dearly love for you to join me.”

A part of him—a fundamental part—felt as though it was being pulled in two directions. The desire to be with her, to let go of rigid propriety, spend a day and night free from it all, warred with the need to reset himself, regain control. It was an odd, disorienting feeling. Deep down, he knew he wanted to change, to question what he’d been raised to believe. But it was like he was fighting one-and-twenty years of conditioning, like trying to cut away deep-rooted weeds that only grew back thicker, more stubborn.

He felt…adrift, had no clear sense of who he was anymore. But with Franny by his side, he was hopeful whoever he became would be a much better version than the man he was trying to leave behind.

“I will think on it,” he said gruffly.