4

Franny

Franny stared at her almost-husband’s pristinely tied white cravat. A swallow rippled over his throat, and a bead of sweat slowly dripped down the side of his neck below his ear. Apparently, her apprehensive feelings about today were shared.

Today.

Their wedding day.

Standing at the altar, moments away from the final vows.

Too bad for them both, there was no getting around it. And now that Franny’s father had so lovingly informed her that she was a bastard, the man before her was looking like a fine option. He was a handsome option despite his priggishness; she would give him that. Begrudgingly.

She studied his face, and though he wasn’t even an arm’s length away, he didn’t see her, his gaze fixed blindly somewhere over her shoulder. A muscle ticked in his clenched jaw, clenched so hard it sharpened its already solid rectangular shape. His lips were pressed in a flat line, the skin around his mouth stark white. Everything about the man before her was shut tight, withdrawn, distant. With each slow, seemingly methodical breath, his nostrils flared in a nose that was perfectly straight, as perfect and strait-laced as its owner.

Except for his deep brown curls—brown curls slicked back in a sorry attempt at submission were beginning to break free from their pomade prison. She felt deeply for those curls. She wanted to break free from her prison, too.

Sometimes Franny wondered if her very-soon-to-be-husband was in a sort of prison, too. When she was younger, she used to jest with herself that he was his mother’s little puppet. Puppet Perty . There had been brief instances, mere flickers, of a true boy, a fun boy, when she’d prodded hard enough. But as soon as the fun boy surfaced, his mother would pull his strings, and he’d revert to his pretentious self.

“It is time for the blessing of the rings.” The curate’s voice echoed like a cannon blast through the empty St. George’s Parish Church. Empty save for her father and her almost mother-in-law. Lord Rutledge’s hand took up a rapid beating against his thigh, and Franny couldn’t look away from the distracting movement. Not even her brothers had deigned to show up. Not that that was a surprise. Their contempt, their avoidance, made much more sense.

Half-brothers . Bastard .

She didn’t care. She definitely didn’t care. After twenty years of disdain, she’d be an idiot to care that they weren’t here. A hollowness settled in her stomach.

She was an idiot.

She tried to fight it back, but it only worsened. She didn’t truly want them here. She didn’t even know how to rationalize it in her mind. She hated them. She hated her father. But for some reason she still wanted to matter to them. To know she wasn’t so insignificant that once she walked out of their lives, they’d forget she ever existed.

Franny shut her eyes tight, fighting the burn building there. There was only one person who cared about her. The only person she truly wanted here: her best friend, Phi. Who she hadn’t seen in over a year because of that one stupid, foolish, fateful night. Phi had been the one light in Franny’s storm-cloud covered life. And this past year had been grim without her. But now that Franny was finally getting married… Her father had no authority over her any longer. She could see Phi again. The hollowness filled with a light warmth.

A throat cleared, and she jerked her head up. Lord Rutledge’s extended hand waited, a plain gold ring between his white-gloved thumb and forefinger. One should probably pay attention at their own wedding, but Franny had never been good at doing what one ought. Rebelling against expectation was as essential as breathing to her at this point.

She blew out a small breath and extended her hand. He gripped her palm, and a spark shot through her. Her gaze whipped to his. His eyes widened briefly, his grip tightening on her palm.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” Lord Rutledge said, his voice as forced as this wedding. He paused. Hesitated. His throat worked. And when he spoke again, his words were strangled and rushed. “With my body, I thee worship.” He slipped the ring on her finger, his hand shaking. “And with all my worldly goods, I thee endow: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

He let go of her hand, and she instantly fisted it at her side, the cold gold band foreign, even over her gloves.

The curate presented her with her husband’s ring. Not typical for the groom to take a ring too, but it had been his father’s. It was hard to imagine the stiff man before her as sentimental.

She stared at the gold band. That ring, small, simple, unremarkable, was her future, all the hope she had for a new life, a better life, welded into a tiny bit of metal. She may be stepping into a new cage with the ever-proper, always-disparaging man in front of her, but there was a chance she could make it into one less bleak than the one she was leaving behind.

She snatched up the ring, grabbed Lord Rutledge’s hand, and took hold of her future. His hand twitched in her grasp, but his gaze avoided hers. That was not how they would begin.

Franny squeezed—hard—and his gaze flew to hers.

She stared directly into his eyes. “With this ring, I thee wed.” She lifted her chin, bold and unwavering. “With my body, I thee worship.” His pupils flared. A disapproving sniff echoed beyond them. She slid the ring on his finger with purpose, with force, with determination. “And with all my worldly goods, I thee endow: In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

The curate said the final blessing, and Lord Rutledge stepped back, relief evident in the way the tension sagged from his frame. Like someone had been moments from smiting them down in the middle of the ceremony. Franny rolled her eyes. A lovely start to a marriage.

A loud clap of hands resounded through the parish. “Excellent, now that is done, let us have the register signed. I have things to do.”

Yes, her father had things to do. Things she was sure involved getting his hands on everything he’d been promised from this arrangement.

She was ushered into a small side-room where the register was, and they signed it in silence. Lord Rutledge set down the quill and went to step away, but she reached out and grabbed hold of his wrist. He froze. Their marriage was official— documented —and Franny wasn’t going to let her husband desert her. Time for her first kiss.

“I have heard, my lord, that many grooms choose this moment to steal a kiss from their new bride.”

Her husband’s features contorted in a flash of panic before he composed himself. At the same time, an outraged gasp sounded from their very small audience. Franny’s mouth quirked. She’d known her mother-in-law would be appalled by her demand. And perhaps twenty years of rebellion had a little to do with her bold request. Her husband’s mother would learn that some people cannot be controlled, managed. Franny stepped toward her husband, helping him close the gap—apparently quite the feat if his rigid, leadened movements were any indication.

He seemed to have stopped breathing, considering the noticeable lack of his chest rising and falling. And then he jerked forward, bussed her on the cheek, and hastily retreated.

What—

He bowed and stepped away with her father to discuss the details of exchanging assets. Franny gaped and then let out a soft growl. The frustrating frig pig!

Another disparaging sniff came from behind her. She glanced at her mother-in-law. The dowager Lady Rutledge stared down her nose at Franny, her brown hair styled into a chignon as tight and repressed as the woman herself. The dowager had the most dreadful sense in fashion, and she had chosen a monstrosity today. Adorned in an abundance of cabbage green frills and flounces, she truly appeared as if she were the leafy plant. She made little disdainful and disapproving huffs, shaking her cabbage leaves with each breath.

Franny had never liked cabbage.

While the prospect of spending a few weeks alone with her new husband was slightly terrifying, Franny was extremely grateful that the head of lettuce wouldn’t be joining them. At least she would have the freedom to enjoy the Rutledge estate however she pleased—without interference. A peaceful warmth settled over her. Her own estate. To run free on. The Rutledge tenants. A small silver lining to this marriage.

But that silver lining only served as a cruel reminder, one that swallowed that fragile warmth, leaving cold murky skies of uncertainty in its place. A little girl’s dream of love flickered dangerously. Because even as she knew she was going from one man who didn’t want her to another, she still clung to the impossible: happiness, affection, a feeling of…home.

She never claimed to be the brightest.

Footsteps echoed against the marble church floor, and she was greeted by the sight of her stiff, handsome husband—perfectly ironed, deep-navy cut-away tailcoat, gold buttons, gold cuff links, silk cream breeches.

Husband .

A wild flurry of butterflies tumbled about in her belly.

Handsome husband.

He may still walk around like he’d stuck his cane up his arse, but her husband had grown into quite the young man of one-and-twenty. One the woman in her could appreciate. No more chubby cheeks on Pain-in-the-arse Perty. If the fit of his clothes were any indication, he was nothing but lean muscle and sharp angles. Hopefully, a good sign for the wedding night. The butterfly wings flapped faster. Another benefit to the marriage by chance? Though he probably shagged like he walked. All composed and orderly and dreadfully dull.

A flash of movement caught her attention. Her father disappeared out the church door. Well. That was quick. What had she expected? A tearful farewell? The absurdity of it almost made her laugh. But what did it say about her that she would have taken one last scornful remark over nothing at all? At least then, she would have been worth something . But she didn’t even warrant that.

A sniffle came from behind Franny, and she rolled her eyes heavenward. Here we go.

“I-I cannot believe you are aban-abandoning me,” the dowager said, her distressed words muffled in her handkerchief.

“I am not abandoning you, Mother,” Lord Rutledge said, immediately stepping up to her.

Franny’s stomach turned over, and she barely suppressed a gag. The master puppeteer was pulling her puppet’s strings. The way Lady Rutledge treated her son had always raised the hair on the back of Franny’s neck.

“We have been over this. I will only be gone for a fortnight, perhaps three weeks at most,” Rupert soothed.

“You say that now, but I know differently.” She stared up toward the stained-glass windows, her tears glittering in the soft sunlight. “First a fortnight, then a month, then—” She let out a shuddering breath. “Well, it doesn’t matter. With your father gone and now you married, it will only be a matter of time before I am placed out in the dower house.

“That is far from the truth—”

Lady Rutledge’s watery laugh cut her son short. “I don’t blame you, darling. It is the way of things. You have new responsibilities now. I understand, I do. But my mother’s heart weeps knowing I will be nothing but a burden now. That my sacrifices will…” She shook her head, dabbing at her eyes. “But I suppose that is what mothers do, is it not? We give and give and give—until there’s nothing left.”

Franny bit back her scoff. That woman gave nothing.

“Mother, you’re not a burden. This is merely a quick honeymoon, an opportunity to introduce the new Lady Rutledge to the servants at Rutledge Manor, allow her some time to settle into her new role.” He lifted his brows and shot her a placating grin. “You can’t tell me your days won’t be filled with teas and luncheons. You will hardly realize I’m gone. But if it gets to be too much, staying here alone in London, you are always welcome to join us.”

Franny’s eyes shot wide. No. No, his mother really was not welcome to join them. She spun around and almost growled when her gaze caught on the dowager’s. Manipulation gleamed, satisfaction glinting in hard eyes, knowing full-well she had maneuvered her son right where she wanted him.

Ever since Franny was a little girl, she had known this woman had evil running through her blood. She was the villain in every fairytale, the wicked witch. She’d robbed a little boy of a joyful childhood. Franny was sure of it. The question was, if Franny cut Puppet Perty’s strings, could they make something of this marriage? Could Franny find the real man underneath? That was, if he wasn’t already too far buried to ever be found.

“I ask that you give us a fortnight, if at all possible. It will be confusing for the servants to acclimate to their new mistress with you in house as well.”

The dowager let out a pathetic, hiccupping breath, and Franny’s fists clenched at the worry that flickered over Lord Rutledge’s face.

If she found the man underneath, would he even realize—acknowledge—the truth of living under his mother’s thumb?

He took his mother’s hands in his and squeezed. “I am sure your presence will be much appreciated after that time. Lady Francine—” He cleared his throat and quickly glanced back at Franny. “Erm, Lady Rutledge, that is, will be in much need of your guidance and wisdom. I am sure of it.” He smiled down at his mother, who broke out in her own smile.

Franny’s nose wrinkled. If evil could smile, the dowager’s face would surely be it.

The dowager turned to Franny. “I am sure of it as well.”

With one quick, contemptuous perusal, the woman made it clear that no amount of guidance in all of England could ever transform Franny into an acceptable Lady Rutledge.

Franny ground her teeth but forced her lips to curve upward since her husband was looking her way. She wanted the dowager’s guidance like she wanted cabbage served at dinner:

Not at all.

“Well, we best be off.” Lord Rutledge leaned forward and bussed his mother on the cheek.

In the same exact manner he had with Franny.

Her gut roiled.

That could not be a good sign.