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Rupert

Tap, tap, tap. Rupert drummed the letter in his hands on the surface of his desk. He glanced at the other two burning a hole in the rosewood surface. Three letters from his mother since that first one upon his arrival a fortnight ago. Three letters that he hadn’t opened. Four letters he hadn’t sent a single response to. He held the latest in his hand. The one he was sure would mention her visit. It was foolish, but he had pushed off opening it, like it would push off the inevitable. Her arrival. Today.

Shame immediately coursed through him, his face heating despite there being no audience. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see Mother. Of course, he welcomed her arrival.

He gnawed at his lip, the same way the guilt gnawed at his gut. Because of the lie he just told himself. Because of what he hadn’t told Franny. That his mother would be arriving today. Fuck. He recognized that for what it was. Cowardice. He feared it would topple everything they had managed to build over the past sennight. And that building had been anything but easy. Every stone block they’d managed to add to the foundation of them had been hard fought through a mixture of bone-crushing grit, grueling perseverance, and raw pain.

He inhaled, slow and methodical. There was no need to be so dramatic. Mother might not…prefer Franny as his wife. But she would come around. Franny was important to him, and he knew his mother would eventually set her biases aside when she realized that. Because a mother only wanted the best for her son. And Franny was the best thing that had ever happened to Rupert.

He paused and stared at the familiar handwriting, tiny and neat and orderly. So similar to his own. It had taken him hours and hours and hours of painstaking practice until he managed that same tidy scrawl. The scrawl his mother demanded from him. A penmanship worthy of a Prime Minister. He had never been able to get his y’s quite to her liking. He always added a little extra curl to the tail. Perhaps one of his minor rebellions.

He blew out a breath and slid the letter opener through the wax seal. He needed to read it, know its contents, before Mother arrived. If she found out he hadn’t even read her letters—he grimaced. The thought scrambled his insides, tightening, twisting. A thoughtful son would not have ignored his recently widowed mother. My Dearest Son, I am sick with worry over you. Four letters I have posted and not a single word in return. Pray, reassure me of your health. I do not trust you to be taken care of properly by that woman. Are you eating well, getting enough rest? Does she ensure your favorite meals are scheduled for dinner? These thoughts plague me, imagining that you are neglected, and I can do nothing to rectify it. I fear all this time hidden away in the country is going to be a detriment to you. It does terrible things to my heart, worrying over your ambitions and what adverse effects this little rural jaunt is going to have. Just the other day I had to turn away Lord Castleton, who came to call on you. Heavens! Turning away a man of such influence, a man who can provide direct access to the Home Secretary. Oh, the lost opportunity! It does not look favorably upon you to be unavailable because you are indulging your new wife. I do not fault you, Rupert. It is because you possess a heart too large for your own good. That kindness, while endearing, may lead to your undoing. Because there will be those who would exploit it. That is something you cannot allow if you’re to be Prime Minister. You must be, at all times, in complete mastery of your fate. I have decided I must come to the country forthwith. If this wife of yours demands you abandon your mother and impede your political aspirations, it is imperative I come to you to offer my assistance. We will ensure you possess an infallible strategy, so upon your return to London, you shall leave the best of impressions on those of note. Pray, ensure the house is made ready for my arrival. I will depart in two days hence. Your Loving Mama

He rested his forehead in his hand, squeezing his fingers over his eyelids. That suffocating weight he’d thought he’d escaped fell back over him. Contrition wrapped itself like thorny vines around his heart. His mother had always known how to ignite it within Rupert. Something she had repeatedly reminded him wouldn’t occur if he hadn’t done something prompting the remorse in the first place.

And he had, hadn’t he? He’d left his mother quite alone, recently widowed, her sole child run off to the country. Not answering a single one of her letters. That was something that warranted the guilt, didn’t it? He scrubbed his hands over his face.

He had assumed…it was the done thing for a wife and husband to rusticate for a short period after the wedding. And he had thought, perhaps, he and Franny could come to some sort of arrangement for their marriage if they had some time to sort things out—just the two of them. Franny had married him after all, not his mother. He frowned at that but shook off the unsettled feeling.

What he had discovered regarding his and Franny’s marriage was shocking. There would be no arrangement, no marriage of convenience. This arranged marriage had turned into… He fell back heavily in his chair. A love match. He dragged his hand down his face. Well, at least on his end it was. And after yesterday in the ruins…dare he believe they had finally found happiness? A way forward?

He growled. He didn’t want his Mother’s arrival mucking up something so fragile. Unease slithered inside him, not just because of these disrespectful thoughts, but because…it wasn’t normal for a son to worry his mother would jeopardize his marriage. That shouldn’t even be a concern…

“Hullo, Rupert.”

Franny’s soft voice drifted to his ears, and gooseflesh prickled over his skin. He wondered if there was anything she could say that wouldn’t sound seductive. That wouldn’t slide over his skin like a caress.

He attempted a smile. Heat spread through him at the sight of her in yet another pair of fawn-colored breeches. He was beginning to think she owned more sets of breeches than she did dresses. He should probably set up an appointment for her with a modiste once they returned to London. Though she did look delectable in breeches. It was time she was granted what she deserved. And bloody hell, as an Earl’s daughter, a trip to the modiste’s shouldn’t have even been considered a luxury. But by the state of her wardrobe coming into this marriage, he knew it was something she’d never been allowed.

He realized he had been staring—and frowning—for quite some time without a response. He cleared his throat.

“Franny, how are you fairing today?”

“Very well. The weather is exquisite, a lovely refreshing breeze, cloudless sky…” Her raven eyebrows lifted. “A perfect day for a ride. Would you accompany me?” She flashed him a cheeky smile. “I foresee a race. I would sorely love to leave you in my dust.”

As though she could ever outpace him and his mare, Renegade. Resentment flared in his chest. But no sooner had it come than the guilt smothered it. He had no right to be resentful. If anything, he was the one who had done something to earn mother's resentment. What kind of son dreaded his own mother’s visit?

“Not today,” he said tightly. “Neither of us will be going for a ride today.”

Her smile faded. “Whyever not?”

“It would be best if you return to your chamber and change into something more suitable.”

Her previously happy eyebrows pinched, and she searched his face. “Rupert, what’s wrong? You’ve turned all Pompous Perty on me.”

“My mother will be arriving…imminently.”

Franny blinked at him, an array of emotions passing over her face as she digested his words. “I didn’t realize…” she said slowly.

He tapped his fingers in a discordant rhythm on his desk. “Nor I. I was behind on my correspondence, so I missed her announcing her impending visit.”

Lie.

He had chosen not to open them, to let them sit untouched. Every time he’d reached for them, he’d merely stuffed them back in a drawer. Like hiding them away could protect whatever Franny and he had built from his mother’s influence.

Franny’s mouth flattened. She heard it, too. The lie.

She stared at him silently, studied him, and he forced himself not to squirm. “I fail to see why that would mean I have to change my attire or why I cannot partake in a ride,” she finally said.

“We must greet her upon her arrival. You cannot run rampant in breeches while my mother is here, Franny. I believe we can win her over in your favor if you make a good impression and act as a lady ought.”

She rapped her whip repeatedly against her thigh. “That is where you are wrong, Rupert. I do not have to do anything I do not wish to do just because your mother disapproves. I have absolutely no desire to win her over.”

Rupert sighed heavily. Could she not make this easy on him? Just the once. Meet him halfway, at least? This visit would be extremely trying on their tenuous marriage. But the more they pleased Mother, the easier it would be. His mother needed to see how amazing Franny was for herself, realize that the woman standing before him was not just a suitable wife for him, but the perfect wife.

“Please, Franny. It is breeches. This is not a battle worth fighting. I’m not asking you to change who you are, only to be practical. Change into a dress—for one afternoon—and this entire visit will go much easier on us.”

But his plea had the last effect he could have imagined.

Her eyes sparked with fire. “No. I will not feed into this…this unhealthy relationship you have with your mother.” She pointed her whip at him, jabbing it in his direction. “You completely change who you are to fit what she wants, Rupert. Do you not see how wrong that is? Goodness, all I am doing is going for a ride, in the country, on my own home’s land, in breeches. Anyone who sees me will probably even suspect I’m a lad! It’s not as though I’m dancing through Hyde Park in them.”

“Franny,” he said in exasperation. “Women do not wear breeches. That is not a rule set by my mother. It is what the world expects. Requesting you don a dress is far from an unreasonable ask.”

She glared at him, all life, all strength. “She is journeying here without invitation, unannounced, and here you are rearranging everything for her. We are to spend the rest of our lives together, Rupert. I will not spend decades of my life pretending to be someone I am not. I had thought you felt differently…but if that is what you wish to do, then that is your prerogative.”

He flinched, each barb hitting him like a well-placed arrow. He ripped them out, would have to examine the wounds later, her words later. Was it truly so unreasonable to expect his wife to impress his mother? Or was this yet another belief ingrained in him that wasn’t necessarily true? Respecting one’s elders wasn’t wrong—surely.

“All right.” He drew in a heavy breath. “I will make your excuses when she arrives, then.”

Her face tightened, and something heart-wrenching flashed in her eyes. But then she spun on her heel to leave.

“Franny…”

She paused in the doorway, her chin brushing over her shoulder as she glanced back at him, sadness glimmering in her green irises. “This is about so much more than breeches, Rupert. If only you could see that.”

And then she was gone.

His mother hadn’t even stepped through the door yet, and Franny was already gone. Everything they had built, the unsteady foundation of their future…

He dropped his head in his hands and squeezed.

Was it gone?