7

Franny

Franny swirled the wine in her glass and stared absently at the empty fireplace. Waiting. She glanced at the clock again. How many times had she checked it? Too many to count. She let out a long, drawn-out sigh through her teeth, the soft whistle overloud in the silent, empty chamber. Quarter to midnight.

When will you be back, Lord Rutledge?

Her eyelids drooped, and she forced them open, readjusting in the plush armchair. After a small self-pitying squall, she had stiffened her spine and came up with a plan. She might have been dreading this marriage. Pretentious Perty was the last person in all of England she would have willingly chosen for a husband. But there was no out, no alternative. This was her only chance. Her father had made that abundantly clear.

If word were to get out that she was a bastard… She’d have no one. She’d have nowhere to go. Not even her best friend, because no respectable family would allow a bastard to associate with their daughter. She didn’t want to think of what she’d most likely be forced into to survive. She could almost hear her father’s stupid, sadistic laughter.

Which meant she needed to make the best of this marriage. To see if a man existed beneath the outer guise his odious mother had so meticulously constructed. To see if there was anything Lord Rutledge could feel for her that wasn’t disapproval. And Franny had a fortnight—hopefully—before his mother’s influence came sweeping back in.

The first order of business was consummation. Her main obligation as a wife was to submit to marital duties, fulfill her husband’s desires, and provide him with heirs. Especially considering the circumstances of their marriage— contractual . She wasn’t truly certain she served any other purpose in this marriage. Which was a depressing enough thought. But. If she excelled in that area…then perhaps that could lead to something that resembled happiness, whether it was tolerance or friendship or more.

However, her husband needed to be present for said—

A key rattled in the lock, and the door slowly swung open. Franny hastily put down her wineglass and jumped up from her chair. Lord Rutledge stepped lightly into the room and silently shut the door. He turned, caught sight of her, and went rigid.

“I—I thought you would be sleeping.”

She didn’t feel any disappointment at that statement. None whatsoever. She nearly laughed. Oh, Franny, will your heart never learn? Who knows? Perhaps this man would be the one to finally break it so thoroughly it couldn’t recover.

Franny stepped out into the middle of the room, her pale ivory night dress drifting around her ankles. “I couldn’t sleep.”

A lie. She was very nearly about to fall asleep. But she was trying one last time at getting herself a wedding night. She was nothing if not determined. And a challenge fueled that fire inside her. She was fairly certain that was the only reason she’d survived the first twenty years of her life. Steadfast in her resolve to spite her father. Pure stubborn grit to prove she could not be cowed, be broken. On the days that resolve deserted her—she shook away the dark thoughts—Franny’s mind was not a place anyone wanted to be on those days.

Lord Rutledge’s gaze traveled over her, and he swallowed. Patted his thigh. He was nervous, acting like she was an armed enemy and not his wife adorned solely in a nightdress.

“What on earth are you wearing?”

Her brows snapped together. He sounded like he’d swallowed a frog. And what was she wearing? She glanced down. Did he disapprove of her night rail? She gripped the skirts, twisting them tight about her legs as she fidgeted. She looked up at Lord Rutledge, his gaze locked on her hips, that mottled blush from earlier blooming on his cheeks again. She glanced down. At the dark shadow the curls at the apex of her thighs made through the sheer fabric. She instantly let go of her dress.

“Urm, this is my night dress. I know it’s rather worn and quite simple, but my father didn’t deem it prudent for me to buy anything new for my trousseau.”

She chewed her lip. He clenched and released his fists, then he shook out his hands, his gaze locked on her chest the entire time. He’d divested himself of his black topper, and his thick brown curls were in disarray. His sharp, rectangular jaw worked as he swallowed convulsively. He was swallowing a lot. She cocked her head. That didn’t seem normal. He tapped his leg twice, his eyes glued to her bosom.

Well, she could work with that. Men liked breasts. And they liked to touch them. Unfortunately, they believed they could even without said woman’s permission. But she was definitely giving this man permission. She casually reached behind herself, interlocked her hands, and stretched her arms, pushing her chest out.

His sharp inhale cut through the room. His lids lowered, shadowing his warm brown eyes. He abruptly shook his head, his rich brown curls bouncing over his brow. He never could tame those unruly curls, much to his dismay. She pressed her lips together to prevent a smile. She’d always secretly liked his curls. Perhaps because they refused to be as pretentious as their owner.

“You are indecent,” he bit out, his voice tight and sharp. “You should be wearing a robe.”

She arched a single brow and crossed her arms. She may have pushed her breasts up in the process. “We are about to go to bed. Putting a robe on seems like a step in the wrong direction. We are to consummate the marriage…are we not?”

A choking sound came from him.

“Are you well, Lord Rutledge?”

“I-I… Everything is fine. I won’t be making any demands of you tonight. It was a hard day of travel. We will wait to consummate the marriage until we arrive at the estate. An inn room is no place… It’ll be best if we wait. You should get in bed. And cover yourself. And douse the candles.”

Well, now this was becoming ridiculous. They were to sleep in the same bed and not consummate the marriage? A fuzzy, heated agitation coursed through her. She was anything but tired now. She jutted out her chin. She had him in a bedchamber, and she was taking. Him. To. Bed.

“But won’t you need light to prepare for bed, my lord?” she asked sweetly.

He turned and shucked off his coat. “I will be fine without any light,” he called over his shoulder.

“I will leave one burning…just in case.”

“Yes, fine, just cover yourself.”

Oh, she would cover herself all right. Franny marched over to the bed and pulled back the covers, glancing discreetly at him. He shrugged out of his waistcoat and laid it neatly on the corner of the dressing table. What did he wear to bed? There was no way he did something so scandalous as sleep in the nude .

He splashed water over his face, and Franny quickly shrugged out of her nightdress. She glanced down at her naked breasts and grinned. She couldn’t wait to see what Pompous Perty thought of these up close and personal. She slid under the covers and pulled them over her shoulders until she was completely concealed.

Two heavy thumps sounded, and Franny’s attention drifted back to her husband. No boots, no stockings, his back to her as he pulled his shirt from his breeches. She waited with bated breath. What’s underneath the shirt, Lord Rutledge? He paused. And didn’t remove his shirt. Well, that’s disappointing.

“Are you covered?”

“Yes, my lord.” It wasn’t a complete falsehood.

His loud exhale filled the chamber. She barely suppressed the urge to stick her tongue out at him like she’d always do as children. Goodness, it was like sleeping in the same bed with her was the height of tedium.

He slowly turned, peered at her, and once seemingly satisfied that she was fully ensconced under the bedcovers, hurried over to the bed. He pulled back the smallest section of covers and slid into the bed—as far from her as possible.

For the love of all that’s bloody holy. Did he think she had some contagious ailment?

“You wear your breeches and lawn shirt to bed?” She shot him a skeptical glance. Which he didn’t see because he refused to look at her. The lout.

“Not typically, no. But—ah, it will be much quicker to depart in the morning.”

Oh, my arse. He was daft if he thought she’d buy that. She scooted closer to him, grabbed his hand, and placed it on her breast.

He stilled.

She stilled.

They stopped breathing.

The walls stopped breathing.

“Wh-What are you doing?” he said, his voice strangled, and he yanked his arm free.

“I am getting myself a wedding night, that’s what, Rupert!”

Forget bloody formalities and honorifics. He was too much of a numpty to deserve my lord right now. What did he think she was doing? The insufferable man! She could club him over the head with a branch. A very thick, very heavy branch.

She ripped the covers off them, and his gaze flew to her exposed breasts, then immediately down to the apex of her thighs. His lips parted, and a stilted breath exploded from him.

She smiled. Progress. Perhaps she wouldn’t need to club him over the head.

“Franny,” he protested. He sounded just like the pleading twelve-year-old she used to throw rocks at. She bit her lip, glancing down at the very evident ridge tenting his breeches. All man now.

He still didn’t move, and she frowned. Why was he being so difficult? She’d been under the impression men were rather obsessed with tupping. It was why her governesses preached purity and being wary of silver-tongued rogues. She was quite familiar with the attempts of silver-tongued rogues. And they were all quite familiar with her knee in their ballocks. She’d saved herself for her husband as good girls did. Now her husband wasn’t taking his prize. And she was getting right bloody vexed about it.

“Why will you not touch me?”

She glanced at his face, eyes shut tight, fists balled, chest rising and falling in slow methodical breaths.

Oh.

Her heart sank into her stomach, a dark thought settling heavily over her. “Do I… Do I repulse you?” she asked in a small voice.

She had no experience with suitors. She hadn’t thought she was too horrible to look at. But perhaps she was not to his liking. In looks as well as in every other way she knew already to be true. She hadn’t thought to be nervous. Impulsive behavior didn’t tend to allow time for nerves, but now…heat overwhelmed her cheeks.

His eyes flew open. “No!” He shook his head. “God, no, Franny. It is…” He let out a heavy sigh. It released from him and settled over the room, over them, like a sodden rug.

“It is what, Rupert?”

“I have never done this before.”

She looked around the chamber, searching for whoever was going to jump out and explain his logic to her.

She leaned toward him and said in a hushed voice, “Would you like to know a secret?”

He eyed her warily. “From you? I’m not so sure.”

The prat. “Well, I’m going to tell you, anyway. Ready?” She lowered her voice. “I’ve never done this before, either.”

“Well, that’s not the same thing at all.”

Well, that seemed like a load of donkey dung. Men and their hypocrisy.

“I fail to see the problem,” she continued. “Isn‘t that the whole point of the wedding night? We’ll fumble about. You’ll insert yourself”—he made an odd choking noise—“and flop around on me, and voila. Consummation.”

“F-flop?” He managed to get out. His voice was back to high-pitched twelve-year-old Rupert.

“Or I don’t know. Thrust, I suppose.”

He shook his head wildly, a wheezed breath expelling from him. He cleared his throat. Swallowed. Cleared his throat again. “It is a problem because I am supposed to come to the marriage bed with experience,” he finally managed to get out. “With knowledge to instruct you with. And goodness, there should be no flopping . But I have very little knowledge. I do not want to hurt you, and I do not know…” He turned away, his words trailing off.

An idea struck her. “It’s no matter, Rupert. I can show you what I like, and you can show me what you like. We will figure it out together!” She smiled at him, nodding encouragingly.

This would work out perfectly. Neither had the advantage of more experience. They would learn together. And since Rupert had never done this before, he couldn’t possibly come up with any of his usual righteous reprimands. He couldn’t chastise her for not following the rules when he didn’t know them himself.

His eyes narrowed, his heavy dark brows pinching. “What you like? How do you know what you like if you’ve never done this before?”

She snorted. “It’s not as though I haven’t touched myself, Rupert. Goodness, I’ve been with my own body for twenty years.” If only he knew how well-read she was. She had found the largest stash of pamphlets under her eldest brother’s bed when she was thirteen. The artists had been quite talented.

“You—You’ve…” He waved his hand in the direction of her thighs.

She bit her lip. “Well, yes. Haven’t you? I know I’ve read about men—what was it?—frigging themselves or some such?”

“Ladies don’t do such things,” he said faintly, his cheeks very rosy now. “It’s not proper.”

She snorted. His lips flattened, and he turned a glare on her.

“Of course it isn’t proper, Rupert,” she said, glancing heavenward. “It’s much too delicious to be proper. All the best things are.” She smiled cheekily at him and winked.

His eyes slammed shut, and his mouth moved, curving around silent words. Franny’s gaze narrowed in on his lips. She had never paid much attention to Rupert’s lips before. She reached out and ran the pad of her forefinger over his bottom lip. Soft.

He jolted, eyes flying open, and their gazes locked. She continued to rub her finger over his lip. His silky, soft lip. His mouth dropped open the smallest amount. He didn’t push her away.

Progress.

She took his hand and pulled until he rolled onto his side, facing her. She slowly brought his hand to her breast. He sucked in a breath but otherwise didn’t move. Tension radiated from him like the drawn string of a bow just before the arrow was to be released.

She let go of his hand and slowly drew her own down her body.

“How about,” she said, her words breathy and soft as she stared into his deep brown eyes. “We begin with me showing you what I like. You watch me. And take over whenever you’re ready.”

She waited. Saw the indecision flicker in his eyes. She couldn’t begin to understand why. But then he dipped his chin in the smallest semblance of a nod.

Progress.

His gaze was glued to hers, darkening by the second. This was much different from alone in her chambers under the bedcovers. Courage, don’t desert me now .

Heart thundering through her, she dipped her hand between her thighs. She paused, nerves skittering through her veins. But her husband’s eyes gleamed like walnut brown leather. Leather that lashed her skin with the searing heat that resided in those brown depths. Searing courage back into her. Her core pulsed agitatedly against her fingers, growing stronger the longer his heated stare bore into her.

She massaged in slow circles, and all hesitation scattered and fled, light streaks of pleasure chasing it away. There was something heady about his heavy-lidded, hungry gaze on her. Being watched. Unable to resist, she pressed harder, faster, and sucked in a sharp breath, her hips involuntarily canting into her hand.

She could get used to his gaze on her.

His stare dropped to her hand, and he squeezed her breast. A faint moan fled her lips. Oh , well, that is quite nice, isn’t it?

She could get used to his hands on her.

She strummed her fingers faster, and his hand continued to flex over her breast. She wasn’t certain he was even aware he was doing it, his attention so focused between her thighs. There was something almost overwhelming about the ferocity of the attention he directed at her. Intoxicating. No one had ever looked at her like that before.

His harsh breaths erupted like gunshots through his parted lips, mixing with the soft moans getting caught in her throat. The muscles in his neck strained so severely she feared he might break. Her blood was on fire, and it pooled between her thighs, the delicious pressure growing. Would he touch her? She needed him to touch her. To know the feel of his hands, not her own.

Her fingers slid over her folds, slick now. She eased her pace, backed off the pressure. She was too close to that euphoric culmination. She refused to reach it before she experienced his touch. She wanted to be pushed over the edge by him. Would he dare?

She stopped, her breaths falling short and fast.

His gaze whipped to hers. And her lungs faltered. What she saw in those darkened irises reached into her chest and seized the air straight from her lungs. The gleam in his eyes made him look…dangerous. A look she’d never, ever in her wildest dreams attribute to Rupert. Never thought Rupert capable of.

She reached up and took his hand and slowly dragged their lightly entwined fingers down her body, halting above her parted thighs. His fingers flexed, drifting through her curls, and the slight lines around his tightly pressed lips twitched, whitened.

Her skin danced in a shiver. They were at the precipice of something—she didn’t know what—but it was dark. Perilous. Unexpected.

She pulled his hand between her thighs and, with his hand under hers, resumed her slow circling. Her eyes fluttered shut, a low hum escaping her lips. The feel of his fingers against her skin. Heaven, pure heaven. He picked up speed, her hand merely resting against the back of his now. Her breath hitched, his fingers skating around and over her where she was swollen and desperate.

A pained, raw sound pulled from his throat. She opened her eyes and was met with a stare so hot her blood bubbled to a boil, surging to her core. Their heavy breaths echoed through the room. She pushed against his hand, her hips squirming. She needed more. Something was missing.

Him.

Rupert.

Her heart stuttered to a stop.

And then immediately resumed its rioting pace. She canted her hips and, praise the gods, his hand slipped down her folds, one of his fingers sinking into her. Oh, oh , oh . His fingers were much larger than her own.

He withdrew and sank his finger in again, the heel of his palm pressing against her clitoris. Her back bowed off the bed, a moan pulling from her throat. Her heartbeat pulsed precariously fast through her veins, rushing to her core, an overwhelming thrumming building there.

She found his gaze. And she felt it. The hunger reflecting back at her. Hunger for her . A muscle ticked in his tightly set jaw. So rigid, inflexible, unbending. He couldn’t possibly hold that much tension in his body and not snap.

He thrust into her again, quicker this time. Harder. Almost…violent. It was delicious. She should have known Proficient Perty would be a quick study. The heat in her core intensified, spiraling through her. Her hands flew to her breasts, squeezing, running her fingers over her peaked nipples.

He slipped in another finger, and she was lost. Mindless. The coiling pressure deep in her core broke, and her thighs locked around his palm. She bucked into him as she flew apart on a sob, momentarily untethered, her body propelled straight to the heavens. She flew.

Free.

She floated back down on a quivering breath, legs trembling. Rupert’s fingers slid from her, his hand finding its way to her hip. He squeezed, fingertips digging into her flesh, as unyielding as the tension emanating from his frame. Then again. Harder.

Her stare whipped to his, and she froze, pinned, the danger swirling in his eyes an unbreakable restraint. If gazes could claim—she just became his.

Marked.

A growl ripped from his throat.

And that was when Respectable Rupert snapped.