Page 11 of Madcap with a Marquess
She would get her wedding night.
Her husband was taking her virtue, and he was damn well going to like it.
That and…Franny couldn’t deny she was curious. About shagging. And about the perfectly proper Lord Rutledge shagging. It was hard to picture the starched man as anything but stiff. Though she supposed he did need to bestifffor things to work properly.
A moment later, the creak of the inn door sounded behind her. Her husband walked in, shaking his head. “I didn’t see it anywhere. I have told the servants to keep an eye out. Are you sure you didn’t pack it with your luggage?”
Franny brought the back of her hand to her forehead. “Oh, silly me! You are, of course, right, my lord. I believe I did pack it away before we left.”
Rupert’s brows lowered, and his gaze narrowed…suspiciously.Laying it on too thick, Franny.
“I am eager to get to our rooms so I can be sure.” She smiled, fluttering her eyelashes coyly. Or, at least, she hoped it’d come across coyly—and not like she was having a fit.
He hastily looked away, a light mottled pink rising on his cheeks.Success!
She caught the innkeeper’s eye and winked. His lips twitched before he quickly removed all expression from his face. “My lord, I regret to inform you we are fresh out of adjoining bedchambers.”
Lord Rutledge frowned. “Well, I suppose that is no matter. Do you have two rooms close by?”
“Unfortunately, no, my lord. We only have a single bedchamber remaining. It is quite spacious, a lovely accommodation. I am sure you and your lady will be quite comfortable.”
Lord Rutledge huffed. “I suppose that will have to do.”
Franny scowled at Lord Rutledge’s broad back.I suppose that will have to do?Don’t sound so thrilled, husband. He was such a stuffed shirt. Wasn’t it supposed to be the gentleman trying to maneuver into a one bed situation at an inn? That’s what always happened in the naughty novels she read. And then they would argue over who would take the bed or the floor and then they’d both end up in bed, and voila…a night full of tupping.
“Excellent, my lord. Please follow me, and I will lead you to your room.”
She glanced discreetly at Lord Rutledge, her gaze tracing his clenched jaw, down his taut neck to his tense shoulders.Oh, Rigid Rupert, you should know better than to think you can avoid me.
She would get her kiss.
And her wedding night.
The innkeeper showed them to their room. Spacious, opulent, as the man had said. A large four-poster bed with crimson coverings was centered against the dark oak-paneled wall to her left, a nightstand on either side. There was a cozy sitting area before a fireplace, the hearth currently empty due to the warm June day.
“I will have your trunks brought up immediately,” the innkeeper murmured with a bow.
“And a dinner tray for the lady,” Lord Rutledge said.
Franny spun around and searched her husband’s face. A face whose gaze was actively avoiding hers.The door slid shut, itsclickringing through the silence in the room.
“A dinner tray for the lady? Will you not be dining with me, my lord?”
Lord Rutledge cleared his throat. “I am sure you want to rest after such an arduous journey. I will take my meal down in the parlor.”
Franny’s determination faltered, like it got stuck in her hem and tripped and nearly dragged her down with it. “But it is our wedding night, my lord. Should we not share a meal and—”
“I need to check in with the driver to ensure our travel plans for the morning are settled,” he said quickly. He glanced at her but immediately looked away. “You rest. Do not feel the need to wait for me. I will do my best not to disturb you upon my return.”
Franny’s throat grew thick, and she struggled to swallow, all the while cursing herself. He wanted to be away from her that badly? They had been married that morning, and he didn’t even want to share a meal with her. Didn’t want to learn anything about her. Didn’t care to.
Here she was, stupidly determined to get herself a wedding night. Turns out she couldn’t even get herself a blasted dinner. The unsteadily flickering candle inside her—a candle of hope for…Lord, for the teeniest amount of affection—dimmed to nothing more than a red ember on a wick.
She turned away, refusing to let him see what she hid behind her rough and tumble exterior. What did she hide? Nothing of consequence. Nothing anyone wanted. It shouldn’t hurt. The rejection. It wasn’t a surprise. She was perfectly aware of how Lord Rutledge felt about her. She’d experienced nearly two decades of his chubby-cheeked disdain.
An ensuing darkness settled inside her, around her, a foreboding that her future would mirror her past: alone and avoided. Unless, of course, she had done something that warranted the Earl’s wrath. That was the only time Franny ever received attention. The only time she was seen. When one behaved, they disappeared into the background, ceased to exist. And in a life absent of acknowledgement, even hatred started to feel like affection.
“Mmm,” she finally managed, staring at the crimson bed.
