Page 25 of Madcap with a Marquess
“Rupert? Is something wrong?”
His eyes snapped open, and he was met with a pinched-brow Franny, head tilted at a questioning angle.
“Apologies,” he said tightly. “I suppose I’m not feeling well. We should probably hurry this up.” He needed to get away from her, and quickly.
Her face fell.
And with it, so did something inside of him.
He didn’t understand why he couldn’t even have a simple dinner with his wife without these temptations assaulting his mind. He’d always had forbidden fantasies about Franny. But now that she was in close proximity—andhis. Now that he knew what it felt like to sink inside her. Tight. Wet. Hot. His heart rate picked up. It was so much worse.
Perhaps she had been on to something. He needed to release this tension. If he worked off the stress and debase desires, he’d be able to hold them at bay. Protect her from his demons.
A stilted silence settled over them. He discreetly glanced at her. She gnawed her lip, pushing around the raspberries from the tart on her plate. Lord, the sight of her disappointment was akin to a fist to the gut.
Maybe that was the answer. Another activity his mother wouldneverlearn about. Almost no one knew of the sandbags he’d hidden away in the wine cellar, tucked away in the shadows of the cool stone room.
At Harrow, Derek and Rafe had taught him how to defend himself, and he’d realized how effective throwing a punch was at ridding him of the weight that always seemed to settle over him. The rush of exertion, the satisfying thud of a fist meeting resistance—it cleared his mind. But, of course, he couldn’t go around punching men and getting into fights. Not exactly suitable for someone with Parliamentary aspirations.
So, he’d set up a small space he could sneak off to when the pressure got to be too much. He could only imagine what his mother would say if she knew. But it had saved him many times, especially as he’d gotten older, and the pent-up sexual frustration and unrelenting expectations grew more and more stifling.
He kept his face averted and on his plate as he hastily finished his dessert. He couldn’t allow his control to break like it had on their wedding night. He’d hurt her,frightenedher. And that had been tame compared to the things he wanted to do to her. The dessert roiled in his gut. Yes, this stilted silence was better. Safer.
After dessert he’d sneak away to the cellar, exhaust himself to the point he couldn’t even form thought, then fall into bed.
13
Franny
Frannypacedherbedchamber,from one end of the gold and sage Aubusson rug to the other. He wasn’t coming. She should have known. But, of course, she had thought there was still a chance. Before he’d suddenly withdrawn, dinner had been going so wonderfully. Rupert had teased her,teased.And then all of a sudden, he’d said he wasn’t feeling well. She didn’t think one went from feeling perfectly fine—laughing and smiling and flirting—to silent and distant in the span of a single breath.
Dim-witted Franny. Daft Franny.Dunderhead Franny.
She always got so pitifully excited when the real boy—or man, now—peeked out behind the puppet’s facade. It seemed Rupert could pull his own strings now, pull himself back, careful, under control, and utterly dull. It was simply dinner, and he couldn’t even allow himself to enjoy that?
She glared at the door connecting their bedchambers. It was a dark walnut and ornately carved. Shut tight and about as good to talk to as the man who hid behind it. Oh, she knew he was there. She had heard the telltale signs of life, the opening and closing of drawers, the thud of boots being removed.
A soft light glowed from underneath the door. Still awake. She glanced at the lone candle she had left lit, barely illuminating the room. Because of him. Because he apparently didn’t want light when they… She shook her head. How foolish of her to hold on to any hope.
The light under the door went out. Well, that was clear.
Her shoulders sagged, two heavy chains of disappointment pulling them down. She’d been so looking forward to another night with him. To experience that feeling she couldn’t quite name—an indescribable blend of being seen, possessed, of possibly being enough for the first time in her life.
She walked over to her bed, confusion and frustration warring with her thoughts, not allowing them to form into a single, intelligible one. She had given him her virtue, and he had turned into a surly grouch. If her husband didn’t want to bed her again, did that mean her marriage was doomed? She reached for the covers.
And abruptly spun around, her white nightdress whirling around her.No, I do not give up that easily. She marched over to the door. She had two legs, didn’t she? She would just go to him. Husbands could demand their marital rights, could they not? Well, why couldn’t a wife do the same?
He was going to bed her, and he was going to bloody enjoy it! She’d thought he had the other night. He’d sure made an array of noises that suggested so. Perhaps it was him pulling his strings again. Was he upset that helikedbedding her? Did he really struggle that much with allowing himself any enjoyment in life?
She pushed open the door, took a step into the room, and halted in her tracks. Her jaw dropped, and she hastily scrambled back into her room, silently shutting the door. She collapsed against it and brought a hand to her racing heart, her eyes falling shut.
Mistake.
Visions of Rupert were seared into the backs of her eyelids—her husband sprawled on his bed without a stitch of clothing on, his naked skin glinting in the light of the single candle by his bed. Her breath shot out of her, sharp and shallow. Flat on his back, one leg bent at the knee, the other outstretched, as…as… Her core tightened.
And then her entire body tightened, a rigid, knife-like rage snapping her straight. Howdarehe. She was right here! A few paces away. Hadn’t she made it clear on their wedding night she was willing to learn what he liked? Yet, he preferred to lie alonein bed and-and-and—
And have fun all by himself!
