Page 8 of Madcap with a Marquess
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Franny
Frannystaredatheralmost-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 Everything about the man before her was shut tight, withdrawn, distant.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.”
