Page 22 of Madcap with a Marquess
He bit back his own smile and brought a spoonful of the almond soup to his mouth. The creamy, nutty flavor rolled over his tongue. Ah, one of his favorites.
Franny finally took a spoonful of hers. He loved the mix of saltiness with sweetness. The spoon slipped between her dusty-pink lips. The contradiction. Her eyes fluttered shut. Salty and sweet. Like she would be.She hummed her appreciation and licked the corner of her lips. He hastily glanced away and reached for his wine, readjusting in his seat.
“Did you enjoy your tour of the house?” he asked, desperately grasping for a distraction from the tightness in his breeches.
She tensed. He grimaced. Out of all topics, he chose that?Could you be any more daft?
“Yes, the manor is quite lovely, my lord. As is Mrs. Higgens. I spent awonderfulafternoon with her.”
Not with him. Point taken.
“How was yourafternoon, my lord? I do hope you were able to catch up on your pressingbusiness.”
He glanced away. Was she punishing him, then? With her “my lording”? Was this Franny’s typical pushing and prodding and poking?
“Rupert,” he murmured.
“Pardon?”
“Rupert will suffice. There is no need for such formality.”
She leaned forward and darted a wide-eyed gaze around the room. “Even in front of the servants?” she asked quietly, lips barely moving.
He leaned forward, putting himself dangerously close to her, the color of her eyes so vivid at a couple feet apart that they threatened to trap him, steal what little sense was left in his brain. He frowned. She must have succeeded, because he couldn’t rationalize her hesitancy. Why on earth wouldn’t they use first names?
“Of course, we are husband and wife, after all. I think that warrants the familiarity of first names.” The tension in his brow eased, and he smiled to himself. “Though I would prefer if you refrained from your notorious nicknames.”
Franny stared at him unspeaking, her face void of expression.
He opened and shut his mouth. Why was he stumbling over this dinner so terribly? He was an apt conversationalist. It had been drilled into him from a young age. Mother always said, one couldn’t be a notable figure in Parliament if he couldn’t convince others to support his cause. Apparently, the skill completely deserted a person when said opponent was one’s wife.
With infinitesimal slowness, a soft smile curled her lips. A soft smile that curled inside him, did something to him he didn’t understand. He lifted his gaze to her eyes, glowing in the candlelight, no longer flat, now as warm and alive as the candles’ flames. But why? What had happened to cause such change?
“Rupert.”
Her words, breathy and whisper-soft, drifted between them and floated there, along with the breath from his lungs. Because his name on her lips took away his ability to breathe. Lord, she was beautiful. Perhaps granting her the privilege of his name was a mistake. It was dangerous—his name on her lips. Lips he wanted to touch and taste and take his time with.
“If it pleases you,” she added quietly at his continued silence.
Yes, yes, it did.His cock thickened in agreement.No!Dear Lord, what was wrong with him? She simply said his name, and he was ready to clear the table—of everything but her.Not a wise scene to imagine, Rupert.
He cleared his throat gruffly and infused his voice with low formality. “Yes, it err… does.” His eyes almost fell shut.Smooth, Rupert.
He began sawing away at the pheasant as the servants removed the soup dishes. Silence stretched, and his mind went completely blank. Speaking topics. Weather? No, too boring. Politics? He peered at Franny. Probably not the best topic if he wanted to avoid any possibility of confrontation. He didn’t know where his wife’s political interests lay, if she had any at all.
He paused in his carving. He didn’t truly know much about his wife’sinterests at all. Beyond her tendency toward mischief, of course.
Perhaps the best place to start is with an apology.
Why did that thought crawl over his skin like icy trickles of water? There was something inside him that rebelled at apologizing to the raven-haired hellion who sat across from him. For so many years, she’d been the bane of his existence and the unwanted center of his fantasies. Apologizing to her felt…unnatural. Like he was letting her win.
The image of her mischievous smile and flashing green eyes came unbidden, framed by a canopy of leaves as she dangled from a tree above him.
“Perhaps it’s not that girls can’t climb trees,” Franny goaded. “But that Pompous Perty doesn’t know how.”
He’d given in, let her win. And how had that ended? Him flat on his back, barely able to breathe, followed by a lecture and an hour of doing lines about proper behavior for young lords. She’d won too much back then, made him a fool. But they weren’t children any longer. And those days of petty defiance were over. His wife deserved an apology.
“Franny…” he began, and his voice got caught in his throat. Egads, it should not be this hard to apologize. “Isincerelybegyourpardon.”
