Page 24 of Madcap with a Marquess
Her chin jerked back. “Pardon? Golf…as in what the Scots play?”
He nodded stiffly, barely preventing a wince. Had he truly admitted that?
“You,”she said skeptically, “play golf?”
“Not exactly play.” He laughed nervously. “Mother would never approve of such a thing. It is not an acceptable leisurely pursuit for a gentleman. But I have a set of clubs, and sometimes I head to the pond by the hunting lodge and take a few swings. See how far into the pond I can hit the balls. It helps to relieve the tension on particularly stressful days.”
“That is fascinating.” She was leaning forward again, looking at him as if he was some rare specimen at the British Museum. “Will you teach me?”
“Teach you…” he said.
“Yes, to do the golf!”
His lips quirked.
“Is it very hard? The balls are quite small, yes? I would imagine I would miss quite often.”
He laughed then. Franny with a golf club was a terrifying thought. One did not willingly put weapons in Franny’s hands. He had learned that when she’d somehow maneuvered him into a mock fencing match with a pair of branches as children.
“I am sure we can find some time for me to show you how to swing a club. And yes, it is quite easy to miss, but once you get the technique down, it isn’t so hard.”
She smiled at him then, a gloriously full one, rosy cheeks bunching up over the corners of her lips. His heart rate picked up, tapping erratically against his throat.Hewas the cause of that smile. Finally, this dinner was looking up. He grinned back at her before digging into his pheasant. Something eased inside him. His shoulders loosened, the pressure behind his temples slipping away.
A little while later, the servants cleared the table and began laying out dessert.
Franny squealed, clapping her hands. “Look at all of this, Rupert!” Her gaze roamed over the elaborate spread of strawberries, roast peaches, rolled wafers, sugar puffs, and assorted biscuits and pastries. Cook had truly outdone herself. “I cannot possibly decide what to try first.” Her hand shot out, and she grabbed a sugar puff, dipping it in the chocolate sauce and taking a large bite.
He rolled his lips in and choked back a laugh. Yes, cannot possibly decide. She was so full of life. What must it be like to be so free? Her pink tongue darted out to lick up the chocolate stuck on the corner of her mouth, and his mouth went dry.
“Delicious!” she exclaimed.
Delicious—she had that right.
She reached for a strawberry and dipped it in the whipped cream—his eyebrows lifted—taking with it much more whipped cream than strawberry. Her lips closed around the plump fruit, and she devoured all but the stem in one bite.Heaven, help me.He shifted in his seat. That mouth had always tempted him, always taunting and teasing with saucy retorts. And this was a whole new height of torment. How was he to survive dessert?
He hastily looked down at the table. Right, by distracting himselfwithdessert. He reached for a chocolate stuffed pastry. He would just not look up. A fine idea. He took a bite of the pastry. The flaky, buttery confection melted with the bitter-sweet chocolate filling in his mouth.
“Mmmm,” Franny hummed in delight.
Her moan hit him straight in the cock.
Don’t do it, Rupert.
He looked up.
Franny held a frosted pastry and was currently inserting it into her mouth.I told you not to look up. He bit back the desperate noise crawling up his throat. Why did she have to choose the phallic-shaped dessert?
Her lips closed over it, and her eyes slid shut. The pastry broke off, some of the vanilla cream filling dribbling over her bottom lip onto her chin. He struggled to take in air.
Something wet ran over his fingers. He glanced down. At the pastry he had unconsciously strangled in his hand, the chocolate filling dripping over his fingers.
He hastily wiped his hands on his napkin. He couldn’t take any more of this. His heart hammered in his chest, that same pulse hammering in his cock. He glanced at Franny, currently licking her fingers clean. His muscles clenched, twitched with the need to get closer to her.
Remember what happened the last time you lost control, Rupert?.
He tried to push away the depraved thoughts. Tried to drown them out with the sermons he’d been raised to live by—the ones his mother had deemed most important, the ones she had made him copy over and over until they were etched into his mind like scripture on stone.
But visions of Franny bent over the table assaulted his mind, unable to be suppressed. Her hair wrapped around his fist. His breaths shook his frame. His palm making sharp contact with her backside. His hands trembled. He needed to get back under control. He squeezed his eyes shut tight. But it only made the deplorable visions more vivid.
