Page 37 of Madcap with a Marquess
His admission to her lashed at him, leather whipped on skin.I have dreamed of this. Fucking you until you break.Oh, God. What must she think of him? His dreams, his desires, had always frightened him. But he thought they’d stay there. Safe in his dreams. She was safe in his dreams. Dreams that were his mind’s way of retaliating against the unruly, ethereal, raven-haired nymph who threw rocks at him.
He wasn’t actually capable of harming her.
But he was.
He hadn’t just debased her. He’d wounded her.
Shame clogged his throat; a thick, disgusting black sludge.
There was only one way to solve this problem. If he couldn’t be around his wife without succumbing to his inner demons—he would have to distance himself.
He needed space. To clear his mind. Come up with a plan.
Away from the temptation he couldn’t resist.
Away from Franny.
18
Franny
Frannygnawedonherlip and stared at the pale orange soup on the spoon she held suspended mid-air before her. The tick of the large walnut freestanding clock seemed to taunt her. Her only company. The door creaked, and she looked up, heart lifting, hope expanding in her chest. And fleeing out the open dining-room door. A head of stark white hair greeted her, and their butler, Sanderson, walked into the dining room. Without Rupert.
She looked around the room, glaring at the gilt-framed Rutledge ancestors adorning the cream-colored walls. They all stood as pretentiously as the current Lord Rutledge.Having a stick up your arse must be a family trait.God, she didn’t know how she could be so furious with someone and so frantic for their company at the same time. She almost laughed. She’d always craved her father’s attention, hadn’t she? Perhaps there was something wrong with her. Always seeking attention from those who clearly didn’t want to give it to her.
“A note for you, my lady.” Sanderson proffered a silver tray, his face expressionless as always, his stark blue eyes giving nothing away.
She pushed away her convoluted thoughts and sent the butler a tight smile. Even from this distance, she recognized Rupert’s uniform, tidy scrawl. Even his handwriting was pompous. The prat.
She knew what the letter would say. She had seen his retreat back at the hunting lodge. When she’d returned and shocked her lady’s maid, Sally—and herself—half to death by the state of her back, she didn’t blame Rupert for putting his barriers back up. She’d been completely unaware of the havoc upon her back during their…frenzy. But it truly wasn’t so bad. All superficial. Sally cleaned it up and applied a salve. Franny shifted. It was a bit itchy and burned a mite, but she would be right as rain in a few days.
If she could only speak with him…help him understand that she was well, more than well. She thought she might be starting to understand her husband’s withdrawal. He was stricken. She truly had feared for his well-being back in the lodge. She’d never witnessed someone unravel like that before her eyes. His panic—shame?—over what had happened, looked as though it had taken hold of his very body. And his expression—God, he'd looked tortured.
His behavior when it came to marital relations might be rather…unexpected. Not that she had known much of what to expect, but decidedly, it wasn’t this—thisroughness.Roughness, and yes, pain, but she likedit. Gooseflesh frizzled over her skin. Shelovedit.
She unfolded his note, taking in the expected words. “My sincerest apologies.”“Pressing business matters.”She rubbed her fingers against her temple, wanting desperately to growl, to stomp her feet and scream. Throw rocks. A very large one. At Rupert’s head.
So, he was mortified by his actions, but what did it say about her that she enjoyed his assault? She wasn’t fluent in the happenings of husbands and wives, but she had a feeling this game she and Rupert playedand enjoyedwasn’t typical.
An all-consuming desire constantly coursed through her, to stretch him to his limits and then, with a single finger, push him right over the edge. It had always been there, even when they’d been children, even when it had been innocent. Because she wanted his consequences. And now, as a woman, she wanted his lustful rage. If they both desired it, was it really so wrong? Why should there be shame in that? It is not as though they would be announcing it in the ballrooms of London.
Her mind drifted back to the dinner they’d shared. Laughing. Teasing. And then all of a sudden it was all…gone. Like he’d realized he’d been enjoying himself and retreated.
Why?
There was something between them. Something unnamable. A connection. The way they came together…it spurred the hope in her chest to burn brighter.
“I will not be around for dinner. In fact, I will not be back until late tomorrow, possibly the day after.”
Franny stiffened. Or perhaps not.
She placed the letter carefully on the silver tray.
He had left.
She lifted her hand to her breastbone, rubbing at the tightness there, where her heart had somersaulted right into her ribcage, bruising.
Nowthathurt much worse than anything he’d done to her back.
