Page 44 of Madcap with a Marquess
“Rupert, did you gather these yourself?”
“May have done,” he said gruffly, doing that rocking on his feet thing again.
She slowly stood and studied the blossoms as she twirled the bouquet between her hands. “They’re very pretty,” she said softly. She glanced up, and her stare clashed with his.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
Her pulse escalated.
“I realized I made a terrible oversight,” he continued in a whisper. “And I also realize these are a pale excuse for a present. I have something else…it is just not ready yet.”
A present? For her? Something warm coiled tight inside her chest.
“Happy belated birthday, Franny.”
Her breath caught, her throat growing tight. He had no idea what hearing those words meant to her. How starved she’d been to hear them from someone—anyone. But they sounded even better than she could have ever imagined coming from him.
At some point, he’d stepped even closer. Or perhaps she had. But he was so close now that every breath of his puffed over her skin, his earthy masculine sent washing over her.
Her eyes burned, and she blinked rapidly.
“Franny? Are they not to your liking? I can take them—”
“No.” She shook her head and tried to clear away the emotion thick in her throat. “No, they’re very much to my liking. I’ve never had a present before.” She sent him a tremulous smile. “They’re perfect.”
He frowned, his lips pursing. “You’ve never—”
She lifted on tiptoe and cut him off with a kiss. She didn’t want to spoil the moment with pity or anything else other than whatever this was passing between them.
He blinked at her and then his hand slid over her cheek with infinite slowness, and even though she managed to suppress an outward tremor, her heart still trembled in her chest.
“I’m so sorry for my behavior the other day, Franny.” His gaze darted between her eyes, searching. “I should never have lost my temper the way I did. I was unpardonably rude to you.” He grimaced, and his hand started to slide from her face, but she quickly caught it and held it tight to her.
His stare dipped to her lips, lingered. And then his fingers tightened lightly on her cheek, and he leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers. Soft and sweet and soul-stirring.
Rupert pulled away and took a small step back, tucking his hands behind him again. He nodded toward the flowers. “I’ll have a maid sent up with a vase and water for them.”
He took another step toward her chamber door, and she wanted to ask him to stay. But she was too fragile. And that was not something Frannyeverallowed herself to be. For once, she needed a bit of space herself. Because when something was fragile, it was easily broken.
“I won’t disturb you any longer.” He flashed a bashful smile at her. “Enjoy your…naughty novel, Franny.” He winked and slipped from her room.
She rested her hand on her racing heart. She very much liked the version of Rupert who had showed up just now.
24
Franny
Frannymadeherwaydown the pebbled lane, striding straight for the Dohertys’ cottage. She prayed Genny was around. She needed a distraction, something to dispel the heavy, thick cloud her marriage seemed determined to be. She knocked on the white front door and waited.
It was a twisted sort of storm, her and Rupert’s marriage. More often than not, it raged, angry and dark, gusts that lashed at your skin, waters that sucked you under, pulling you into its cold, lonely depths. But every so often the storm broke—never fully, but it calmed—the sun’s rays flitted through the gloom, hinting at the possibility that the storm would pass. Only for it to pick up again. It was cruel, the hope it created.
She flattened her hands over her orange and yellow day dress, even though it was perfectly pressed. And perfectly new. And perfectly pretty. She’d never had anything so fine before.
A gift from him.
She didn’t understand what it meant. How it could feel like he wanted her—yet didn’t want to want her. That occasionally a different man ventured out from beneath the rigid exterior he and his mother had created. A man she quite liked. Would quite like to see more of. That man was the weak rays of light trying to penetrate the storm—just enough warmth to make her believe the skies might clear.
But the storm always won.
