Page 62 of Madcap with a Marquess
“You want to talk, Franny? Fine. Let’s talk. What would you like to address first? Our abomination of a marriage? How you think I’m no better than a tyrannical jailer, and I think you might be fucking right? How you have no regard for consequences and don’t care who you hurt in the process? How last night was the most terrifying night of my life, and I wasn’t even the one who was assaulted? I cannot begin to comprehend how you are standing here like nothing is fucking wrong, Franny. Because everything is bloody wrong!”
He turned and strode out the door.
Shite.She ran after him, his form already disappearing into the hall.
“You can’t always leave every time we have an argument!” she called after him.
He halted, standing at least a dozen paces down the hall. Franny’s gaze darted to the wide-eyed Mrs. Higgens standing a few paces from her. Franny swallowed, her stomach clenching. Dear Lord, they had an audience.
Rupert’s delirious chuckle jerked her gaze back to his like a physical tug. He looked maniacal, face bruised and scraped and covered in remnants of dessert, his eyes wide and wild. He pulled a hand down his face, and his chest shook with laughter.
“I can’t leave?Me?Are you fucking jesting with me?” He pointed at her, and she flinched. “You are the one who was going to leave, Franny!” he roared, his chest heaving. His gaze drilled into her, shredded her.
He turned, but paused halfway, looking back. She wasn’t sure if the flatness of his eyes or the softness of his voice destroyed her more. “I may walk away. And try tocomposemyself. I may keep my distance. For a time. But I wouldneverleave.”
Her heart sank, her legs trembling, the aftermath of their passion and the force of his anger, his pain, washing over her.
“Ready my horse!” he bellowed and stormed down the hall.
Somewhere through the shock, the disorientation from her adrenaline’s swift drop, and the wreckage that lay in the wake of it all, something burned. Bright. Warm. Full of Hope.
Their marriage might have been built on mistakes. They might have done every possible thing wrong. Bloody hell, throwing peaches at him was far from how she should have handled the situation. But one thing was clear: she was certain of her feelings for her husband. And he cared for her.Wantedher in his life.
They would find a way through this.
It was just a matter of…how.
32
Rupert
Rupertgrippedeachendof his club and lifted it over his head, bending his arms back at the shoulder as far as he could. The tight muscles in his back protested, but he pushed back farther, shifting his arms from side to side. He brought the club down and shook out his shoulders, already feeling looser, some of the tension easing. Some of the soreness from the brawl the other night dissipating.
He placed a ball on the grass in front of him, then took a step back and stared out at the still water of the pond. The sun glinted off the surface of the water, relentless on the cloudless day. The cheerful melody of a willow warbler drifted on the light breeze. An ironic juxtaposition to the thundering storm raging inside him. He hadn’t spoken to his wife since their…dinner the prior night. He had sent her a note saying he had retrieved her broken locket and would have it repaired. But otherwise, they hadn’t crossed paths. Yet.
Rupert breathed in deep, closed his eyes, and exhaled.Seek solace in your contented haven.He opened his eyes, gaze landing on the vibrant green head of a drake lazily paddling through the pond. This was his haven. The spot he came to…to forget all of who he was, who he was demanded to be.
He rested his club against the grass and swung it back and forth, keeping his arms loose, preparing for his practice swing. He straightened his left arm and, keeping his right elbow locked to his side, brought his club back. He let it fly.Swish.The club sang as it coasted along the surface of the grass.
If he could clear his head, calm the frenzy of emotions raging inside him, then he could approach Franny. She was correct—they needed to talk. But he needed a semblance of composure or else their discussion would be a futile effort. Heated emotions and impulsive actions never served anyone. He knew this, was raised to suppress unruly emotions. But Christ, when it came to Franny, everything unraveled. He didn’t understand why. Everything with her was sharper, stronger. She shredded his control until he was left with nothing but raw feeling. She made him feel too deeply.
He rolled his shoulders and stepped up to his ball. Once again, he set his arms and brought the club back up over his shoulder. He paused for a breath, inhaling deep and sliced through the air, letting out all the anguish.
Swishhh clack.
Pleasure radiated through his arm from where the ball had made contact with the head of his club, warmth spreading up and through to his chest.
His gaze flew to the pond just in time to see his ball land directly between the two Mallards, rings rippling outward from where it had penetrated the water’s surface. There was nothing more satisfying than a perfect swing.
He could do this. He could swing away the fury, the fear, the sense of failure.
With the toe of his boot, he rolled another ball in front of him from the pile he had dumped in the grass earlier. A vision of Franny flashed in his mind, hurt plastered across her face as he’d railed at her in the hall.
Failing his wife.
His chest constricted. The danger she had faced. The thought of what could have happened. That he could have lost her forever. That she wanted to be lost to him forever…
Rupert shook his head. He lined up his club, shifted his weight, and settled into position. He brought his club back, and with a sharp swing, hit the ball.Thwack.It skated across the water, skipping along the surface.
