Page 64 of Madcap with a Marquess
A tear broke free, and he angrily swiped it away. Fuck. Men did notcry. Men were strong. His insides twisted, writhed and sweat dripped down his back.But you are weak.His skin was on fire, burning him from the outside while everything froze over from within.Failure. Failure. Failure.
The storm was going to swallow him whole. He needed to escape. He needed to outrun it. God, would he ever be able to keep the torment at bay long enough to speak to her?
He tugged at the door latch.
The door didn’t budge.
33
Franny
FrannywatchedasRupertpulled frantically at the tack room door, throwing his entire body into it, the muscles of his back flexing through the thin, straining fabric of his lawn shirt. The door wouldn’t budge. She sent up a silent prayer of thanks to whatever being was watching over them. Because they desperately needed this.
She slowly approached him. She hadn’t missed the tear sliding down his face. His back expanded wide with each ragged breath. And a horrible realization dawned on her. Before her marriage, she had been her father’s prisoner. This marriage was her chance to escape. But Rupert? He was his own prisoner. Her heart withered in her chest as she watched her husband war with himself, battling to break free. To run from his oppressor. Himself.
She glanced at his clenched fists, up to his bare corded forearms, dark hair dusting the lightly tanned skin, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. No coat. No waistcoat. She chewed her lip, unsure what that might mean. She’d never seen Rupert so…simply attired.
Franny settled her hand on his forearm, and the heat of his skin shot up her arm. He whipped around, his black gaze latching onto hers, his nostrils flaring violently. She hesitantly lifted her hands to his face, knowing the panic, the fear, even the rage, coursing through him, had him seconds from snapping. It was his pattern.
In gentle, measured movements, she rested the tips of her fingers on either side of his face, her thumbs settling by his chin, stroking tenderly, methodically. She traced the dark black and purple bruise that had formed under his right eye with her gaze. A bruise she was responsible for. A reminder of why he didn’t trust her. A hollow weight settled in the pit of her stomach.
“Rupert,” she whispered. “Focus on me. I’m here.” She gripped his face tighter. “I am not going anywhere. I truly was only going for a ride.”
“But you’re wearing breeches.”
She smiled at the hint of a whine in his voice, the hint of the small boy he used to be, the hint that he was still so very young and trying to be a man far more seasoned than his one-and-twenty years.
“Yes, because I’mme.Do you truly think I would ride anything but astride?”
The muscles in his face eased, softening beneath her touch.
She took a steadying breath and admitted the truth of her ride today. She wanted nothing but honesty between them, she wanted communication and trust and—if she dared to hope—acceptance.
“I was going to ride down to the tenant farms.”
He instantly stiffened, his face marbleized.
“To check on preparations for the festival, nothing more. I am not going to avoid our people, Rupert. I am going to interact and talk and laugh with them. I hope one day you see that there is no shame in that.”
He opened his mouth, the dangerous flicker in his eyes glowing bright. But she cut him off.
“I will be more mindful of my actions going forward,” she said softly. “I won’t ride double with another man. I understand now how that appeared.”
A wave of pain rippled across his features. She hadn’t realized she had the ability to hurt him in that way. She hadn’t thought he’d care.
When exactly did you ever think about him, Franny? When did you ever think about how your actions affected anyone other than yourself?
Self-disgust burned in her belly. How utterly selfish she had been.
“Please believe me when I tell you, Rupert, I want no other man but you. I went down there that day because I needed a distraction from the pain of knowing I will always be a nuisance, an impediment. To you.”
She was proud that her words did not break nor quiver, even though inside she was trembling. She forced her protesting lips to curve and attempted a teasing tone. “Even if that distraction was as shameful as repairing a fence.”
Loud knocking filled the room.
“My lady, my lord, is everything well? I heard a commotion and the door shaking.” Sanderson’s stifled voice drifted through the door.
“It appears the door is stuck, Sanderson,” Rupert called, his voice even and commanding, not showing a hint of his upset. Ever the Marquess.
