Page 67 of Madcap with a Marquess
“You.”
Oh.
She launched herself at him, her mouth crashing down on his. It was quick and hard and carried the force of all the hopeful emotions swirling around inside her. He chuckled against her attack, his arms coming around her and securing her just as tightly to him. Like he felt the same desperate urge she did to be as close as possible. As close to each other as possible.
Franny finally pulled away, and his mouth chased hers. She pressed a finger to his lips and rolled hers inward to prevent a grin. “You know, you don’t always have to be that way.”
His brows squished together. “Pardon?”
“Tamed. Strait-laced. Never toeing your boot over the line of propriety and convention. You can have fun. You canmisbehave. You can be whoever you want to be, Rupert. Unapologeticallyyou.”
He gave a hollow chuckle. “If only it were that simple.”
“It’s never that simple,” she agreed. “But what is the alternative? To live someone else’s life? That is no sort of solution.”Come on, Rupert. Come out from under your mother’s thumb.“There is such thing as moderation—balance.”
He stared over her shoulder, unspeaking. Gone. Somewhere deep inside himself.
“Just knowthat manis always welcome with me.” She ran her finger over where his shirt came together at his collarbone, tracing the buttons. Her finger vibrated as a low, thoughtful, “mmm” fled him.Will you be brave enough to be yourself with me?
She traced his furrowed brow with the pad of her finger, and his gaze flicked back to hers. A soft smile played at her lips. “You know… I think it is kind of perfect.”
He cocked his head, curiosity flaring in his eyes.
“Us.” She bit her lip and couldn’t resist bouncing her eyebrows. “Blend my madcap ways with your unwavering manners, and maybe—just maybe—we’ll find the best of both worlds.”
He grinned. “You might be on to something.” His features softened. “Wife.” And the amount of affection in that one word had her heart melting into a puddle on the tack room floor.
“Speaking of you being Mr. Manners…” she said. “Why are you in nothing but a lawn shirt, sleeves rolled up to your elbows? I nearly fainted in shock at the sight,” she teased. She fingered his collar, the backs of her fingers skimming over his throat. “I do hope this becomes a habit.”
A cheeky glint lit in his eye. “I was by the pond golfing. Wearing a coat does not lend itself to swinging a club. I prefer fewer restrictions, so I typically partake in just my lawn shirt.”
She straightened, bouncing slightly in his lap.
“You were golfing? How fascinating! You had said you would teach me, and I’d love to see what it’s like. Would you show me now? Would I be able to try? Would I?”
He laughed, a rare dimple popping in his right cheek. “I would, but in case you’ve forgotten, we are stuck in a tack room.”
She rolled her eyes. “Do you truly believe a locked door could ever stop me? Fate threw us a bone, and I took advantage.” She glanced over at the window above the tack room worktable. She looked back at Rupert and arched a saucy brow.
He grinned, shaking his head, disheveled curls flopping in exasperation at her. “Shall we make our escape?”
Warmth danced against her breastbone, around her heart, and she returned her husband’s grin. Perhaps there was hope that Pompous Perty would be able to shed his strait-laced skin.
34
Rupert
Rupertglancedupfromhis correspondence and discreetly studied his wife. The last time he’d looked her way—which could only have been a mere minute or two ago—she had been in front of the hearth, exploring the ornate carvings and embellishments of the marble mantel. Now she was on the opposite side of his study, trailing her fingers over the spines of the books filling the floor-to-ceiling built-in bookcases covering the entirety of the wall.
His lips twitched. She hadn’t stopped moving since he sat down behind his desk. The swish of her lavender skirts, the light pad of her slippers, and her occasional hum should have grated—would have grated before. But instead, he found he quite liked the soft noises that signaled her presence. Craved it. Required it.
The unsettled feeling that had been bothering him lately, the heaviness, the tension…was gone. He resumed sifting through his correspondence. He wasn’t foolish enough to believe it was unrelated to what had transpired in the tack room a few days earlier. Something had changed that day. He glanced at his wife again. For the better.
Franny had called him out after their turbulent collision in the dining room. That he couldn’t always run away when they had an argument, when things became tough. The problem wasn’t that he wanted to run—he was raised to handle conflict, to debate with tempers flaring, and emotions running high, as was often the case with politics.
The problem was, for some reason with Franny, it wasn’t just his emotions that got the best of him; it washis body, his mind. It was part of the reason he feared he was going mad.
The way his heart raced, his mind contorted until rational thought evaded him, his chest seized like it was moments from cracking open from the violent storm inside him. He truly believed in those moments he might die unless he outran whatever force was trying to crush him. But his ability to run was taken from him in the tack room.
