Page 75 of Madcap with a Marquess
She bent over, hands on her knees, struggling to draw in breath, and watched the ball jump from the main wall, to the roof of the penthouse, to the floor, and back to the main wall again. The thump of the ball ricocheting echoed around her. Ricocheting like the troubles in her mind. She didn’t understand. Why wouldn’t her husband bed her?
“May I join you?”
Her attention snapped in the voice’s direction, and there he stood, as if her troubled mind had conjured him. He leaned against the side penthouse wall, disorderly brown curls falling over his brow, springing every which way, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, forearms crossed in front of him. She swallowed. Thick. Sturdy. Muscular. Forearms. She squeezed her thighs together.
She was desperate for him.
Franny nodded in reply; her mouth too dry for words. It had been nearly a sennight since their talk in the tack room. Days full of pleasant conversations, tame interactions, reserved touches. Dull, dull,dull. And no visits to her chambers. Not once did he do more than kiss her. And Franny missed their fiery joinings, the frantic need that emanated from him during them. It fed her neglected heart, nourished it like fresh rain after a twenty-year drought.
“It seems I should become accustomed to the fact you will always be in breeches.” His chocolate-rich voice washed over her skin, and she shivered. She wanted to bathe in that voice.
“It’s not easy playing in a dress, as I’m sure you could imagine.”
His lips twitched. “I do not usually imagine wearing a dress, but, yes, I can see the value in breeches.”
Franny picked up the ball and tossed it in the air, shooting Rupert a smile. “All right, my lord, are you ready to be sorely beaten?” She supposed if she couldn’t bed him, at least she could beat him at tennis.
A wicked grin spread across his face. “Most definitely. Lady’s serve.”
Her skin prickled at his tone. At that grin. As though he knew something she didn’t. It wasn’t a look she’d ever seen cross his visage before. It was almost…a bit devilish.
He began undoing his cravat, exposing more delicious skin for her eyes to feast on. She groaned. Was he trying to torture her? So. Much. Skin. He tucked his cravat into the waistband of his breeches, picked up the racket resting against the wall next to him, and made his way to the other side of the net, twirling the racket in his hand.
Franny eyed the wide breadth of his back, muscles flexing as he stretched while he walked. This is how it had been between them the past few days. Happy, easy, an imitation. She didn’t understand what it meant—him being nice to her but not wanting to bed her. It lifted the hairs on her neck, allowing for unease to coast directly over her skin and settle there.
She bounced the ball and readied herself to serve. He was giving her a watered-down version of himself. Her gaze homed in on the receiving court where Rupert stood, bouncing back and forth on his toes. Thighs flexing. Her lungs faltered. She needed to figure out why he was holding back. And soon.
Franny threw the ball up, rose on her toes, and lobbed the ball to the service penthouse. It rolled along the roof and dropped into the court. Rupert back-peddled and, with a resoundingthwack,sent the ball flying to her. She let it bounce off the wall behind her, hit the ground, and she volleyed, sending it flying towards the grille penthouse. It bounced straight up, and Rupert shuffled beneath it. And when it came down, he whipped it toward her. She spun as it flew past her—straight into the dedans gallery.
Bells jangled, signaling his victory. She stared wide-eyed at the still-rattling net. That was either averylucky shot, or Rupert had been practicing. Because the last time they’d played, he would have never been capable of such a shot.
“Fifteen - Love.” Rupert’s deep baritone rang through the large chamber, snapping her back to the game.
Franny grabbed the ball, lined up to serve, and sent the ball sailing to the penthouse roof again. Perhaps she should get straight to the point. “Why haven’t you come to my bed?”
The ball bounced awkwardly, and Rupert stumbled. From her question or the bounce, she wasn’t sure. His racket met with only air, and the ball fell dead on the second bounce.Point for me!She grinned.
“Pardon?” He turned to her, eyes wide.
“Fifteen All. Why are you avoiding me, Rupert?”
“I’m not avoiding you. We have been spending much of our days together.”
She planted her hands on her hips and lifted her brows. “You purposely misunderstand. You haven’t once tried to bed me. Your kisses have been as enticing as tepid tea. It is like you refuse to create any kind of passion between us.”Like you don’t want to.
Her heart whimpered in her chest. She missed him. Wanted to be close to him again.
“That’s not true in the least. I am being respectful, honoring you as my wife should be honored.”
She snorted and bounced the ball twice before releasing it into the air.She sent the ball over to him, and it ricocheted off the service penthouse and the grille wall before dropping to the court. He backhanded it, sending it flying to the side penthouse. As it rolled off the roof, she ran to it, but the roll had softened the ball’s speed and when it hit the court, it bounced a mere foot in the air. She reached low for it and whooped when the impact of racket to ball radiated up her arm—and the ball promptly crashed into the net.Blast and damn.
“Thirty – Fifteen,” Rupert said cheerily. “We could just volley back and forth if you’d prefer. Since this appears to be too much for you.”
Fire pumped through her veins. He thought to instigate her? What was this madness whenRupertwas the one taunting? “I was going easy on you…considering the last time we played and how thoroughly I destroyed you.” She smiled sweetly, though inside she was imagining wrapping her hands around his throat and throttling him. He thought to abstain from herandbeat her at tennis?I think not, sirrah!
But he remained unfazed. “I may have made it my mission to ensure that didn’t ever happen again. Though I didn’t realize it would be so many years until we played again.”
Her racing heart stuttered. He hadn’t forgotten when she, a mere girl of twelve, had beaten his thirteen-year-old self. And he’d dedicated himself to practicing. Preparing for when they’d play again. Why did that turn her insides all melty?
