Page 9 of Madcap with a Marquess
Her husband’s features contorted in a flash of panic before he composed himself. At the same time, an outraged gasp sounded from their very small audience. Franny’s mouth quirked. She’d known her mother-in-law would be appalled by her demand. And perhaps twenty years of rebellion had a little to do with her bold request. Her husband’s mother would learn that some people cannot be controlled, managed. Franny stepped toward her husband, helping him close the gap—apparently quite the feat if his rigid, leadened movements were any indication.
He seemed to have stopped breathing, considering the noticeable lack of his chest rising and falling. And then he jerked forward, bussed her on the cheek, and hastily retreated.
What—
He bowed and stepped away with her father to discuss the details of exchanging assets. Franny gaped and then let out a soft growl. The frustrating frig pig!
Another disparaging sniff came from behind her. She glanced at her mother-in-law. The dowager Lady Rutledge stared down her nose at Franny, her brown hair styled into a chignon as tight and repressed as the woman herself. The dowager had the most dreadful sense in fashion, and she had chosen a monstrosity today. Adorned in an abundance of cabbage green frills and flounces, she truly appeared as if she were the leafy plant. She made little disdainful and disapproving huffs, shaking her cabbage leaves with each breath.
Franny had never liked cabbage.
While the prospect of spending a few weeks alone with her new husband was slightly terrifying, Franny was extremely grateful that the head of lettuce wouldn’t be joining them. At least she would have the freedom to enjoy the Rutledge estate however she pleased—without interference. A peaceful warmth settled over her. Her own estate. To run free on. The Rutledge tenants. A small silver lining to this marriage.
But that silver lining only served as a cruel reminder, one that swallowed that fragile warmth, leaving cold murky skies of uncertainty in its place. A little girl’s dream of love flickered dangerously. Because even as she knew she was going from one man who didn’t want her to another, she still clung to the impossible: happiness, affection, a feeling of…home.
She never claimed to be the brightest.
Footsteps echoed against the marble church floor, and she was greeted by the sight of her stiff, handsome husband—perfectly ironed, deep-navy cut-away tailcoat, gold buttons, gold cuff links, silk cream breeches.
Husband.
A wild flurry of butterflies tumbled about in her belly.
Handsome husband.
He may still walk around like he’d stuck his cane up his arse, but her husband had grown into quite the young man of one-and-twenty. One the woman in her could appreciate. No more chubby cheeks on Pain-in-the-arse Perty. If the fit of his clothes were any indication, he was nothing but lean muscle and sharp angles. Hopefully, a good sign for the wedding night. The butterfly wings flapped faster. Another benefit to the marriage by chance? Though he probably shagged like he walked. All composed and orderly and dreadfully dull.
A flash of movement caught her attention. Her father disappeared out the church door. Well. That was quick. What had she expected? A tearful farewell? The absurdity of it almost made her laugh. But what did it say about her that she would have taken one last scornful remark over nothing at all? At least then, she would have been worthsomething. But she didn’t even warrant that.
A sniffle came from behind Franny, and she rolled her eyes heavenward.Here we go.
“I-I cannot believe you are aban-abandoning me,” the dowager said, her distressed words muffled in her handkerchief.
“I am not abandoning you, Mother,” Lord Rutledge said, immediately stepping up to her.
Franny’s stomach turned over, and she barely suppressed a gag. The master puppeteer was pulling her puppet’s strings. The way Lady Rutledge treated her son had always raised the hair on the back of Franny’s neck.
“We have been over this. I will only be gone for a fortnight, perhaps three weeks at most,” Rupert soothed.
“You say that now, but I know differently.” She stared up toward the stained-glass windows, her tears glittering in the soft sunlight. “First a fortnight, then a month, then—” She let out a shuddering breath. “Well, it doesn’t matter. With your father gone and now you married, it will only be a matter of time before I am placed out in the dower house.
“That is far from the truth—”
Lady Rutledge’s watery laugh cut her son short. “I don’t blame you, darling. It is the way of things. You have new responsibilities now. I understand, I do. But my mother’s heart weeps knowing I will be nothing but a burden now. That my sacrifices will…” She shook her head, dabbing at her eyes. “But I suppose that is what mothers do, is it not? We give and give and give—until there’s nothing left.”
Franny bit back her scoff. That womangavenothing.
“Mother, you’re not a burden. This is merely a quick honeymoon, an opportunity to introduce the new Lady Rutledge to the servants at Rutledge Manor, allow her some time to settle into her new role.” He lifted his brows and shot her a placating grin. “You can’t tell me your days won’t be filled with teas and luncheons. You will hardly realize I’m gone. But if it gets to be too much, staying here alone in London, you are always welcome to join us.”
Franny’s eyes shot wide. No. No, his mother reallywas notwelcome to join them. She spun around and almost growled when her gaze caught on the dowager’s. Manipulation gleamed, satisfaction glinting in hard eyes, knowing full-well she had maneuvered her son right where she wanted him.
Ever since Franny was a little girl, she had known this woman had evil running through her blood. She was the villain in every fairytale, the wicked witch. She’d robbed a little boy of a joyful childhood. Franny was sure of it. The question was, if Franny cut Puppet Perty’s strings, could they make something of this marriage? Could Franny find the real man underneath? That was, if he wasn’t already too far buried to ever be found.
“I ask that you give us a fortnight, if at all possible. It will be confusing for the servants to acclimate to their new mistress with you in house as well.”
The dowager let out a pathetic, hiccupping breath, and Franny’s fists clenched at the worry that flickered over Lord Rutledge’s face.
If she found the man underneath, would he even realize—acknowledge—the truth of living under his mother’s thumb?
