Chapter Text
Historically, Rupert had no interest in zipping up a woman's dress. It hid all of the good bits, the silk and lace that barely covered their soft skin. Why do it up, he argued, when they could have more fun taking it off?
Even Taggie agreed, happily shedding sundresses and worn jeans in favour of pressing her bare flesh to his. Her happy little moans, sighed out every time their chests met, was his favourite song.
But she had begged for help over and over today, her hands shaking as she tried to twist her hair into order and apply thin coats of mascara to her lashes. The entire weekend had her out of sorts; Deauville was their re-entry into society, the first time since the wedding that they would be rubbing elbows with the important people, as she put it. Not the really important ones, those cherished few that they welcomed into Penscombe with open arms and wide smiles. These were the deciders, the ones who wrote checks for polo teams and made generous donations to Venturer.
Not to mention, the test that was still lying on the counter in their bathroom at home. Bright blue, positive. The tiniest flicker of life lying just underneath the softness of Taggie's stomach. The greatest joy they could have imagined, despite the toll it was taking on his wife's body. Chessie Alderton had given her a sly, vicious look at that day's match, a sneered you look tired, darling, that had Taggie shrinking into his side. She wasn't sleeping well, admittedly, the sea air churning her stomach every time she stepped outside. He couldn't take it from her, God knew he would in a heartbeat, so he had to settle for sliding his sunglasses over her eyes and reminding her to ignore that absolute bitch.
Sipping the last of his whiskey, the lone ice cube now melting into a watery mess at the bottom of his glass, he tried to refrain from rushing her. The party started at seven, with dinner to be served at eight. His watch read 7:49, quickly ticking farther and farther from fashionably late.
"Angel, are you feeling alright," he murmured, knuckles rapping on the bathroom door. "We can skip this whole thing, I doubt anyone will miss us."
"Ricky will be furious," she whined, yanking the door open. "We promised we wouldn't leave him alone with Chessie."
He wasn't alone, per se. Bas and Perdita were down there, so were the twins. Even Cameron and her crew were likely skirting around the edges of the party, artfully capturing the glamour of the weekend. Running a soothing hand over her back, skin bare where the edges of her dress had yet to be zipped, he met her eyes in the mirror. "I don't care about Ricky's feelings. I care about my wife."
A small smile crept across her face, eyes wide and absolutely doe-like. “My hair won't lay flat," she murmured, eyes falling to the brush in her hands. "I don't want to embarrass you." He could see exactly what was plaguing her, a loose strand pulled free from the sleek bun.
"You could never embarrass me, angel. Come on, hand over the brush." Surprise filled her face, a laugh escaping her. "What, you think I can't handle a minor hair emergency? You've seen my skills, Tabitha certainly can't french braid her own hair."
She passed the brush over, head tilting forward so that he had more room to work. Two fingers guided the strand into place, the thick bristles of the brush smoothing the miniscule bumps into sleek uniformity. "Hand me a pin, darling?" The little clear case was just out of reach, and besides, he preferred his free hand where it was.
(Either Taggie hadn't noticed that he'd slipped his hand into her dress, palm resting on her bare tummy, or she was happily indulging in the back and forth rhythm his thumb had found. Touch starved, his little duck, always leaning into his hand when given the chance.)
By the time the final pin slid into place, his watch read 8:01. Her dress was still unzipped, the peach-pink devastatingly pretty against her skin, and for the first time he felt the urge to do it up. He wanted to show her off, twirl her around the dance floor until every eye in the room was trained on them. Pressing a soft kiss to her bare shoulder, Rupert met her gaze in the mirror. "Ready to head down?"
A small nod, followed by a coquettish grin. "If the food is awful, we can come right back up here, right?
"Of course, Tag. Anything you want." And he truly meant it. If she wanted the moon on a string, he was sure he could pay Freddie to pull it down with one of his satellites. "Now, let me zip you up."