by Eva Grace
It took her a few moments to remember where she was and what had transpired the previous evening too. But the moment that she recollected it, all of it, a very content smile crept its way onto her face.
She just could not believe what had happened. From the awful moment she had twisted her ankle to her husband saving her to... well to the moment that he took her to his bedroom and made her his wife.
It was just so unexpected! Like a knight in shining armour, he had rescued her from the perilous moors of the surrounding estate and laid claim to his prize. It was a little like a fairytale, she thought, the way it had transpired. It was also nothing like she had feared it would be; all tales of pain and whispers of a wife's duty, had fled under Raff's skillful tutelage.
Her face burned scarlet at the memory of how she had reacted so eagerly to his passion, matching his desire with equal measures of her own.
But they were wed, she reasoned, and as such, it had been a perfectly normal, even joyous act. There was nothing to be ashamed of about what had transpired and, in fact, it had filled her with hope. Hope that her husband might have finally decided that their marriage had the potential to be more than just a lie of convenience.
All these thoughts played out in Catherine's head in a few mere seconds as she blinked against the rays of the sun. Once she was awake proper, she turned, expecting to find her husband in the bed beside her.
She turned with haste in her bed, her heart plummeting in her chest when she witnessed that Raff's side of the bed was empty. It appeared her loving husband had risen much earlier than she, Catherine thought, her stomach twisting with disappointment.
"Good morning."
If she had not been lying down, she surely would have fallen from the shock. Rather Catherine shuffled backward as she sat up, her emotional pallet morphing from surprise to happiness at the sight of her husband, still in the room.
"Good morning," she replied shyly, feeling a little nervous around the Duke still. Which was ridiculous, for he now knew all there was to know about her...
"How did you sleep?" Raff asked of her, as he paced back and forth across the room, seemingly in a hurry, although what over, she had no idea.
"Wonderfully," she smiled, watching him carefully. He was obviously agitated, his face closed and guarded. "And you?"
"Adequately," he responded coolly without looking at her.
Now that she was a little more alert, Catherine was better able to better see what it was that he was actually doing, as he moved about the room. By the looks of things, he was getting ready for a day of travel – at least that was to be implied by his wear. He wore a riding coat over breeches and a gleaming pair of Hessians, whilst in his hand was a heavy wool coat —the type a man would wear if he were expecting to take a long journey on horseback.
"Are you going somewhere?" Catherine asked, as she tried her best to keep her tone casual; as if she weren't concerned, but merely curious. In truth, her heart was hammering in her chest and her stomach was twisting in a knot of despair. She knew, deep down, that Raff still intended to abandon her —even after their lovemaking the previous night.
You knew he was a rake and a cad, her rational mind screamed, though hope, that treacherous beast made her wait for his answer. Perhaps she was wrong in her assumptions?
"I am leaving for London," Raff replied in a short manner as he made for his dressing room. "I told you so yesterday."
Catherine was silent as she struggled to wrap her head around exactly what he had just said. Oh, she understood the words well enough, but it was their meaning on which she was still a little fuzzy.
He's abandoning you, her rational mind spoke again, sounding vaguely disappointed that the realisation had dawned so slowly on her. He's the worst sort of cad, it continued almost piteously, loving and leaving you in less than twelve hours.
"You're still leaving?" she finally managed, trying her best to keep the tremor from her voice.
"Of course," Raff responded casually as he exited the dressing room, fixing his cravat. "As I told you, I have business there." He offered her a curious look, as if she were being daft.
"And how long..." Catherine cleared her throat, annoyed with herself for sounding so needy. "How long will you be gone for?"
"It's hard to say, but it will be a while, I'm sure." He made for the bed, leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. It was a cold kiss, devoid of any passion or emotion whatsoever. "I'll take breakfast rather quickly and then make haste. Please send me a letter within the week informing me as to your condition."
"My condition?"
"Yes," Raff smiled pleasantly as if they were having the most normal of conversations, though his eyes were hard as stone. "When you find out if our... dalliance last night left you with child —obviously it's the last thing that I desire, but if it happens I would like to know."
The look of revulsion on his handsome face at the thought that she might be quickening with his seed, was like a swift kick to the stomach to Catherine. Rather than confirm that she would let him know if he had fathered a child with her, Catherine clenched her jaw shut, offered a half-hearted smile and nodded.
This seemed to appease the Duke, as he smiled back, said, "Good day, dear wife," and made from the room as if the hounds of hell were snapping at the heels of his Hessians.
And as for Catherine? Well she stayed right where she was, unwilling and even unable to move. And it wasn't her ankle that was giving her trouble, as she hardly even noticed the dull throbbing. No, it was her heart that was the cause of her suffering. It felt to her as if her new husband had literally torn the organ out on his departure from the room, and launched it over the banister into the entrance hall. That had to have been what had happened, she thought wildly, for what else could possibly explain the searing pain currently attacking her innards and stabbing at the spot where her heart used to be?
If it weren't for the somewhat too familiar, but always affable, Rebecca floating into the bedroom and bustling Catherine to get ready in her flat, Northern way, Catherine would have happily remained in bed all day. In fact, given the way that she were feeling, she wouldn't have been surprised if she had spent the entire week in bed.
Her stomach felt too disastrous to eat; so food wasn't going to be a problem. Her ankle was still sore; so walking was out of the question. And as to the act of breathing and living? Well she could scarcely see a reason to do either.
Despite this she drifted through the getting ready process, not giving a care to how she looked. She ate perhaps a single fork full of the eggse that was served to her. And as her ankle still gave her pain, she was unable to go for her usual morning walk.
Instead she chose to sit and stare, for anything else was beyond her. With her book folded on her lap, and her hands crossed over it, she gazed at the wall,lost in her state of melancholy.
As Catherine had never been in love before, she was struggled to recognise the feelings she was currently experiencing. Oh of course, she was more than aware that they were to do with her husband the Duke, and the fact that he had quite literally loved her and left her. But to attribute a broken heart to these feelings wasn't quite within the realms of her experience as of yet.
She considered the fact that maybe she were mad? She even pondered on the idea of loneliness, and that this was what was haunting her so. But a broken heart, dashed by the man she had thought she loved, wasn't considered... and anytime it came to the fore, she scoffed at it, pushed it down and hid it, determined not to think on such a thing.
Catherine went through this turbulent stream of emotions for a full day and night, determined to ride them out and pick herself back up. Unfortunately, when she woke the next morning to find that she felt as horrid as she had when she closed her eyes the previous night, she decided that it was time for action.
What she hated the most wasn't so much how she was feeling, but that she was alone in these feelings. To her the Witchford Hall estate felt so vast and empty because it was not her hom
e. As she wandered its halls, her steps echoing off the floors as she went, she became only too aware of her current situation; that with Albright gone, she was doomed to live alone in this great mansion forever.
Oh true, there were twelve house-staff, permanently living in the house with her, but the signs of a good servant was that you didn't know they existed until you needed them —they were ghosts, parts of the furniture. And apart from Rebecca, the servants of Witchford hall were exceptionally good, considering how Catherine almost ever saw them.
It was that second morning that Catherine woke up, before Rebecca had a chance to rouse her, in which she was struck by just how alone she was. Raff wasn't coming back, of that she was sure. He had abandoned her and left her here to rot.
And it was in this realization that she also came to a new decision. She was leaving.
As far as she could see it, she had two options. The first was to spend her days, alone and childless, wallowing in self-pity as she stalked the empty halls of Witchford Hall. She would grow old, alone and die. Of that she had no doubt.
Or two, she could simply leave and start life afresh. There was no way she could go back to Lady Melchamp, who would surely send her back to Raff —which was the last thing that Catherine wanted.
So the only real option that was left to her was to start life anew, with a new name and no title to speak of. It would be difficult, it would be dangerous and it might not even work. But least she knew one thing and that was if she were to do it, she would be gone from this most dreadful place and never would she have to think about her husband again.
And it was because of this and this alone, that she got ready in isolation that morning, caring nought for her appearance, crept down the staircase and out into the gardens.
She knew that beyond the gates of Witchford was a road that might eventually lead her to Norwich, where she might find a stagecoach to take her to London. This was as detailed as her grief stricken plans were, but she pushed on.
Where would she go in London? What she was going to do? How would she find the means to support herself? All these were questions that she had not an answer for.
But she simply did not care, for the only thing she knew was that she wanted to vanish completely from the Duke of Albright's life and pretend the last week of her life had never happened.
A dense, grey smoke cloud hung in the air and drifted throughout the room like a fog on a winter's morn. It swirled and danced as it travelled from one room to the other, spreading itself out and building in size the further it moved. Even when another body would pass through the smoke, swatting it away, it would only come back a moment later, thicker and more tenacious than before.
Cheroots were the cause of this audacious smoke cloud; dozens of them being puffed on – drawn and blown – in every corner of the room by every patron that inhabited said quarter.
But despite this dense air – a near insufferable amount really – it wasn't the smell of cigars that first caught Raff's nose as he entered the establishment. It was the rich smell of mahogany borne from the polished cedar floors and hand-crafted pieces of furniture that adorned said room. It was suffocating in how strong it was, so intense that it must have been purposeful.
As Raff pushed his way through the crowded drawing room, making for a plush leather couch in the furthest corner, he curled his nose and inhaled a huge waft of the cigar smoke, as a means to block the tart stench of polish. And when he did sit down, his sore buttocks calling out in thanks for a chance to finally rest on something so comfortable, the first thing he did was call for a cigar of his own, in the hopes that it might smother the odour.
White's was the most exclusive gentleman's club in all of London, and was filled with a veritable who's who of the ton .The undulating, expensive scent of smoke was an indication as to the level of gentleman that graced the club with their presence, and the overpowering smell of polish was a call to arms for anyone that dared question the authenticity of the woodwork. The club was undoubtedly the best and their brandy was of the highest calibre, and for the latter reason alone, Raff always made a point to walk through the doors the very moment he arrived in London.
Nothing could beat a decent glass of brandy and after the past week's occurrences, White's wine menu was to Raff what an oasis would have been to a man stranded in the Sahara.
It was good to be back in London, he told himself as a discreet footman set a glass down beside him. There would be no second guessing, or changes of heart for he. The moment that he had left Witchford Hall, he had made for town at pace, resting only when his horse required it of him, or when nightfall made it impossible to travel without risk of injury. Perhaps this was why his buttocks were so sore, he thought with a wince as he shifted in his seat.
As physically wretched as the journey had been on the young Duke, it was nothing as compared to the emotional turmoil he had wrestled on the long... very long, journey. This more than anything had near broke him.
It was the memory of Catherine's face that was the cause of said turmoil. When he had confirmed with her the morning of his departure that he was indeed still leaving for London, and she had looked at him with such hurt in her eyes, he had very nearly changed his mind then and there and decided to stay. The only thing that had stopped this change of heart was Raff's own pigheaded stubbornness... and the fact that he could still not yet to admit to what it was he felt.
The entire ride to London it had felt to Raff like he had a wild animal lodged in his abdomen. It kicked and it fought to be free, and whenever he dared cast his mind's eye back to that look Catherine had given him, the wild animal would very nearly climb through his throat and out his mouth. He had never experienced anything like it.
But Raff was stubborn, and the memory of the hurt his father had caused his mother was fresh as if it had happened yesterday, so he convinced himself that it was not his own personal feelings for Catherine that were troubling him so – for surely, he had none – but his worry over her personal state. He wasn't a monster by any means, so the fact that he felt as bad as he did was purely based on his worry for her well-being and nothing more.
Yes, that was what it was and from that stance, Raff would not be budged. Whenever the merest fragment of an idea that pertained to him loving his wife and wanting to be with her tried to climb over the mental barrier he had erected, he simply constructed the barrier to be higher, stronger, more impenetrable.
Either way, and although he was sure that he would be fine from now on, when Raff did trot his mare into the outskirts of London, he made straight for White's Club without hesitation. A stiff drink was needed... and perhaps another after that.
When he had arrived in London, it was rather early in the day, barely an hour or two past noon. It was because of this that Raff's initial purpose was to simply stop by White's, have sample or two of their brandy and move on. He had much to do after that, he intended to return to his home in St. James' Square, then call on his man of business in Bond Street to arrange the lease of several of his properties.
However, as Raff sat in the dark, smoke filled interior of the club, relishing in his isolation while doing all he could to fight off the throes of self-pity that had been haunting him since he had left Witchford, he drank down his first drink with little effort. Following this, he ordered a second and then a third. These two also disappeared down his throat with little delay. Before long, Raff had managed to polish off half a bottle of the establishment's finest brandy and try as he might, he saw no reason to stop.
He was perfectly content to sit and drink himself into a stupor, until he spied an old acquaintance of his, one Philip Nevil, the Viscount of Eldemere, bustling across the room and straight toward him.
"Raff, you old dog! I had no idea that you were in town!"
Philip Nevil was a typical London gentleman in that he never travelled more than a mile outside the borough of London, and never seemed to see a reason to. God knows what state the man's estates were in, Raff thought, b
ut then a chap like Philip did not care for his estates or the tenants they supported. This arrogance and short-sightedness manifested itself in both Lord Nevil's mannerisms and appearance.
A fool if there ever was one, like most men of means that had never seen the world, he carried himself with an inexplicable arrogance, while at the same time possessing the wit and charm of a school boy. Physically, he was overweight, stocky and was prone to dressing himself in audacious silk cravats and coats lined with lavish fur collars —as though he were part of the Russian Court. An odd sort, but that was London.
"Nevil," Raff slurred as he spotted the chubby man making straight for him. Going to stand, Raff found himself unable – the brandy's clearly having done their job -- and thus chose to remain seated as the Viscount approached and fell into the couch opposite where he sat.
"What in the name are you doing back in London?" As Lord Nevil spoke, he glanced over his shoulder and signalled to the footman to bring him a drink. "I heard you ran off and wed some filly from up north?"
"I did," Raff responded as he attempted to sit up a little straighter and realign his blurred vision. "She is... she is..."
"Not here I hope!" Lord Nevil erupted into laughter, his several chins jigging with mirth. "Ah, good man!"
The footman arrived with a glass of whiskey for the Viscount, which Nevil snatched without thanks. "Now tell me," he turned back to face Raff. "Without a hen to watch over you, I assume you are free this evening?"
In response, Raff opened his arms wide, as if to show how unencumbered he was.
"Jolly good!" Nevil slapped at his considerable thighs. "I have heard whispers of a new establishment, filled with only the finest ladies of the demimonde, not too far from here. I say we sample it later? What do you think, old chap?"
Raff narrowed his eyes at the chubby Viscount as he tried to put together a string of syllables that would constitute a response. Unable to do such a thing in his state however, he simply grunted, shook his head and waved the Viscount off.