But it did not explain anything of the wife Rayne had loved.
Perhaps Lady Searle did not wish to speak of an upsetting subject.
Guilt skewered her. “Forgive me, my lady. I ought not to have mentioned Rayne’s first wife. It was not my place to ask.”
“Rayne’s first wife?” Lady Searle was looking at her as if she had just announced she was taking a walk to the moon.
“Yes,” Catriona said hesitantly. “He mentioned her to me previously, and he indicated theirs was a love match. I did not wish to pry with him, but I do admit to wondering what sort of woman she was, for him to have loved her so deeply.”
“Rayne told you he was married?” the marchioness asked.
“Yes.” Confusion filtered through her. Lady Searle seemed genuinely perplexed. “Did you not know her, my lady?”
“I did not know of her,” Lady Searle revealed. “Rayne is terribly quiet about his life in Spain. I… He never mentioned a wife. I had no idea he had wed.”
Catriona did not know precisely what to make of such a revelation.
The earl’s words returned to her, the bitterness in his voice, the hollowness in his stare, the desolation on his countenance. The raw emotion haunted her still. I married her, Lady Catriona. And she is dead.
Her heart ached for him, even as she remained wary of him.
Terribly nervous at the prospect of wedding him.
“When did he tell you, Lady Catriona?” Lady Searle asked.
“At your ball,” she answered, “just before he left. I am sorry, my lady, to foist such news upon you. I would never have mentioned it to you—indeed, I ought not to have, and I know it. What Rayne’s first wife was like is no business of mine. But you are his sister, and I thought perhaps you might give me some insight, some hope of understanding him.”
“That explains the hasty manner in which he departed,” said the marchioness, her tone careful. “I had wondered. Rayne does not prefer society, and I thought it merely the need to escape that prompted him.”
“Dear heavens,” Hattie said, echoing Catriona’s sentiments exactly. “What a muddle.”
“A muddle of my brother’s making.” Lady Searle’s expression was grim.
“And mine,” Catriona added, feeling miserable for upsetting her hostess. “Lord Rayne did not indicate his marriage was a secret. I am so very sorry, my lady.”
“I am grateful he told you, Lady Catriona,” the marchioness said. “Rayne is a law unto himself. He refuses to be bound by propriety and rules, and he has always felt more at home abroad than he ever has here. If he is already opening up to you, divulging facets of his life he has withheld from others, it is a good sign indeed. He is not an easy man to know.”
She sighed, for it seemed to her as if Lady Searle was placing a great deal of hope upon Catriona’s impending nuptials with Rayne. “I wish I had your confidence, my lady.”
“Only think of this,” Hattie said, “you have a far better chance of taming Rayne than anyone has of bringing your disreputable brother to heel.”
She wondered if that were true.
Her chance seemed small.
And then she wondered if she wanted to tame Rayne. If he returned to Spain, she would have her freedom, after all. She would have money, independence, and clout. Everything she needed.
Except for him, she thought. You would not have the Earl of Rayne.
Then again, very likely no mere mortal ever could.
Chapter Seven
One day until she was his.
In the morning, he would take his second wife.
He had not seen Lady Catriona since dinner several nights before. Some distance between them had been necessary, and his desire to suffer through one more dinner or yet another ball had waned to infinitesimal. In short, he could not bear it. Alessandro had exhausted the art of nicety.
Instead, he was borrowing a page from the Duke of Montrose and busying himself with drinking. He was nicely in his cups now, half a bottle of brandy already consumed to keep him from his thoughts.
Thoughts of Maria.
He held the bottle to his lips and drank. Why bother with a glass or even a decanter when the direct source was so much more efficient?
Thoughts of Francisco.
Another sip of brandy. This one burned all the way to his gut.
Thoughts of a violet-eyed minx who made him feel too much. The woman who would become his wife in less than twelve hours.
A knock sounded at the library door. Maldición. Had he not told the butler he had no wish to be disturbed this evening?
“Vete,” he called. Go away. Speaking to his staff in Spanish left them wearing aggrieved expressions as they attempted to decipher what he had said.
“My lord,” came the long-suffering voice of his butler. “You have a visitor.”
Alessandro raised the bottle back to his lips, taking another swig. “Al diablo con el.”
“Ahem.” The butler cleared his throat. “Are you certain that you wish me to convey to your future countess she ought to go to the devil?”
Mierda.
Either he was more sotted than he thought, or his butler had been studying the Spanish language, and his betrothed was paying him a call at ten o’clock in the evening. He placed the bottle upon a table alongside a book he had been trying—and failing—to read before he had settled for the distraction of spirits instead.
And then he rose. “You are certain it is my future countess?” he asked.
“May I open the door, sir?”
He sighed, then stalked across the room and yanked open the portal himself. “Where is she?”
“In the guest parlor, my lord,” his butler said, his countenance stoic and unruffled as ever.
“Is she alone?” he demanded next, despite suspecting he already knew the answer.
“Yes, my lord.”
What in the hell did she think she was doing, venturing out in the night—alone, no less—one day before their wedding? Had she no respect for herself? No inkling of how much unnecessary danger she was placing herself in?
Moreover, why had she come?
What could possibly be the reason?
He wanted answers, maldición, and he wanted them now.
But every thought churning through his brandy-soaked mind fled when he crossed the threshold of the parlor and saw Lady Catriona standing there with a tear-stained face. Something seized inside his chest. He had never before seen her upset, and the stricken expression on her face was enough to make fear clamp down on him, along with a sudden rush of protectiveness.
“Lady Catriona,” he said, closing the distance between them. “What is wrong?”
“Monty,” she said on a sob, hurtling herself into his chest as if it were where she belonged.
Dios, what had the scapegrace done now?
“Montrose?” His arms came around her, which felt alarmingly natural.
Right, taunted a voice within him.
Wrong, he corrected. What he felt for her was the instinctive reaction of a male body to a feminine body pressed against it. Their union was temporary in nature. He would not sully Maria’s memory by fooling himself into thinking he possessed tender feelings for a woman he scarcely knew.
Lady Catriona nodded against his chest, sobbing enough to saturate the fine lawn of his shirt. He was not wearing a cravat, coat, or waistcoat, leaving precious few layers to separate them. “There was an accident.”
Cristo. Montrose was not dead, was he?
“What sort of accident, querida?” His hand traveled up and down her spine in soothing strokes.
“He was racing Viscount Torrington,” she explained, her breath catching on another wave of sobs. “They were both in their cups, and they settled upon some foolish wager.”
“Racing?” What a pair of addle pates. He may be halfway sotted himself, but he had nowhere to go but his bedchamber. And if he knew Montrose, the racing would have been breakneck. “Is Montrose…”
“He
is injured, Rayne,” she said, winding her arms around his waist. “But Hattie’s brother, Lord Torrington is far worse. H-he may not live.”
The depth of Lady Catriona’s distress made sense now. He frowned, a surge of anger coursing through him at Montrose’s recklessness. Would the fool’s stupidity know no end?
Her presence at his home, however, remained a mystery.
“When did this happen, my lady?” he asked, still smoothing his hand over her back in gentle motions.
“A-a few hours ago, but he and Torrington were brought to our home just now, and both are in a bad way,” she said on a fresh wave of sobs. “I am so s-sorry to intrude. Mama is away for the evening, and I have sent for doctors, b-but I am frightened. I did not know where else to go.”
Dios. It made sense now. Lady Catriona was on her own, playing nursemaid to two drunken, broken lords. And she had come to him for aid. The knowledge sent a course of warmth through his chest that not even the urgency of the circumstances could chase.
She needed him.
“I will accompany you,” he told her without hesitation. “How did you come to be here?”
“I b-brought my own carriage. My lady’s maid attended me, and she is awaiting me within it.” She tipped her head back. “Oh, Rayne. I am so frightened for Monty and for Hattie’s brother. If anything should happen to them…”
It would be deserved, he thought grimly. Any man who would go racing whilst thoroughly in his cups was only tempting the devil.
But he did not dare say as much to the distraught woman in his arms.
Instead, he cupped her face, the best way he could imagine comforting her. Her cheek was silken and wet, and the jolt that skipped up his arm, past his elbow at the contact of his skin upon hers was undeniable. “Nothing will happen. And if it should, you have me now, Lady Catriona. I will make certain you are taken care of.”
He had been about to say he would make certain she was not alone, but it was not a promise he could keep. For one day, he reminded himself sternly, he must leave her. That day, however, had not yet come.
“Thank you, Rayne.” The smile she gave him was tremulous.
But then she shocked him by turning her head and pressing a kiss to the center of his palm. An unwanted arrow of heat stole through him. Her gesture had been innocent and unthinking. It meant nothing.
“You need not thank me, querida,” he said grimly, for she was his duty. He was obligated to protect her. Or, at least, she would be his duty tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
The wedding.
Cristo, if he had to wait to marry her, he would thrash Montrose in spite of his injuries.
“Allow me to retrieve my coat, and I will meet you at the door,” he said, forcing himself to release her and take a step back.
She nodded, biting her lip, looking so forlorn, the place in his heart where he had been certain only a dried husk remained, ached. She hugged herself. “As you wish, my lord.”
To hell with it.
Instead of striding away from her, he took a step forward. The subtle hint of jasmine, already familiar, hit him. He clasped her hand in his. “Forget the coat. I do not want to leave your side.”
The words left him before he could contemplate the wisdom of their utterance.
But they were the truth.
Clearly, he ought to have finished the other half of the brandy bottle.
*
Catriona was pacing in the corridor outside Monty’s bedchamber when the door opened and Rayne emerged. His dark hair was disheveled, as if he had been running his fingers through it, and his lawn shirt was rumpled. He looked disreputable sans cravat and waistcoat, but she had never seen a more welcome sight.
“How is Monty?” she asked on a rush, feeling as if she had spent the last hour holding her breath.
“Montrose is settling now with the aid of some laudanum,” Rayne said. “It was fortunate I came. Dr. Croydon required my aid in holding him down to set the bone. He has a broken ankle, and he is an abysmal patient, but that appears to be the worst of it.”
Relief washed over her, along with gratitude. “Thank you, my lord. I am indebted to you.”
“Correction, querida,” he said in his beautifully accented voice. “Montrose is indebted to me. This is the second time I have been present at his sickbed. Fortunately, this time, I am not the man responsible for his injuries. The fool himself is. Although, one could certainly argue he was responsible for his own injuries when I shot him as well.”
She shuddered at the recollection of Monty’s attempt to duel the earl on behalf of the Marquess of Searle. Catriona had been in Scotland at the time, and she had only received word through a letter from Hattie.
At least her brother would once again survive a scrape. She could only pray the same could be said for Hattie’s brother. Worry churned through her. Torrington’s own physician had been sent to aid him, and he had yet to emerge from the guest chamber where the viscount had been carried.
“I am relieved if Monty shall recover,” she said to Rayne then. “But I fear for Torrington.”
Rayne’s countenance remained stern. “From what I understand, Torrington suffered a blow to the head. It may be days until the full extent of his injuries are revealed.”
Hattie would be beside herself with worry when she discovered what her n’er-do-well brother had been about this evening. She frowned. “Perhaps there is something the doctor needs.”
“The servants are more than capable of providing the physician with anything he should require,” Rayne said. “Come, my lady. You are overwrought. Let us find a place to sit.”
“Very well.” Sitting sounded excellent. After all the pacing she had done in her slippers this evening, her feet were sore. Worry had left her exhausted.
She allowed Rayne to escort her down to the salon on the floor below. He directed a maid to bring them tea and biscuits, then led her to a divan. The door to the room remained open—she supposed out of deference to her reputation. Noting it, she could not stifle the almost wild peal of laughter that fled her.
“My lady?” Rayne had seated himself opposite her. “Are you well?”
“I expect not.” It was either laugh or cry, it seemed. The madness of the last few weeks was finally settling in. “Forgive me, Rayne. It is merely the door being left open, as if I have a shred of reputation left to fret over.”
He frowned. “I take your reputation seriously, Lady Catriona. You have never been ruined in my eyes.”
And somehow, the slight tenderness in his statement made her vacillate to the opposite side of the emotional tree. Tears pricked at her eyes. Before tonight, she had not cried often. Indeed, she had not cried in the wake of her ruination. Not even when the full implications of her kiss with Shrewsbury, along with knowledge of how complete his betrayal had been, had set in. Nor when she had been banished to Scotland.
But the brooding Earl of Rayne had only to say one moderately kind sentence, and she turned into a watering pot.
Strike that, not one moderately kind sentence but two. Sobbing over Monty and Hattie’s brother was one thing. Weeping over the Earl of Rayne showing compassion… it was not done.
Either way, she was saved from having to respond—or beginning to cry in truth—by the arrival of the tea tray Rayne had requested. When the maid curtseyed and took her leave as if it was perfectly ordinary for the lady of the house and her suitor to sit about alone at midnight having tea, Catriona moved to pour.
“No,” Rayne said gently, with just enough bite in his tone to make her listen. “Allow me, Lady Catriona. You are overset.”
Yes, she was overset. Having a madcap brother who seemed intent upon achieving his own demise had that sort of effect upon one.
But she did not say that aloud either.
“You have been very kind today,” she observed instead.
For it was true. He had. He had shown a side she had not previously imagined existed. Through the clamor of the situation, he had been
a calming, cool influence. He had known just what to say, what to do.
And he had helped in the setting of Monty’s bone, all while worrying after her welfare.
Rayne’s lips flattened. “I am not kind, Lady Catriona. It is not in me. What I am is a man concerned with his best interests. If your fool brother would have died tonight, I would not have been able to wed you on the morrow.”
She did not believe him. She knew the difference between genuine concern and self-interest when she saw it. Catriona was not as naïve as she had once been. Time, disappointment, and betrayal had seen to that.
“Nevertheless,” she persisted, “I am thankful for your assistance. I cannot imagine the butler or a footman could have held Monty in place for the bone to be set. Perhaps two or three of our most burly servants at once.”
Rayne’s tall, imposing build emanated strength.
A strength she suddenly, desperately longed for.
“Anyone could have done as well,” Rayne dismissed. “And I am compelled to warn you, I cannot say I will appear at Montrose’s bedside a third time. Thrice is not a charm in this instance.”
“I hope he will change his ways.” She was worried for her brother, and she could not deny it. His drinking and carousing were out of control.
Rayne snorted. “Montrose will not change his ways, my lady. I have seen his kind before. The best you can hope for is this latest injury tames his hunger for recklessness to the extent that he will no longer drown himself in drink and then make the sort of mistakes a man cannot undo.”
The earl was the second person in the last few days to tell her Monty would never change. The first had been Hattie. Lord in heaven, she shuddered to think what Hattie’s opinion of Monty would be after this. She prayed Lord Torrington recovered swiftly and fully.
“I believe everyone is capable of change,” she felt the need to offer, not just on Monty’s behalf. She truly did believe it. She had to, or she would lose faith in all mankind. “Do you not think it so, Lord Rayne?”
His face was inscrutable, but his gaze, the color of hot cocoa with flecks of gold she had not noticed before, was intense. It warmed her from the inside out. “I think we are, all of us, what our lives have made us. There is no escaping that.”
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