The all-too-familiar heat spread rapidly until she was unable to control herself. His mouth teased— he sensed she was willing. He was a skilled lover and she was helpless as his fingers worked their magic. Down her shoulder, caressing her breasts, then lower to the very centre of her being. Her anger evaporated beneath the heat of her desire— a wildness flooded through her and she grabbed his shirt and tore it from his shoulders.
Keeping his mouth on hers he stripped off his remaining garments then, red hot skin covered her from head to foot. She clawed his back, imploring him, biting his lips in her passion. He plunged inside and with each thrust she felt a pleasure so intense, so fierce, she thought she would die from it. An ecstasy that was almost painful rippled through her and her world exploded; she cried out his name. Then with a final shudder he joined her in release.
He gathered her tenderly believing the passion they'd shared negated all that had gone before. As the pleasure slipped away she became aware of his alcohol-laced breath. She hated herself for becoming a willing participant.
He was dead to the world, exertion and brandy rendering him senseless. She wriggled from beneath him and, blowing out the candles, took the remaining one into her dressing room. Quickly she dressed in her plainest clothes, the ones she wore when he was absent. Five minutes later she stuffed garments into her portmanteau and then from the depths of her closet she removed two cloth bags filled with golden coins. She had been hoarding these from her allowance this past year. There was more than enough in her savings to keep her, and her retainers, for a year at least.
She would take her work box, but there was one thing she needed to do before she left.
Removing the scissors she hacked off her braid at the base of her neck. Alexander was always praising her hair so she would leave it for him as a memento. She tied the cut end with a fresh ribbon, then threaded on her betrothal ring and wedding band and tied a knot.
There was no need to tiptoe around him; he was snoring, deep in a drunken slumber. Without haste she gathered up her plait and placed it on the pillow beside him. A bolster pushed beneath the covers made it appear she was still there, asleep. She wished she would be in the room when he woke and discovered what she'd done.
Holding the candlestick in one hand she slipped out through the dressing room door and somehow found her way downstairs without breaking her neck. What she was doing was, in the eyes of the world, a crime. She belonged to him— according to the law of the land he was free to use and abuse her as he pleased. However she would not remain with a man who thought locking her in a small cold room was acceptable behaviour.
She was thankful everyone had retired for the night as this made it comparatively simple to slip along the dark passageways until she reached the side door used by the junior staff. The sound of the bolt was harsh in the silence, but she didn't hesitate. No time for regrets, her life here was over.
Chapter Seven
Isobel pulled open the side door, closing it quietly behind her. Her bag was heavy, but it was not far across the park to the cottage in which Mary and Sam lived. Her dogs, Othello and Ebony would be overjoyed to see her in the middle of the night. She doubted her loyal retainers would be so pleased, they would be horrified at the way she had been mistreated. There was sufficient money to lease a small house somewhere many miles from here and a new life. She would defy convention and leave the ruins of her old one behind.
Several times during the walk she was obliged to put down her bag and lean, panting, against a tree trunk to recover her strength. The hours she'd spent in the cold must have debilitated her. She intended to be gone long before her husband woke from his drunken stupor and set up a hue cry. His pride would be damaged by her defection; he would not let her go willingly and would demand she return. She would rather die than do so.
It took much longer than usual to reach the cottage. The path ran like a white ribbon in the moonlight and she'd never been so grateful to see the small front door. She hammered with the remainder of her strength and woke her pets.
Minutes passed and then Sam was calling to the dogs, telling them to hush. The clatter of his boots on the wooden staircase meant he was on his way. The door swung open and the animals threw themselves at her; too tired to push them away she tumbled backwards.
'My lady, here, let me help you up. Get away you stupid dogs, haven't you caused enough harm?'
'No, Sam, don't blame them for my distress. Mary must get up at once. We must depart from here immediately. I've left him; nothing on this earth will make me return. My life at Newcomb is over and I must try and make a new one somewhere else, as far away as possible.'
'Come along, let's get you inside and Mary can see to you. I shall get out back and harness up the gig.'
With his support she stumbled inside. Mary rushed to her side, guiding her to the wooden rocking chair that stood to the left of the fireplace in the main room.
'He shut me in the bathing room for hours; I am still frozen to the marrow.'
'The monster! You should never have married him, I always thought him a cold fish, not good enough for you, my pet.' Mary gestured angrily to her husband. 'Didn't I say, Sam, how much weight the mistress has lost these past few months? See, she's shaking, hasn't the strength of a
kitten because of what he did to her.'
'Don't worry, your grace, I'll get you away from Newcomb—we'll keep you safe from further harm.'
As she rested against Sam's broad shoulder she told him of her other decision. 'Please, don't use that title again, I am done with it. From now on I am plain Mrs … ' She was unable to think of a single name to replace her title. All her life she'd been known by a title, first Lady Isobel, eldest daughter of the Earl of Drummond and since her marriage she had become a duchess. Would life be simpler if she was a commoner as most were?
'Don't fret, madam, we shall come up with a suitable name soon enough. Here, sit yourself down. Mary shall make you a hot drink whilst I get the horse out.'
Isobel settled on the cushions. She closed her eyes leaving Mary and Sam do what was necessary to pack their belongings and ready themselves for their flight. Sounds became distant, she wasn't quite asleep, but far enough from reality to gain respite from the pain in her heart—this was far worse than any physical injury.
'Come along, my dear, everything is done. It will be light in an hour or two. Do you have any idea where you wish to go?' Mary offered her arm and pulled Isobel gently from the chair.
She closed her eyes and an image of the huge skies, white sand and the flat green fens of her birthplace filled her head. 'I should like to leave Hertfordshire and return to Norfolk. It can't be anywhere near Bracken Hall, that's the first place he will look for me. But if we go to the north of Norwich we should be safe enough.'
'That's what we thought— it's going to take us several days to get there. With only one horse, we will have to take it in stages.'
'And it's imperative we don't use the most frequented route, and we must travel at night where possible. He will send out search parties. I can't go back and I must not let him find me.'
A cold nose pressed into her hand. She rubbed the silky head knowing it to be Othello as Ebony was already at the door waiting for her to come outside. The one light in this darkness was she would be with her beloved animals.
Sam assisted her into the vehicle; he'd prepared a snug nest in one corner and she curled up. Mary scrambled in beside her. The two dogs flopped down in the well and they were ready. The first faint glimmer of dawn coloured the sky. There was no need to light the lanterns that hung on poles on either side of the carriage. The gentle rocking of the vehicle helped to soothe her misery— with luck she would sleep through most of the journey.
****
Alex forced his eyes open. Where the hell was he? He had no recollection of the previous night—this was not uncommon after consuming so much brandy. Moving his head made his stomach lurch; he took a deep breath through his nose. This was Isobel's bed and he
was naked. He reached out a hand and his fingers brushed against her long braid. Odd —when they made love he always released it as running his fingers through her glorious hair was pure pleasure.
His fingers closed around it. He would undo it now - he hardened at the thought. The ribbon refused to give way beneath his fumbling. He tugged and the plait slithered across his chest. What the hell? Then he understood.
His stomach clenched and he rolled to one side to cast up his accounts. When he'd finished he wiped his mouth on the sheet. Ripping back the covers he gazed at the bolster in the place where Isobel should be. His eyes misted, he fell back on the pillows as the enormity of what he'd done crowded into his head.
Holding her hair against his chest he rolled into the space that she had occupied, breathing in her scent, his face wet with tears of shame and loss. Something clinked against his shoulder. He slid his fingers down the severed braid and found her betrothal and wedding bands tied to the ribbon.
Isobel could not have made things clearer. She had gone—his lovely young wife had left and he didn't blame her. He buried his face in her pillow and his shoulders heaved. For the second time in his life he'd lost the woman he loved and this time it was entirely his fault. His brutality had driven her away.
The stench in the bedchamber made his stomach roil. Unsteadily he swung his legs to the floor and attempted to stand. The pain thumping between his eyes was worse than he could ever remember. He deserved to suffer, deserved to be horsewhipped for what he'd done last night.
He tottered through the communicating door and back into his own rooms. The long braid bounced behind jingling as it hit the boards, the sound a reminder of what he'd destroyed. His misery deepened. She was cutting him out of her life in the same way she'd cut her lovely hair.
How was he going to live without her? The death of his wife and two daughters had all but
killed him, made him frightened to love again. He'd been given a second chance to find happiness and had ruined it by his base behaviour. Last night had been the culmination of his callousness. She had offered him nothing but love and support over the past year and he had spurned it, treating her as if she were of no importance to him. He had remained aloof because he had fallen in love with Isobel and was fearful of being hurt again.
There was no need to send out a search party. She would be with the Watkins couple, in the cottage on the edge of his estate. Isobel believed this to be a secret from him, but nothing happened at Newcomb undetected. Initially he'd intended to confront her, but after considering carefully, he'd decided to leave her servants where they were. She needed this bolt hole.
As he splashed his face with cold water he began to feel less anguished. Maybe matters were not as bad as he assumed. After all, Isobel was his wife, she had promised herself to him and, if given time to reconsider, would realise her responsibility and agree to come back. He would allow her day or two to recover and then ride over. He would not demand she return immediately, but suggest she visit one of his estates in the north. There she could live in seclusion, untrammelled by responsibility, for a few weeks.
His spirits lifted a little. He had behaved unforgivably but he would change, become the man she deserved. She might hate him now, but she would love him again in time. Isobel would return for the seasonal festivities— and what a time of celebration that would be. However much she
loathed and despised him now, she was his wife and, and unlike himself, would not shirk her duties.
He rang the small, brass bell that stood beside his bed, then ramming his arms into his bedrobe he waited for Duncan to answer his summons. The click of the dressing room door heralded his arrival.
'Duncan, I require a bath, and a jug of coffee.'
'At once, your grace. Mr Foster has asked me to inform you all your guests have departed.'
Alexander raised his hand in acknowledgement and wandered to the window to stare morosely across the park. Usually the magnificent stand of oak trees in their autumn glory, the ornamental lake and the rolling vista he'd paid a small fortune to have constructed by Brown, filled him with satisfaction. But this morning it meant nothing. What was the use of having so much when he had no one with which to share it? Until Isobel was back where she belonged he would gain no pleasure from this view.
*
'What do you mean the place is uninhabited?' Alex glared at his man of business, William Hill, who he'd sent to check on the cottage.
'The place is deserted, your grace, the shutters up and the stable empty. I reckon it's been like that for a day or two.'
'Thank you, you may go.' The man bowed and retreated.
Alexander wanted to hurl the nearest object through the window. This was an unmitigated disaster. Why hadn't he had the place checked immediately? He gripped the edge of his desk forcing his anger back— never again would he let his temper rule his behaviour. Isobel's disappearance was no more than he deserved. He had driven her way. He sank into the nearest chair, dropping his head in his hands in despair.
He would not relinquish the search until he was certain she was well and had sufficient funds to live comfortably. He prayed the scandal never reached the outside world. With luck no one, apart from the staff at Newcomb, would know she had gone. She rarely joined him in London, and there were no close acquaintances to make enquiries.
Perhaps her disappearance could be kept secret? He was certain the unfortunate chamber-maids, who had been obliged to clear up the mess he'd made, would not risk their position by gossiping. He would let it be known Isobel had gone to Norfolk to be with her ailing mother— no one would dare question his word. His fingers clenched. What was he thinking of? Let the scandal mongers say what they like—he'd willingly sacrifice his good name if it would bring his wife back to his side.
But where would she go? He would not mount a full-scale pursuit but send out a few discreet enquiries. They should not be too difficult to find despite having had two days start. A gig containing two large black dogs, along with a beautiful young woman and her maid, would be noticed when they trotted through a village or town.
The thought of Isobel being tossed about in that ancient vehicle filled him with remorse. He'd never drink to excess again and would root out the bad influences in his life. From this moment forward he would be a better man. Perhaps when he found her she might be prepared to forgive him. He intended to spend the rest of his life making amends, would never take her for granted again, if she ever consented to return.
He'd never considered the notion of bringing her back by force. If she wished to remain estranged, then so be it. He would retire from society. Now the wretched war was over he could travel abroad and leave his heartbreak behind. Ten years ago he'd been a different man. This mausoleum had been a happy place filled with the laughter of his little daughters and his beloved Eleanor. He'd taken due interest in his tenants, paid attention to his friends and was not the arrogant, hedonistic bastard he'd become.
Small wonder those that used to be his intimates had, over the years, refused his invitations. To fill his loneliness he'd surrounded himself with toadies, sycophants and people not worthy of his attention. Into this hellhole he'd brought his innocent bride, tainted her by association. Look what this degeneracy had led to?
Not bothering to ring for attention, he strode to the door and roared down the corridor. 'Foster, have Hill return immediately. I shall wait for him in my study.'
His butler must have been lurking in the shadows for he stepped forward bowing obsequiously. 'You haven't taken breakfast again this morning, your grace. Shall I have something sent to you?'
Alexander was about to refuse for he'd had little appetite these past two days, but he needed his strength, he could not afford to become unwell. 'As you wish— I want coffee served with it.'
His study was the one place where he was comfortable. Eleanor and the children had never entered here so it wasn't linked to their deaths. He'd no idea if Isobel had investigated this room in his absence; he hop
ed she had, for then he would feel closer to her.
The thought of what Isobel had endured since their marriage almost unmanned him. He'd kept her like an inmate of an asylum. Her wardens had been his too attentive staff. He had been so immersed his own selfish affairs he'd never considered how unhappy she must be with no friends or family to support her.
Hill arrived at the same time as his breakfast and on impulse he invited his man of affairs to join him. They sat and munched together and Alexander was surprised how hungry he was. 'I want you to select three discreet and reliable men, have them ride out and make enquiries as to the direction my wife has taken. They are not to make themselves known, merely follow. When she's settled they can send word to me.'
'My lord, might I suggest we send the men in pairs? That way one can come back with news whilst the other continue his surveillance.'
'Good man, arrange that if you will. I intend to wait two weeks and then close Newcomb, take my staff and move permanently to Town. Make sure these men are aware of my movements and that they don't report here when I’m gone.'
'Do you wish me to remain in your absence, your grace? Or shall I accompany you to London?'
'Come with me, set yourself up somewhere. God knows, there are enough rooms in Grosvenor Square.' He reached into his desk and withdrew a wallet filled with paper notes. He added a substantial bag of coins and the matter was settled.
When the chambermaid had removed the empty tray he stretched out on the day bed in front of the fire. He had not slept since Isobel had run away, every time he closed his eyes he relived his actions and woke sweating and ashamed. He no longer attempted to sleep in his room but took catnaps in his study whenever his eyes refused to stay open.
As he was drifting off to sleep he reviewed what he knew about Isobel's flight. He was certain she had at least three hundred pounds in her possession. Each quarter she had the full amount of her allowance and, as far as he was aware, had spent none of it on frills and furbelows. The cost of maintaining her two servants was negligible. Had she somehow anticipated that one day this moment could come and she would need funds to make good her escape?
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