by Eva Grace
Raff opened his mouth to rebuttal, but as he did, his eyes darted around the room, from the stern and most serious expression drawn across both his mother's and the elderly Lord's faces – expressions which suggested that to even attempt to argue would be the most foolish of endeavours – and then onto Lady Catherine's. She still sat in bed, her face pale and looking more anguished by the second. No doubt the idea of a marriage to him was as repugnant a proposal as she could have hoped for.
But as he took in the scene, weighing up in his head what his options really were, he soon came to the conclusion that of options, he had very few.
"As you wish," he said with an indigent sigh. "I will write the Archbishop immediately."
"Tonight would be best," his mother pressed firmly, perhaps thinking that now that Raff was trapped into a marriage, she must quickly throw away the key. "Walker, fetch some writing materials for His Grace immediately."
"Yes, Your Grace," Walker hurried. His eyes darted quickly to those of Raff's, as if to say 'sorry,' before turning and scurrying from the room.
"Excuse me," Lady Catherine spoke up from her perch on the bed. Her voice was a little harsher than it had been just moments before, as no doubt she was still struggling to come to terms with what had just transpired and how little say she had had in the matter. "I must say, although I was and still am honorees by His Grace's proposal, it must be noted that I have not agreed to it as of yet. And if I may be so bold, I don't think that I will."
"My Lady," Lord Drakefield began slowly, as if speaking to a feeble minded simpleton. "I don't think a young lady like you would understand the implications that what was witnessed here tonight might have on your reputation. His Grace has a reputation of his own and --"
"If you don't mind," Raff cut in suddenly, not caring to be insulted yet again. At that moment Lord Drakefield was one of his least favourite people in the room, if not the country, and Raff —who had his father's temper—did not think that he could restrain the anger he felt much longer . "I would like a word alone with my wife-to-be. This has all happened in a rather haphazard manner and I dare say that she's feeling the pinch of it."
Lord Drakefield looked as if he was about to object, before catching the eye of the Dowager Duchess – who gave him a very firm shake of the head – and decided against it.
Rather, the two simply turned and exited the room, but not before the elderly Lord told Raff he had two minutes alone with his intended, then offered Raff one final look that seemed to say 'be grateful for the way this turned out.'
Once they were alone, and the door was closed behind his mother and Lord Drakefield, Raff felt that he could finally breathe again. Clutching at his chest and just about stumbling forward as he did, he sat on the edge of Catherine's bed, not failing to notice the way she scurried backwards as he did.
"Well?" she said, her voice laced in accusation.
"I hate to say it, but it looks as if we are to wed." He offered her a half-hearted laugh, as if hoping this might ease the tension between the two. It didn't. If looks could kill, Catherine would already be dancing on my grave, Raff thought with alarm.
"That's all you have to say? In case it somehow escaped you, I have no desire to marry you. None. I'd rather throw myself off the London Bridge than --"
"Do you think that I wish to be betrothed to you?" Raff shot back, making sure to match her disdain with equal measures of his own. "Of course I don't, but they have us over a barrel here. Think about it for just a moment. If we don't wed, if you do turn me down, then all of society will think you a fallen woman."
"It's not fair," the flame-haired girl moaned, dropping her head into her hands. "Why should the world think I had succumbed to your charms, when I find you so decidedly un-charming?"
"Well, my reputation does rather precede me," Raff responded, trying to keep the note of masculine pride from his voice. Now was not the time for seeking kudos on the number of notches on his bedpost - it wasn't after-hours in White's.
"You certainly think a lot of yourself, don't you?"
"Look," Raff leaned forward and rested his head in his palms. A throbbing headache had suddenly made itself known and it was an effort just to speak, let alone explain. "This is happening, whether we like it or not. The only morsel of worth I can offer is that I am willing to treat this marriage as the sham it is. I shan't expect anything of you...anything."
"Go on," Catherine said slowly, her green eyes narrowing as she considered his words. He could sense her coming around... or at least her willingness to consider coming around.
"You will be afforded every freedom you wish. You can go as you please and do as you please for all it concerns me. It will be a... how can I best put this – a marriage of convenience. Yes, I rather like that." He chuckled to himself, rather happy in this turn of phrase.
He could feel Catherine relax on the end of the bed, as if his offer were actually appealing to her. "And you? What can I expect from my loving husband?" The word 'loving' was bathed in sarcasm as it dripped off her tongue.
"Oh, more of the same really. I will take lovers as I please, you will not." He spoke in a no-nonsense tone, as if he was in the middle of a business dealing of some kind. "And don't mistake this for some sort of deep desire to one day steal your chastity when my heart yearns for you so. It is more a precaution. If you do sire a bastard, I will not grant him status. I have no desire to even sire sons, be they of my own cloth or not."
"Alright..." Lady Catherine began slowly, speaking in a manner that suggested she was going over the deal in her head, picking it apart, weighing each option. "I suppose I don't have a choice in the matter, and there are worse fates."
"There you go, that's the spirit," Raff said sarcastically at her rather dour response. He slapped his thighs and got to his feet. "Well I'm off to drown my sorrows in a large bottle of brandy. It's almost like we're wed already."
He turned and made for the door, his mouth watering at the thought of drinking himself into a mindless stupor.
"I will never love you," Lady Catherine said suddenly,as his hand touched the door-knob, her voice cool and avoid of emotion.
Raff's hand was wrapped around the door handle as this announcement was made. His body stiffened and he slowly turned back to face his future wife, making sure to offer her his most charming, most dazzling and in that, his most sincere of smiles. "My good-wife, you never need fear me falling in love with you, for the world will surely end long before that happens."
And he opened the door, walked through it and closed it behind him.
The impromptu betrothal of Raff William James D'Alton, Sixth Duke of Albright to Lady Catherine Fitzgerald became the talk of Highfield Palace over the course of the next two days.
Everyone that was lucky enough to have secured an invitation to the house, was delighted that they would be present to witness the most hastily organised of wedding ceremonies -for it was certain to be the talk of the ton, once the season proper began. Every guest suspected that a scandal of some sort had forced the perennial bachelor Duke's hand, but none could learn what such a scandal it might have been. Though many tried valiantly to cajole or sweet-talk the servants, into revealing the house's secrets.
On more than one occasion, Catherine was forced to defend both her future husband's reputation and her own chastity from the veiled insults levelled by some of the guests —Miss Kipling among the chief instigators. She stuk resolutely to the lie hat the pairing was a love match, and that for no other reason than that were the two to be wed, despite the crushing dread that filled her at the thought of marrying a man as cold as Albright.
As well as Catherine's constant rebuffing of nosey enquiries, a firm word here and there from both Lord Drakefield and the Dowager Duchess, also went some ways toward quelling rumours that circulated. But even still, despite this two-pronged defence – even from the most reputable of sorts – come the day of the wedding, and there was scarce a soul about that wasn't convinced something was amiss.
What have I let myself in for, Catherine thought with worry; by all accounts, the not-so-good-Duke was a scoundrel that would sooner bed a wandering tramp than settle down with his own wife for good.
Though, as their marriage was to be nothing more than a convenient piece of paper, she supposed she should not fret too much over Albright's many and varied illicit desires. She did not want him to turn his amorous eye toward her. Was he a handsome sort? Why, of course he was. There was not a woman in the whole of England who could claim to have laid eyes on him and not felt a slight thrill at his rugged beauty. But was he the type of man that she wished to share a bed with? Heavens no! She wanted more than a pretty face in a husband - she wanted understanding, compassion and love, above all else she wanted love. Now here she was, about to get none of these things - least of all love, and there was nothing that she could do about it.
The only form of respite she could find in the wedding of which she did not want to be a part of, was in the fact that it meant she would no longer have to worry about finding a husband, now that the Duke had been foisted upon her. At five and twenty years of age, and with no inheritance left to speak of, she was about as appealing to a young man of means as an old pear a week past its date - as the Dowager Duchess and Lady Melchamp's list of potential suitors had so amply demonstrated, just a few short days ago. A Duke was a catch for any well connected, young lady of great fortune, so for an impoverished spinster such as she, Catherine supposed the ton would think it a miracle.
As such, come the morning of the wedding, as three maids helped her into her best gown and dressed her hair in a becoming up-do, she did her best to at least feign happiness. Who knew, she thought hopefully, one day she might even learn to tolerate the Duke?
The ceremony took place in the morning room of Highfield Palace. As Lady Catherine floated toward her future husband, who stood beside the local Vicar, even she had to appreciate how beautiful the entire production was. For it was just that, a production, albeit set against the breathtaking backdrop of Highfield Palace's sumptuous morning room.
Although she had always imagined her wedding to be as resplendent as the one she was currently partaking in, she had also imagined it to be one that she actually wanted to be a party to. Catherine had always imagined that her husband would be a dashing Lord, and that she would be as in love with he, as he was with her. She had imagined that when she saw him standing waiting for her, that she would smile with such an unchecked joy that her cheeks would near burst from the strength of it.
But instead of this most imagined of scenarios, Catherine was required to force a grin, that was almost a grimace, as she made her way down the ailse. Both she and Albright had agreed that they would play the part of a couple in love while all eyes were upon them, so as to add fire to the flames of the lie they had both spent the better part of two days confirming.
And indeed, when the Duke of Albright turned to see his bride making her way toward him, it looked as if he might weep with joy.
It was funny, Catherine thought, that were in not for the circumstance, the Duke actually cut a rather dashing figure. In his tailored cloth, he looked about as strapping a specimen as she had ever seen. A taught frame, with a wide back and firm thighs encased in buckskin breeches, were but a few of his physical attributes. And were in not for how much of a rascal he was, she might have even admitted to herself that he possessed a certain naive charm too.
As Catherine reached the Duke, he turned back to face the Vicar, making sure to again to assume a look of utter happiness. This was followed by a dull hush as the crowd descended into silence, allowing for the Vicar to begin.
"We are gathered here today..." the elderly man began in a painfully slow drawl, that elicited a few stifled sighs from the guests —this might take a while.
As he spoke the familiar ceremonial words, Catherine glanced from her left to her right, taking in a scene that she would unfortunately remember for the rest of her days.
The dozen or so guests were seated facing them, a grouping that was as random as it was hastily assembled. Most people present were strangers to Catherine, having not properly had a chance to meet them properly before her unexpected betrothal. Amongst the few familiar faces was of course her godmother, Lady Melchamp who was still under the impression that this was a love match. Another was Miss Harriett Kipling who wore a riveted expression that told Catherine she was memorising every word so she could relay it to anyone who would listen, once she returned to town.
The last guest to catch Catherine's eye was Lady Drakefield who could not have looked less enthused by the wedding if she tried. Indeed, she stared daggers at Catherine whenever their eyes met as if trying to break her. It was a look that sent a cold shiver pulsating up her spine and one that really seemed to sum up the entire ceremony perfectly; although she doubted that was Lady Drakefield's actual intent.
Catherine drifted through the rest of the ceremony like a woman dosed with laudanum. After the Vicar finally pronounced them man and wife, and she and Albright repaired to the dining room where a breakfast was laid out, shhe engaged in small talk where only she was needed to, knowing she would not remember who she had talked to or what she had said. Catherine smiled and nodded her head when she sensed that it was required, and she even partook in the act of holding her now-husband's hand as they sat and ate their first meal together, in full view of guests and sundry, but inside she felt like screaming.
This wasn't meant to happen, her heart roared, as it beat a tattoo in her chest —she was not supposed to be bound forever to the cold, uncaring man seated beside her.
What Catherine wanted more than anything, as the meal dragged on, was to end the charade and be gone from the prying eyes of others as soon as possible. It was a task to keep up the act of being in love, and despite how much fun her husband seemed to be having with it – announcing to anyone and everyone with gusto that he had known from the moment he had laid eyes on Catherine that he must have her, and that this wedding was as inevitable as the sun rising on the morrow – she just couldn't match his false enthusiasm.
It was therefore with a great sense of relief that once breakfast was finished of Highfield Palace, that the Duke of Albright took her by the hand, announced that it was time the two to leave for one of his Northern estates, and led her from the house to the carriage that was ready and waiting for them.
The moment that she took a seat in the plush carriage, she reached forward and drew the curtain across the window. It was as she did this that she spied from the corner of her eye Albright climbing in behind her and closing the door. Finally, they were alone and the moment they were, her face dropped and her body sagged. The charade was done with.
"Well that wasn't such a chore," Raff said pleasantly as he fell onto the seat directly opposite her. He wore the same boyish grin he had been wearing all day, apparently still in a rather good mood. Although this really shouldn't have surprised Catherine as this sham marriage wasn't going to change his life one iota.
"I'm glad you thought as much," Catherine said with apathy as she looked to the curtain she had just closed, peaking out the crack.
"Come now," he chortled. "A day where all eyes were on you. Where you got to dress up, be the centre of attention. I thought that to be the very epitome of a
ladies dream?"
"What you don't know about a woman's desires could fill a library," she said coldly.
To this, Albright grinned stupidly, as if he took great delight in her acid tongue. She knew that he had engaged in a drink or two at the ceremony and now, a little in his cups, he seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.
As the carriage took off, pulling away from the front steps of Highfield Palace and down the drive way – onward her new home – Catherine dared a quick glance at her new husband, in an attempt to better assess him. He was still smiling; still jubilant in the moment. If it weren't for how much she detested him, she might even have found his brash brand of arrogance charming.
As it was, she had little time to assess him any further, for her eyelids which had felt heavy all day closed and she promptly fell asleep. When she awoke, darkness had fallen outside and she realised with a start that she must have been sleeping for hours.
"You're awake," Albright stated as he saw her stir. He himself had lost his jubilant look from earlier, and was now leaning back against the chair, his legs spread out before him.
He really did occupy rather a large amount of space, Catherine thought with irritation.
"May I ask you a question?" Catherine began with great caution, after they had travelled along in silence for a few more miles. The question wasn't entirely as spontaneous as her tone would have him believe, and she was certain that the Duke would not answer it, but her curiosity had been aroused and would not lie until she at least asked.
"Well we are now husband and wife, so I'm wont to say that you can ask me whatever you like... within reason of course." Albright replied congenially, spreading himself out across the carriage bench, relaxing in the moment and eyeing her curiously.
"Why have you never married before now?"
"Really?" he raised a perfectly arched eyebrow at Catherine as if this were the most perplexing of questions... perplexing in how obvious the answer was. He seemed so disappointed by her that she could tell he was stifling a sigh.
