by Eva Grace
"To London?" Catherine responded evenly, trying her best not to get too excited by the announcement, for that wouldn't be proper. "That's wonderful news. I haven't been to London in what feels like an age."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Albright apologised, sounding anything but sorry as he looked up to meet Catherine's eyes for the first time. "I must have misspoke. I'll be going alone."
"Alone? Why would you be going alone?" Catherine tried, oh how she tried, to keep the accusation and anger from her voice, as the realisation of what he was proposing dawned on her. He was going to abandon her in Norfolk, swiftly and easily disposing of the wife he had not wanted.
"I have business to attend to, nothing that concerns you. I think it best you stay at Witchford and acquaint yourself with the running of the house." Albright picked up his fork and began eating again, as though he had settled matters.
"I see." Catherine bit her lip, and placed her serviette on the table – not on her lap, indicating that she were through with the meal. "And how long will you be gone for?"
"It's hard to say, I'm afraid." Another short, unapologetic sentence. It was so clear that he was lying, and even clearer that he didn't care. Albright's handsome face was closed, his dark eyebrows drawn together in a frown that Catherine would have found terrifying if she weren't so angry.
"And what of me? Am I expected to just stay here, wandering the moors like a --"
"Easy," the Duke warned as her tone rose and her poise dropped. "You will do as I command, and be glad of it."
A silence filled the room, so tense that Catherine thought that if she picked up her knife she could cut it. The footman who stood at the door wore an impassive expression, but Catherine could see that his eyebrow was twitching slightly in an effort to maintain his neutral face.
"I see," she said again, her voice low as she spoke to the table rather than her husband —she saw everything. Albright's promises that in this sham marriage she would be his equal had been nought but lies. He was as devious and deceptive as she had initially thought him to be. Angry bile rose up her throat and Catherine pushed her chair back and stood.
"And where are you going?"
"I have suddenly lost my appetite."
Without so much as a curtsy or any salutation to speak of, Catherine turned and stormed from the dining room, anger filling her with a restless energy..
Oh, she was aware of how rude what she had just done was —and that she had done it in front of a servant who would surely tell the rest of the staff. And she was also aware that if the Duke were to reprimand her for such an act, that she would have it coming to her. But in that moment she did not give a fig for Albright, gossipping servants or manners.
Albright could proclaim that he was going to London for business purposes, until the cows came home, but she didn't believe him. Not for a second. He was abandoning her and running away to London as a means to escape the marriage that he never wanted in the first place. Once he arrived in town he would no doubt resume the debauched lifestyle that he had enjoyed before this week-long interlude.
A bitter, hallow laugh escaped her lips as she walked through the entrance hall and passed that portrait which had made her think him human. How she had thought that he had hidden depths was now beyond her.
"Your Grace!" Jonathan called after Catherine as she strode toward the front door. "Where are you going?"
"For a walk," she called back angrily, not even bothering to turn around.
Jonathan attempted to hobble after her, but being old and a little worn, was unable to keep pace. "If you wait a moment I'll fetch Michael and --"
"No need," Catherine called back over her shoulder, picking up her pace as she did. "I'll only be gone a short while." And that was that. Even if Jonathan did hurry back and call for Michael, by the time the middle-aged stable-hand found his way outside, she would be well and truly gone.
Raff poked and prodded at the remains on his plate for some time after Catherine had left the dining room; to say that she had stormed out in a huff would be no small understatement. He was surprised that the oak doors, which had been in place since the house was first built, hadn't crumbled under the strength with which she had slammed them.
Why had he not taken his mother's advice, all those years ago, and married the first timid debutant he had laid eyes on. Life would be much easier with a docile wife, but instead he was now paired with a fiery Scottish mad-woman. It was enough to give a man indigestion, he thought ruefully as he threw his fork upon the plate. Pigeon was usually his favourite, but after his altercation with his wife, Albright found his appetite quite diminished.
It was Catherine's reaction to his news that had done it. Although Raff had expected her to be put out by his announcement that he'd be leaving to London on the morrow, he didn't expect her to behave as she did. He had been preparing himself for a little tiff, perhaps a raised voice and a suggestive question or two, but to actually storm out in the manner she had, spoke volumes as to how she really felt.
She was upset. Raff had sensed over the past few days that his reluctant bride had lost a little of her disdain for him, but the tears that had threatened as she stormed from the room, let him know that she had somehow —inexplicably—begun to like him.
What was even more troublesome in Raff's mind, wasn't so much how Catherine felt about his leaving – but how he felt about her feelings.
Clearly she was upset, that was without a doubt. But for a reason that he could not comprehend nor fathom, this upset him too.
Good God man, get a grip, he chastised himself, as an unfamiliar feeling stirred in his breast. If he hadn't known any better, he would have named it guilt —an emotion that he was not used to at all.
A week ago he would have happily left Catherine behind, caring neither hide nor hair for how it may have affected her. Indeed, if it wouldn't have been so frowned upon, he would have left her at the doorstep on their wedding night, ordering the carriage to make haste for London the moment her foot hit the dirt.
But now, after a mere six days spent with the lady, he was actually developing feelings for her.
Raff grimaced as this thought made itself known, pushing its way to the forefront of his mind like some malevolent beast. He attempted to force it back by spooning a heap of boiled cabbage into his mouth, but the moment her tried to swallow, he found himself almost choking with distaste.
In a huff, Raff threw his serviette onto the plate, pushed his chair back and strode from the dining room, knowing that the only means by which to solve this dilemma was to pour himself a fresh glass of brandy and drown in it.
There was no doubt that he had been finding his wife more attractive as the days went on; even he could not deny this truth. It had to do with her eyes, he thought, which were always so expressive. He felt he could read her very soul when she gazed at him, from under her inky dark lashes, her plump lips ever quirked in an amused smile.
Why he had thought her dull was now beyond him, he had never known a woman as quick and amusing.
If it was just a physical attraction that he felt toward her, then Raff would have been able to get past it. A few nights in London would more than do in parching his base desires. But it went beyond the physical, and that was what was actually troubling the young Duke the most.
Raff's study was a little thing, tucked away in a far corner of the house. Where the rest of Witchford's rooms were large, opulent and excessively grandiose,his study was cramped, dark and tiny by comparison. The floors were a dark, hard wood, and the walls were covered in paper of a deep burgundy. The only source of light came from the fireplace that had a perpetual flame burning in the hearth and the majority of the space was taken up by bookshelves, a desk and a single leather Chesterfield.
Raff stalked into the room and made straight for the bottles of liquor, pouring himself a glass of brandy as he did so. Then, taking a very deep sip, he fell back into the couch, content to sit there for as long as was needed; until he overcame this little snag o
f a problem that had been haunting him of late.
It was these damn, bothersome feelings that troubled him. For some reason that he could not work out, he had developed actuall emotions, after three decades of ennui toward the female of the species, and these emotions were directed toward his wife! It was unheard of.
Where before he thought her dull, plain and simple, he had since learned that Catherine was anything but these most demeaning of adjectives.
When they crossed paths each day, she was more than willing to play along with his little game of 'happily married couple,' and when they shared lunch each day she showcased a certain verve and wit that he had not known any lady of means or worth to ever possess. Of course, she was still proper and refined as she ought to be, but whenever he tried to talk over or around her, to demonstrate that he were the head of the house, she would match his imperious attitude with rebellious gusto. It was most alluring, having spent his life going unchallenged by anyone.
Raff took another deep sip of his brandy, and as he did a cold realisation struck him that was so sudden and unexpected that it actually caused his entire body to jump.
Raff William James D'Alton, Sixth Duke of Albright was falling in love with his wife.
How unfashionable, he thought with a start, hastily downing his glass of brandy to numb the strength of his epiphany.
"Your Grace" Jonathan suddenly appeared, lurking nervously in the doorway. "A moment?"
"Yes, yes, Jonathan, come on in." Raff called irritably.
"It's the Duchess, Your Grace" Jonathan's voice wavered with obvious nerves.
"What about her?" Raff queried, sensing how anxiously Jonathan was acting. Something was wrong.
"Well she went for a walk on the moors, not fifteen minutes earlier, Your Grace."
"And?"
"She went alone and --"
Raff was up from his seat and striding across the room the second the words left the butlers lips. "Why was she alone?" he growled, not caring for a moment how his tone might affect the elderly man. He was far too worried now for that.
"I tried to stop her," Jonathan pleaded, his voice laced with anxiety and trepidation. "But she refused. She was in a mood, Your Grace and would not wait for me to summon Michael."
Jonathan placed his now empty glass on the table as he made his way from the study and into the underbelly of the house. "What way did she go?" he asked without breaking stride.
"North, Your Grace...I think. I hope she doesn't wander toward the marshes." Jonathan called from behind, unable to match the vigorous pace that Raff had set.
Raff didn't slow down for the elderly man-servant though, nor did he turn back to thank him for his directions. The chances were that everything was fine with Catherine and that she was simply strolling the moors as she would any other day. But the fact that she was alone, out on a landscape that was still new to her... just the thought of what could happen tore at Raff's stomach, literally sending sharp, stabbing pains through his innards.
If there was ever any doubt as to how he felt about his wife, it was now all but dispelled.
From the house he made straight for the stable where Michael was already waiting with a horse saddled and ready.
"Here you go your, Your Grace," the stable-lad said as he handed Raff the reins.
Raff offered him a courtesy nod as he threw himself over the saddle, kicked his heels into the great beast's side and took off at pace.
It was a particularly cloudy day, a mid-afternoon fog hanging low and thick over the dark heathers of the northern estate. And although the majority of the land was flat and easy to traverse, this fog made it near impossible to see further than a few feet ahead. As Raff moved further and further north, he could hear the rumble of thunder in the distance. A storm was on the move.
After only a few minutes of riding north, Raff was forced to bring his horse to a slow trot as they moved, lest he accidentally trample Catherine unwittingly.
"Catherine!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs. "Catherine!"
His stomach was in knots, only worsening as time passed. Every minute that ticked by felt like an age as he called and searched. He tried to peer through the fog, but found it near impossible. He tried to move north, then criss-cross back and forth as a means to cover more ground, but found this a pointless endeavour. All that he could do was call and pray.
"Catherine!" he tried again. "Catherine!"
For well over a half an hour he moved north, doubling back every few hundred feet just in case he missed something. The storm was getting closer and closer, blackening the sky and shrouding the land in an eerie darkness.
"Catherine!" Raff tried again, ignoring the rain, as it began to drizzle down morosely. The drops were light at first, but again, as he moved further and further north, they soon increased into a torrent. Soon, the rain was bucketing down, near drowning him and causing him to shiver with the cold.
"Catherine!" He held his hands to his ears, trying to listen through the deafening rain and the rumbles of thunder. "Catherine!"
The land squelched audibly underfoot, his horse slopping through the marshes at such a slow rate now that Raff thought he might be quicker walking.
"Catherine!"
"Raff!" It was faint, a whisper through a thunderstorm, but it was something. "Raff!" the call was sounded again.
Without hesitation, Raff turned his horse in the direction of his wife's voice, his heart skipping a beat as he did.
"Catherine!"
"Raff!" The call was louder now. "Raff! I'm over here!"
Through the rain, through the smog, through the darkness, Raff directed his horse in the direction of the call, near crying with joy when he finally spotted Catherine.
It was her yellow pelisse that did it; standing out in the darkness like a beacon. She was on the ground, soaked to the bone and covered in mud. But despite how truly bedraggled she looked in that moment, Raff thought to himself that he had never seen a more beautiful woman in all his life.
"Catherine!" he called, with joy in his heart. He leapt from the saddle and ran to her, his heart hammering in concern. "What happened? Are you alright?"
"It's my ankle!" Catherine moaned, touching gingerly at what looked to be a sprained ankle. "I was walking and my heel got caught in a root of some sort,and I slipped and... and then I went to stand and..." whether she was weeping, or simply out of breath, Raff could not tell. But he also did not care. She was here, as was he and as such, she was going to be fine.
With an easy strength he scooped her up and carried her back to the waiting horse. He then lifted her onto the saddle before climbing up behind her, encasing her body in his arms and guiding the steed back in the direction of Witchford Hall.
The pair did not speak for the duration of the journey home. Rather Raff kept his torso pressed against Catherine, as a means to keep her both safe and warm. The feeling of her nestled in his arms was both comforting and arousing —he had not been this close to his wife and her nearness and the warmth that radiated from her was most distracting.
When they arrived back at the stables, Raff dismounted his horse and lifted Catherine from the saddle. He instructed the stable lad to give the beast a good rub down, before he carried his wife inside, cradling her in his arms.
As with the journey across the moors, neither husband nor wife spoke as he carried her through the house, up the stairs and toward his Ducal Chambers. Catherine glanced up at him nervously as he strode past the door to her own rooms.
Raff made straight for the bed the instant he entered the room. He reached it and lay her on her back carefully, concern for her well-being etched in the softness of his movements. And then, when she was prostrate on the bed, her head firmly ensconced in the soft pillows that adorned the head of the bed, Raff did something that he promised himself he would never do. He kissed her.
He was unable to describe the emotions brewing within him as he looked into her eyes; so sweet and innocent. He was unable to fathom the swelling
he felt, deep within his loins as he lay her down to rest. He was unable to comprehend that he was actually developing feelings toward his own wife. So he did the only thing that seemed right —he kissed her again.
And to his surprise and delight both, Catherine kissed him right back.
What happened next was as unexpected as it was welcome. A fire seemed to erupt between the two as their lips touched and their limbs entwined. Raff had felt passion before. He had felt desire, want and lust. But never had he felt them all so vehemently, and so tenaciously, exploding within him.
This must be what love was, he thought wondrously, before all thoughts and reason disappeared into a haze of pleasure.
It was love making, pure and simple. Where Raff had promised himself that he would never take his new wife, he was now beyond reason. He wanted her, he needed her, he had to have her; never before had he felt such need. It was real, it was passionate and most importantly, it was right.
Never for a moment was it strange, or awkward. Never for a moment did Raff question his decision to make love to his wife. Never for a moment did Raff think of anything other than how much he actually cared for this woman he was making love to.
And as much as this alone should have terrified him, again, he was too lost in the moment. That fear that was bound to come to the fore, that desire to escape any and all romantic obligations, that same fear he had spent a lifetime living by? Well that was for tomorrow. Here and now, he was want to just enjoy the moment and to admit, even if it was briefly, that he could feel love.
It was not Rebecca who woke Catherine the following morning, but the sun. The moment that the rising sun peaked over the horizon and kissed the lower lip of the sky, its beams radiated through the open curtains of the bedchamber. This in turn flooded the entire room in its glow, warming Catherine's face and rousing her from her slumber.
