The Duke's Inconvenient Bride (Regency Romance)

by Eva Grace

  "A few shires too deep I see?" Lord Nevil chortled, assessing Raff with beady eyes. "Not to matter. I'll go myself and let you know how I fair. If the rumours are to be believed, there's every chance I'll be keen for a second helping tomorrow." And with that, Lord Nevil bid Raff adieu and waddled from the club.

  Raff eyed the rotund Viscount as he made haste, caring neither hide nor hare for the manner in which he had just acted. Usually, Raff tried to keep control of his thirst in case a situation just like that one presented itself. Lord Nevil was neither influential or important enough to worry too much about, but if anyone of real worth came through those doors and saw what an uncontrolled state he was in... well Raff didn't much like the idea of letting loose the contents of his stomach all over them.

  It was because of this that Raff decided to finish his drink as quick as he was able – a single sip remained in his glass, although he was sure it had been full a second earlier – pushed himself to his feet and stumbled from White's without a backward glance.

  As he made for his horse and pulled himself onto its saddle, he could already feel the throes of a headache and a heaving of his stomach coming to the fore. Tomorrow was going to be a struggle and brought into question the real reason he had felt a desire to drink so much.

  The reason he chose to ignore, but the result he was more than happy to contemplate. Not once since he had started drinking had he thought on Catherine or what he had done to her. And despite the way he was sure to feel the next day, he decided this had made it more than worth it.

  *****

  As was to be expected, the next day was a struggle for Raff. He spent the majority of the morning in bed, wondering why on God's green earth he had drunk so much. In fact, so awful did he feel that it wasn't until mid-morning that he even remembered bumping into Lord Nevil.

  Although he cared not for the state he was in when he saw the Viscount, what he did find perplexing was his decision to not visit the brothel with the London gentlemen. The reason that Raff had wanted to return to London in the first place was for such illicit dalliances, and now, the first chance he had got, he had said no.

  How odd.

  There was of course that very faint voice in his head that tried to explain to him that the reason for this avoidance of said salacious establishment was his guilt; that he was a married man and that married men did not sully their vows by engaging in such base activities. But he ignored this voice... an act made easier by the way his head throbbed.

  Lud, he must have drank a whole bottle of brandy, though from the pain and nausea he felt, he was inclined to think that White's had swapped the bottle with turpentine.

  After thinking on his refusal to go with Nevil for a while, Raff came to the conclusion that it was purely a result of the liquor. He could barely move at the time the Viscount made the suggestion, let alone perform anything that might be required of him in the bedroom. Yes, that was it.

  This firm resolve stayed strong through the day and well into the night when Raff found himself at yet another establishment, this time a rather less grand one called The Duck and Spinster. Unlike the White's, The Spinster was about as decrepit an establishment as existed in London. So low on the social scale was it, that Raff didn't dare wear his finest when he drank there. To do so would invite several muggings and a few pick pockets at the very least.

  Rather, he dressed down, and drank up as he sunk ale after ale with fellows and sorts that would have caused his mother to have an apoplectic fit, to see him parlay with. Not that Raff minded. He had never been a true a snob, and when it came to drinking and gambling, these sorts were a far better time than those he was meant to walk with.

  Even better too was that for the majority of the night, Raff managed to keep his mind off Catherine and on the task at hand; that being drinking, gambling and womanising. The first two tasks were easy enough and he took to them like a duck to water. The third however proved far more difficult than he could have ever imagined.

  On three occasions he was approached by different wenches, who suggested – or outright asked – if he'd like to take them upstairs for a tumble. All three times, Raff turned them down. The first time he told himself that she wasn't his type. The second he convinced himself that she was a charlatan looking to rob him. But when he turned down a luscious redhead with a bosom so curvaceous that he could not help but speak to her chest rather than her eyes, he was forced to admit the truth.

  As with the previous night, and tonight too it seemed, Raff was unwilling to engage in a dalliance with another woman because he felt guilty every time the idea came to the fore. Indeed, he reckoned he felt stabs of pain pierce his innards whenever the merest suggestion of a tumble with another woman was thought upon —though of course, that could have been the ale.

  Deciding that his appetites were not going to be whetted, Raff went home early that night, not caring for the drink or the women who called his name as he left. And although he tried to sleep the best he could, he soon found that this too was next to impossible. All he could think on was Catherine, alone in her bed, broken over the way he had acted. Surely, she would be besieged with images of him with other women, laughing and carrying on? Surely, she was in tears as she cried herself to sleep too.

  It was an awful night to say the least, and when the sun broke through the morning fog and poured through his window, Raff leapt from his bed. Five minutes later, he was dressed and shaved, and his put-upon valet had a bag packed for him, and then a minute after that he was on his horse, guiding him toward the road out of London.

  For once in his life Raff's conscience and needs were united —he longed to return to Withford Hall, to his wife and to their marital bed. He would beg Catherine, on his knees if needs be, to forgive him, and then he intended to inform her that there would be nothing convenient about their marriage.

  Raff smiled, as he cantered down the Great Northern Road —he was going home.

  *****

  Raff strode through the doors of Witchford Hall with a spring in his that was admirable, considering he had travelled a three-hundred mile round trip in the space of just a few days —on horseback, no less.

  Indeed, for the entire journey, Raff had felt his mood transform with every step his horse took closer to the Witchford. By the time his eyes cast themselves on the vast tracks of land that signalled the beginnings of the estate, the knot of anxiety and restlessness in his stomach was all but gone, the weight he had been carrying with him had vanished, and the sickening feeling that had been churning at him for the past few days was no more.

  Raff was in such good sorts because he was excited to see his wife and be with her. It was as simple as that and he was through with denying it.

  "Jonathan," Raff called as he made his way through the manor at haste. "Jonatha – ah, there you are," he beamed at the elderly butler as he spotted him rounding the corner. "I know I said I would not be back for a while, but circumstances changed."

  "Of course, Your Grace" Jonathan replied with caution. "We were not expecting you, but you will find the house much as you left in —excepting...."

  "Well I... what was that?" Raff broke off mid-speech as he glanced Jonathan's worried face; the elderly manservant's words reaching him a second after that. "It's much the same, excepting what?"

  "The letter we sent, Your Grace. Did it not reach you?" Jonathan asked, his eyes downcast, his posture even more sagged and bent than usual.

  "No..." Raff began, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed. "What did the letter say?"

  Jonathan could not have looked more uncomfortable with the question, as if he had hoped to avoid the topic entirely. But as it were his duty to answer his master when asked to, he took a very regretful sigh, looked Raff in the eyes and said, "It's the Duchess, Your Grace, she is gone."

  Raff balked as the words washed over him. Like a tidal wave rising from the shore and surging over everything in its path, he felt himself drowning, being swallowed whole with no chance of escape. It was only th
rough pure force of will, and steely determination, that he managed to pull himself together and ask the only question that seemed worth asking.

  "Gone where?" he asked, his voice whisper quiet.

  "We know not, Your Grace —she seems to have vanished."

  Catherine sighed to herself as she dipped a stained ale-glass into the bucket full of soapy water before her. She had run away from Witchford just under a month ago, and still her heart ached during quiet moments when she was afforded time for reflection.

  Luckily, her new role as a bar-maid in The Duck and Drake Tavern, on Hart Street, afforded little quiet time. From dawn until dusk Catherine toiled happily for her new employer, Mr. Robert "Bob" Worthington —an affable gentleman of middling years, who had spotted a lost Catherine on her first day in London and promptly offered her a job.

  "It's on account of how you'll raise the tone of the place, my dear," Mr. Worthington had confessed. Indeed, Catherine did rather raise the tone of the tavern, whose clients were of a mixed calibre of folk. Most days Catherine helped in the kitchens during the morning, before tending to the bar until late at night. She did not engage much in chat with the customers, which seemed to make the men folk like her even more than if she had outright flirted with them.

  "Most men want a woman they need to work for," Mr. Worthington told Catherine with a laugh, "And you give the impression of being very hard work, my love."

  Catherine had blushed and continued to go about her work in a quiet, unassuming manner. In truth, she could not have conversed with the customers, even if she had wanted to, for she carried with her a quiet grief over what had transpired between she and the Duke. Besides, she had thought with alarm, it wasn't like she could even entertain thoughts of finding a new love to marry —for she was already a married woman. She was many things, but a bigamist was not one of them.

  The complexity of her situation was only really beginning to dawn on her, when one afternoon, whilst serving a stew to the luncheon crowd of customers, Catherine heard a rather familiar voice.

  Catherine listened to the conversation drifting from the dining room of the tavern, as she crept through the hallway from the kitchen, a plate of stew for a customer clutched in her trembling hands. When she did crest the breeches of the dining room, making sure to stand back and in the shadows so as not to be noticed, she could not believe who it was that she was seeing.

  It was Captain DeWitt, sitting and dining with Mr. Worthington, chatting amicably as though they were old friends —which she supposed was quite possible, given that Captain DeWitt was a sailor much like half their customers.Captain DeWitt was dressed in travelling clothes, evidently having just arrived. Whether he intended to stay just for a drink, or if he would be there all night, Catherine could not tell, but what she did know that she could not risk him seeing her. She pulled her cap down low over her hair, for she still had a job to do, hoping that the Captain would not recognise her. We only spoke for a few minutes, months ago, she reasoned to herself, and he won't look twice at a serving girl.

  Catherine sidled into the room and placed the plate of stew in front of the customer who had requested it, before turning and making to flee back to the safety of the kitchens. However, in her haste she tripped, emitting a loud squeal as she pitched forward, only managing to right herself at the last second. And it was in this merest of moments, that Captain DeWitt, still chuckling at a joke that Mr. Worthington had made – glanced across the room, spotted Catherine, looked away and then quickly looked back again. And then just like Catherine's had moments ago, his mouth fell open, his eyes bulged and his stare remained.

  Before he was able to do or say anything however, Catherine found herself in the moment and hurried from the room. There was a preparation room next to the dining room that wasn't being used, so Catherine ducked into it, only too aware that she would need the utmost amount of privacy for the conversation that was about to take place.

  "Excuse me, Bob, I need the privy." she heard Captain DeWitt say as the door swung closed behind her. Her heart was racing, her blood was pumping. What was she going to do? What was she going to say?

  "It's out the back lad," Worthington responded, his loud voice carrying easily across to Catherine.

  Catherine listened as the sound of a scraping chair echoed from the room. This was followed by heavy footsteps, growing louder and louder as they crossed the dining room, turned the corner, opened the door to which she hid in, and came face to face with her.

  "Your Grace!" Captain DeWitt gasped as he opened the door to reveal Catherine, cowering in her hiding place. Seeing her now up close, he appeared even more surprised than when he had seen her not a minute before. "What are you... what on earth...?" He was lost for words, barely able to form basic syllables and syntax as he looked upon Catherine the Duchess, dressed in the lowly garb of a tavern wench.

  "Will you keep it down?" Catherine scolded. She took Captain DeWitt by the arm and pulled him deeper into the room. "What are you doing here?"

  "Me?" he asked, rightly aghast. "What am I... what are you doing here? And dressed in these clothes!" Eyes still wide with disbelief, he assessed her a second time as if trying to discern some sort of hidden meaning behind what he was seeing.

  "I work here," she said firmly, finding her feet in the matter. "I have for some time now and I would appreciate it if you did no divulge any unwarranted information to Mr Worthington, for he has been very kind to me."

  "If I don't... Your Grace, forgive me but I'm still struggling to understand..." He looked over his shoulder with haste, as if worried they might be walked in on and caught doing something that they shouldn't be. "What of the Duke? What does he think of this?"

  "My husband does not know." She took a deep breath and held Captain DeWitt's stare. "I ran away and I shan't be going back – and as for you," she said quickly when Captain DeWitt opened his mouth to protest. "I would greatly appreciate it if you were to tell no one what transpired here today. My marriage is none of your concern."

  Captain DeWitt took a moment to assess this request, his mind clearly working furiously as he bit down on his lip and scrunched his brow in thought. As he did so, Catherine held her breath, wondering what on earth it was he was going to say. She had liked Captain DeWitt the first time they had met, and she had gotten the sense he liked her too. She just hoped this was enough.

  "I will not tell Bob Worthington whom you are," he finally said, his voice whisper quiet as if accepting defeat. She let go a grateful sigh, about to thank him when he continued. "But... but..." He looked down at his boots, unable to meet her eye. "But I have no choice but to go at once to the Duke and tell him where you are. I am sorry, but on my honour, I cannot ignore this. I am deeply sorry."

  Although Catherine held no doubt that Captain DeWitt was indeed sorry for this act, and although she could not entirely blame him in his decision, it did not make the blow any easier to bear. As such, she bid the Captain farewell, uttered a quiet thank you and slowly made her way back to her quarters.

  Idea after idea swirled through her mind as she paced the tiny bedroom that had been her home for a month. She could still leave, and try to start again, somewhere else. This idea was quickly dismissed, for the sheen of being anonymous had already started to wear off on Catherine. If she was to run away again all it would bring would be a new day that would bring with it the same old problems.

  Catherine paced and paced,trying to think of what she could do and doing all she could to ignore the obvious fact that soon her identity would be revealed and she would be forced back into a marriage with a man who hated her.

  It was during this panic that Catherine finally came up with an idea or sorts. Well to be fair, it was an idea she had stumbled upon the previous night while lying in bed, but not one she had wished to put into action. In all honesty, the action that she needed to take was only too obvious the more she thought on it-- and that was to stop running and face her problems head on.

  Rather than waiting arou
nd for her identity to be revealed, why not simply go back to her husband's London home and face her problems head on? Her husband was in residence there, gallivanting through the city while he spread his seed willy-nilly, so why not pay the Duke a visit, and confront him with what he did and how it had made her feel?

  It was a terrifying thought the first time Catherine had come up with it, which is why she worked so hard to ignore it. But as she though on it, she came to realise that maybe that was her only option and had been all along. Try as she had been, she was no barmaid, she was a Duchess and to try and act otherwise was a fool's errand.

  As such, Catherine chose to use the afternoon rush of customers, who had engulfed the tavern, as they always did, to slip through the back door, across the cobbled yard and into the streets of London. St. James' Square was, she knew, only a short walk away —though it felt like there were a thousand miles between there and the dark alleyways of the Seven Dials.

  Knowing that if she hesitated, she would loose her nerve, Catherine set walking Westward, toward Covent Garden, from where she would find her way back to the more affluent areas of London quite easily.

  It was as she was walking, thinking back over the past month of her life, that Catherine was suddenly struck by a realisation so severe that when it did hit her, like a lightning bolt coming down from the heavens, she near fell fell over in shock. She had been so busy the previous month, and so determined to not think on her past, that she hadn't even realised how long she had been gone for. It was on account of this steely determination that she had not once stopped to think about the night she and Albright had made love and what the result of this love making may have been... and was.

  She scrunched her brow and bit her lip in frustration as she ran the dates over in her mind, desperate to find a cause of error. But the longer she rode, and the harder she thought, the clearer the situation became. It had been a full month since she had made love to Albright, and in that time her cycle had come and gone unannounced. There could be no doubt in her mind what this signalled:Catherine was with child.