Chapter Twenty-Five
The sight of Victoria’s tear-streaked face broke Rafe into two. He saw only her, could think of nothing but reaching her and explaining that what she’d seen and heard weren’t the truth, so they might begin to repair what had been damaged. He needed to make things right.
Before he could reach her, however, a strong body collided with him, stopping him dead and nearly knocking him to the ground. Before he could fully recover, Rafe was shoved back and around a corner into an unoccupied parlor, and Victoria was shielded from his sight.
Instead, Luke’s large frame filled Rafe’s vision. His hazel eyes were darkened by fury; his lips were contorted into a snarl. He moved to give Rafe another shove to put him further away from the main entrance, but Rafe smacked his hands away.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded of the American. “That is my wife—”
“And that is my sister,” Luke snapped back in what was just about the only argument that would have made Rafe pause in his red haze.
He, too, had once had a sister whom he would have defended like a hound from hell had she ever been wronged.
For all Luke knew, Rafe had truly harmed Victoria.
“I have been caring for her a lot longer than you have, and I’ll be damned before I stand by and allow you to hurt her.
I do not know what you did, and, quite frankly, I do not care.
I knew you were unworthy of her from the moment I laid eyes on you—a preening peacock without an ounce of honor or humility.
” He poked a finger into Rafe’s sternum, and Rafe’s fists clenched tightly.
“Stay away from her tonight—do not so much as breathe her name. I will be by The Cottage first thing in the morning to collect her.”
Furious with indignation, Rafe slapped Luke’s hand away. “Do not ever touch me again,” Rafe growled dangerously. “You may believe you are helping, but you will not meddle in this marriage—you have no right.”
“You forfeited the right to a private marriage when you wronged her in a public setting,” Luke snapped back. “You have done enough damage; now leave it to us who truly love Victoria to pick up the pieces you’ve left behind.”
The sound of a carriage being whipped into motion, the harsh crunch of wheels on gravel, told Rafe he’d lost his wife. He felt as if a curtain had been drawn over his life, blinding him to the light and warmth to which he’d only just grown accustomed.
It was more than an hour later when Rafe was finally able to procure a mount to ride back to The Cottage.
It was an ill-advised move, but staying at the same estate as Luke and his former lover was not an option.
There was no inn between the Greenleigh estate and The Cottage, either.
His option was to return home in the dark on horseback or sleep in the stables.
Rafe, being who he was, chose the more foolish option.
He’d located Kempton and begged the use of his horse.
His friend took in Rafe’s harried appearance and immediately agreed without question.
It took much longer than it should have with the grooms otherwise indisposed with the guests’ horseflesh and the distractions all around, but Rafe was relieved once he was finally in the saddle.
Normally, he could have overtaken Victoria’s lumbering carriage, but it was unsafe to ride swiftly with only the light of the moon, and he’d also been forced to ride in uncomfortable evening clothes and boots not intended for that purpose.
Never had he appreciated the roomier cut of his riding jackets, the thicker material of his usual breeches, and the comfortable cut of his favorite riding boots.
Surely, he made quite the sight on horseback.
He might have been mortified by the situation had he not been so furious and heartsick over what Victoria must be feeling.
He spent the entire ride back to The Cottage plodding along, holding a lantern aloft until his arm screamed for relief, and replayed Victoria’s stricken reaction again and again in his mind’s eye.
“Damn it all!” he shouted suddenly, unable to continue bottling up his furious emotions, and the sound was enough to cause his mount to shy and prance to the side. He offered it a silent pat of apology before returning to his torturous reliving of the events of that evening.
Everything had been going so well. Victoria had been enjoying herself.
She’d told him she was falling in love with him, for God’s sake!
He’d been looking forward to holding her against his side as they watched the fireworks display together.
Why did he have to so foolishly allow himself to be separated from her?
When he’d thought he was preventing a scene, he saw now he’d been playing right into the trap that had been laid.
Bloody idiot. He should have seen it. He should have known better.
He should never have allowed it to happen.
He berated himself for the first hour of his journey, participated in mental self-flagellation over the possibility that he’d just destroyed what was becoming a beautiful marriage.
That he’d quite likely hurt Victoria—the woman he loved—beyond measure.
It shouldn’t have been possible for him to feel that way about her, but he did.
And, whether he chose to accept it or not, that was the only explanation for the depth of feeling he possessed for her, and how it destroyed him like internal decay to even consider that she would no longer be a part of his life, or that of his nieces and nephew. It would destroy them all.
It had been the worst sort of lie when he’d told Lady Dallow that he did not love Victoria.
The words never should have crossed his lips, but he’d been desperate for her to leave him alone for good.
If he admitted to loving his wife, then the unhinged widow would think there was a possibility of him transferring those feelings to her.
No. It was better she believed him entirely incapable of that depth of feeling.
He needed to quash any hope her delusional mind had that she might rekindle what had been between them.
The words had tasted foul on his tongue and, though he’d said them with good intentions, he felt like a villain for speaking them into existence.
Not that it made it much better, but he never intended for Victoria to hear them.
Eyes burning, Rafe pressed a thumb and forefinger into them and allowed the swaying of the horse beneath him to carry him back to the moment everything had fallen apart.
The shattering of Victoria’s champagne glass was an apt metaphor for the state of his marriage.
Though he’d called his wife’s name, she’d whirled on her heel and taken off in a flutter of skirts that very quickly disappeared around the corner. Teeth bared, he’d spun back to Lady Dallow and thrust his finger at her. “Stay away from me and my family,” he snarled.
“What family?” she’d laughed bitterly, sinking a sharp, thin blade between the plates of Rafe’s armor. If she had her way, he certainly wouldn’t have one come morning—what was his family without Victoria?
Immediate panic and dread set in, and he knew he had to find Victoria; he had to explain what had really happened and what he’d truly meant before she became too upset.
Without wasting another breath on his former lover, he dashed off in the direction Victoria had retreated; however, he was blocked by the crowd on the veranda.
The milling guests had all paused to stare as the first pinwheel of light flared in the sky.
Amidst the entranced oohs and ahhs, he’d dodged between bodies, half-blinded when an explosion happened a bit too low to the ground.
God, what Victoria must have thought of him! Bile had risen in the back of his throat when he’d realized she’d likely never forgive him…and damn him for his past, for it had likely destroyed every chance he’d had had a future worth living.
Were it not for the crowd and getting turned around by heading away from the front door instead of toward it, he might have been able to intercept Victoria before Luke sent her back to The Cottage in the carriage.
If only Rafe could have reached her first—if only he’d had the duration of the drive home to speak to her and convince her that he hadn’t meant any of what she’d heard and that she, Victoria, was the only woman for him for the rest of his days and that he loved her—then he might have had a chance.
As the minutes and hours dwindled by, he knew his chances were growing ever slimmer.
By the time he finally arrived at The Cottage, every window was dark and there was not a single sign of life to be seen in or out.
He knew it had been a hopeless exercise to seek out the window of the chamber she’d occupied alone, as well as the one they’d taken to sharing, but he couldn’t help it.
Of course, he was greeted only by more darkness.
Both he and his mount needed to cool off before turning in, so he dismounted and guided the animal to the small carriage house and its adjoining stables.
The carriage horses were already bedded down, and they whickered curiously at the disturbance, watching as he carefully hung the low-burning lantern on a peg.
Stripping off his ruined coat, he set about wiping down and brushing Kempton’s horse, plying it with fresh water and sweet hay for the night.
Making sure to douse the lantern, he used the watery silver light of the moon to pick his way across the gardens.
He was unsurprised to realize he reeked of horseflesh and sweat as he made his way to the rear of the house and the entrance to the kitchens.
With the way his evening was going, he half expected everything to be barred and locked.
Thankfully, he found his way inside with relative ease; even a single low lamp remained lit like a lonely sentinel.
Taking it up, he ascended the stairs like a man on the scaffold—not because he felt as if he had to answer for his sins, but because he dreaded seeing the pain in his wife’s eyes all over again.
Whether or not he’d put himself in the regrettable situation, the fact remained that Victoria had been wounded, and it fairly gutted him to know he’d been the cause of it.
His feet carried him to Victoria’s door, where he stood for several silent minutes listening for any sign that she was awake—that she waited for him.
There was nothing. Despite Luke’s warnings that Rafe stay away from her, he raised his hand and knocked lightly.
He did not want this to fester. He had to reassure her that it was a horrible misunderstanding. He had to tell Victoria he loved her.
“Victoria?” he whispered. “Victoria?” he asked a little more loudly. “Please, darling…please speak to me—allow me to explain.”
Nothing.
Not a whisper or a breath could be heard beyond the door.
Jaw set, Rafe wrapped his fingers around the doorknob, but it had been firmly locked.
It rattled pathetically, mocking his efforts.
He pressed his forehead and palm to the door, sighing heavily.
His every muscle cried out to hold Victoria, while his heart ached to be held by her.
It was agonizing to be so close to her and yet unable to reach her.
Make no mistake, he recognized that she was the victim in these circumstances, but that did not mean he did not feel pain as well.
He bloody well loved his wife and, rather than enfolding her in his embrace and making love to her until the sky blushed pink with dawn, he would sleep alone in a cold bed, separated by hallway and a chasm of misery.
The last thing he wished was to wake the children or disturb the rest of the household.
If Victoria wanted to bar him from her chamber and have her privacy, then so be it.
He would be prepared to see her and plead his case before Luke arrived and she left with him.
He was terrified that, if Victoria left, she’d never return to him.
Then, he really would have lost everything.
Victoria lay on her side in bed, the coverlet pulled up to her ear as she watched the orange light of the lamp retreat from the seam of the door. There was a soft click from down the hall as Rafe went into his own chamber and shut the door behind him.
She swiped furiously at the molten tears stinging her raw cheeks as she admonished herself for the thousandth time for allowing herself to care for such a man—for being naive enough to believe she’d been privy to a special, gentle side of him.
Despite knowing better, her heart had not listened to her head and, somewhere along the way, she’d fallen in love with the rake.
How foolish could a woman be?