Page 44 of The Duke's Bride in Disguise
"Please," at last Emily turned to look at him, her green eyes veiled and unreadable, "Please do not apologise, Your Grace."
Was she angry with him? It was impossible to tell, for her face had taken on an impassive expression, that gave little of what she was thinking away. What did other men do in this situation, Raff wondered, and then it hit him.
"I shall tell your father that we have decided upon a date for the wedding," he said smoothly, glad to have seized on a plan of action, and doubly glad to have regained some sense of control, "After all that, I think a quick marriage is highly appropriate."
"W-what?" Emily stuttered, her mask of indifference slipping away, replaced by a look of abject horror, "Your Grace, we cannot. I cannot."
"You cannot what?" Raff queried, cold ice filling his soul as he waited for her answer.
"I cannot marry you," Emily replied, her voice low and uncertain.
"If it has anything to do with tonight," Raff replied, nerves making his voice harsher than usual, "I can assure you that it won't happen again. Not the kissing—Lud if we are to be married I shall want to kiss you every day—but my boorish behaviour. I love you, Emily, you will make a perfect duchess."
"What is it about me that makes me such a perfect choice?" Emily asked, turning curiously toward him.
"Everything," Raff said desperately, as that familiar feeling—the breathlessness, the tightness in his chest, the sheer panic—seized him. A deafening roar filled his ears and he fought valiantly against the tide of fear that threatened to drown him. He was vaguely aware that Emily was watching him, waiting for a list of reasons as to why he thought her the perfect candidate to be his duchess. His mind, unable to form the words he wished to say—namely that he loved her, her sweetness, her innocence, her freshness—instead recalled his conversation with Coachford in White's.
"Your impeccable pedigree," he said wildly, his breath catching in his throat as he spoke, "You will provide me with sons who can trace their lineage back to the Normans."
"My pedigree?" The instant that Lady Emily replied, Raff knew that he had hit the wrong note. Her voice, usually sweet and lilting, was raised in anger. "You must forgive me for not finding comparison to a broodmare a compliment, Your Grace."
"No, I didn't mean that," Raff began, but before he could continue—not that he could, for he was near collapse—Lady Emily turned on her heel, flounced past him and disappeared through the French doors.
Lud.
Raff let out a long, shaky breath. He could not go after her; not now, not like this. His breathing was laboured and it felt as though—despite the large gasps of breath he was taking—that there was no air in his lungs. Blindly, Raff stumbled through the doors to the library, making a bee-line for the drinks cabinet and the brandy within.
Not even bothering with a glass, Raff took a large swig from the bottle, savouring the blessed warmth of the drink as it made its way down his throat. The instant the brandy hit his stomach he felt mildly better, though his heart still hammered loudly in his chest, so he took another deep drink, and then another, and another, until finally, his treacherous mind had calmed. A woozy, hazy, pleasant feeling overtook him, and when Raff made to take another drink from the bottle, he was surprised to find it was empty.
"Lud," he said aloud, frowning at the bottle. He could open another one, but the sound of the pianoforte, drifting from the drawing room into the library, reminded him that there were still dozens of guests within Kilbride House.
Best escape somewhere more discreet, Raff decided, making for the hallway and calling for a footman to fetch his coat and hat.
"I'll walk, I'll ruddy walk," he said belligerently to Howard, the footman, when he suggested to call for one of the carriages.
"If you're certain, Your Grace?" Howard said, his usually impassive face wearing a look of concern, as he took in the stumbling duke.
"It'll do me the world of good," Raff replied, before weaving, in a dizzy line, out the door.
St James' Square was quiet and Raff kept his head down as he walked the short distance to White's, which was just around the corner. The club was quiet, given the hour, though seated in a plush armchair Raff spotted just the man he wanted to see.
"Coachford," he slurred, weaving his way around the furniture—had there always been this much?—to his friend.
"By Jove," the marquess looked up, the smile on his face faltering as he saw the state that Raff was in, "What are we celebrating?"
"Not celebrating," Raff said, throwing himself into the seat opposite his friend, "Commiserating."
"Oh, dear..." Coachford discreetly nodded to a nearby footman who disappeared before quickly reappearing with a bottle of brandy and two glasses. "Should I assume that this has something to do with Lady Emily?" Coachford asked, as he handed his friend a glass filled with a more than generous measure.
"I told her the reason I wanted to marry her was for her fine pedigree," Raff replied, as he morosely downed his drink.
"Lud, man," Coachford looked horrified, "What were you thinking?"
"I think we can safely surmise that I wasn't thinking," Raff said with a dour laugh, before refilling his glass again. The alcohol had certainly helped with his anxiety, though it did little to dampen the shame which filled him at the memory of what he had said.
"Well, if I know women," Coachford said confidently, after a pause. "It's that it's always best to avoid them for a day or two, when you've annoyed them like that."
"And then she will forgive me?" Raff looked at his friend hopefully.
