Page 14 of The Duke's Bride in Disguise
Raff was weak. He was not fit to bear his title, and all that he could do was try his hardest to do his duty toward the line. Which of course, meant securing it as soon as possible.
"Does Lady Emily feel the same way? I can't imagine any of today's young ladies being so unromantic."
Coachford's question tore Raff from his deep reverie. He blinked once or twice, in an attempt to gather his thoughts, before giving an indifferent shrug.
"She has made no objections, thus far," he responded lightly, "Though her father has insisted upon a long engagement, to make certain we are capable of at least being civil toward each other. Thus far, it goes well; though my patience is wearing thin."
"I don't blame you for being eager to get a ring upon Lady Emily's finger," Coachford said with a smile, visibly relieved that his friend had shown some trace of enthusiasm, "She's a prime article, if my memory serves me rightly."
"Indeed, she is very handsome," Raff conceded, deciding not to share with his friend that the only reason he wished to march Lady Emily down the aisle, was so that she could produce an heir post-haste and remove one burden of worry from his shoulders. His mind cast back to a few days ago, remembering a pair of huge green eyes staring at him from beneath a white cap. The petite assistant in Mr Hobbs' had for a while been the object of Raff's late night fantasies, but she would have to remain just that; he was a duke, he could not have a love affair with a commoner, no matter how tempting they were.
"In fact, Lady Emily is so handsome that I dare not leave her unattended for much longer," Raff continued, downing the remains of his brandy in one gulp. He had imbibed just enough to get him through a short appearance in Lady Jersey's crowded ballroom. Though, even the thought of the crowds heaving and pushing against him had him on edge.
"Hold your horses," Coachford complained, as he too finished his drink, "I'll come with you; mother insists I show my face."
And so, the two men set forth for the ball.
Sarah Villiers, Countess of Jersey, was theton'sleading social butterfly, and, as such, everyone who was anyone was in attendance when Raff and Lord Coachford arrived at the elegant townhouse in Mayfair. Among the glittering masses gathered, Raff spotted Henry Temple, Viscount Palmerston, who was said to be Lady Jersey's current lover. Raff recalled the rumour that when Lord Jersey was asked why he had never fought a duel, to defend his wife's honour, he had dryly replied that if he was to do so, he would be required to fight every man in London. Their indifference to their marriage vows was almost expected amongst the upper classes, where anything was permissible, as long as one was discreet.
Would Raff permit Lady Emily to take lovers once she had produced the required heir? He thought on this as he crossed the crowded room; fidelity was probably not something he could demand, when he had no intention of remaining faithful himself, he decided. His father had kept a bevy of mistresses throughout his marriage, and though David had been faithful tohisduchess, Laura, Raff knew this was because David had truly loved his wife, and she him.
Love was an utterly abstract idea to Raff, though he had seen many men afflicted by it. The hopeless yearning, the pain, the anxiety—it all sounded so uncontrolled. As a man who strove to always remain in control of his emotions, Raff had decided that love was well for some, but most definitely not for him.
Did he think that he would ever come to love Lady Emily? The fleeting idea was so absurd that he almost laughed. He and Lady Emily would never be more to each other than a means to an end. She would be assured a title and he, an heir. What had sealed the deal, in his mind at least, was that Lady Emily's mother had borne four sons. If ever a bride was destined to produce him a male heir at the first attempt, it was she.
"Lud," Coachford said in a low voice, as they reached the far side of the ballroom, "Your Lady Emily is quite the popular girl."
"Pardon?" Raff, who had been holding his breath until he reached the less crowded space by the French doors, asked with confusion.
"I said," Coachford said, "That your Lady Emily appears to be the bell of the ball."
Raff followed the line of his friend's gaze and spotted his betrothed standing in the centre of a crowd of young-bloods, all of whom appeared enchanted by her. He blinked, for she looked a little different to his eye, but then he realised what it was that seemed to have changed her appearance so much—she was smiling. No, he took it back, she was beaming. Even from a distance, Raff could see that Emily's green eyes danced with laughter and that her soft cheeks were flushed with excitement. She looked enchanting, and had managed to bewitch a number of her audience, if their braying for her attention was anything to go by.
Raff felt a stab of something, deep in the pit of his stomach. He wasn't certain what the feeling was, but it left a bitter taste in his mouth.
"Excuse me," he said shortly to Coachford, who, to Raff's consternation, merely replied with a smug, knowing smile.
Raff crossed the room in three long strides, and as he arrived at Emily's side, he bequeathed his customary ducal glare to the men surrounding her.
"Your Grace," one of the young men stuttered, as his friends' faces paled in unison. Each knew that they had been caught red-handed, flirting outrageously with a woman who was promised to a man with far more power than they. Raff watched with triumph as the group hastily dispersed, leaving him alone with Lady Emily.
"I see you got my invitation," he said, turning to her at last.
"Was that what that was?" came her tart reply and Raff was surprised to find his previously meek and timid fiancée appeared ready to spar with him.
"I rather think that five curt words upon a page could not be described as an invitation, Your Grace," she continued, her tone amused, "At a stretch, I might describe it as a sentence, but that would be too generous."
"I'm not the type of man to write flowery prose," Raff retorted, stung by her criticism, "What's the point in writing twenty lines when one will suffice?"
"Manners, Your Grace," Emily responded, her tone ice-cold, "You might find that a please or a thank you added to the end of a letter renders the tone more inviting than commanding."
"Lud. You're not promised to Lord Byron," Raff groused, ignoring the stab of guilt as he recalled his rather dictatorial missive, "And all the better for you. I will make you a duchess, while all that hellion would make you is ill with a dose of French Pox."
He had rather expected Lady Emily to gasp, for even uttering about diseases like French Pox was strictly forbidden in front of the well-bred daughters of theton. Instead, she snorted in a most unladylike way and gave him a sickly-sweet smile.
"I am glad to hear that Your Grace equates being your bride as preferable to contracting the pox," she whispered, her eyes scanning the ballroom as though she was planning her escape route, "For I, myself, was beginning to wonder..."
