He did not bother to wait for a response. He could not bear it. He needed to escape this house, these walls, all the reminders of who he was, what was expected of him. Marchmont felt as if it were strangling him. The obligations, the pain of his past, all his losses, his sins, the battles he had fought, the depravities he had committed, jumbled together into a sickening knot in his gut.
For a moment, he feared he would cast up his accounts.
And then, he was out of doors, gulping in the fresh Wiltshire air.
But he was still moving, still going.
Where, he could not say, only that he needed to leave.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The journey backto London had proved even more arduous than the trip to Wiltshire had been. Perhaps because this time, Catriona was with child, and the rocking movement of the carriage, coupled with the biliousness she could not seem to shake, made her stomach heave every few miles. And perhaps because the pace they had set—she, Sadler, and Olivia—was grueling. And most certainly because her heart had been dashed into a million tiny, jagged shards by her husband.
Even breathing hurt. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her nose was puffy from all the tears she had cried between Marchmont and the sooty, foggy, busy streets of Town.
By the time she reached London and the Mayfair front door of Torrington House, she was sure she looked a dreadful sight. She had not been able to hold down a bite to eat since Basingstoke, and the last decent meal she had consumed before that had been a meat pie of questionable culinary delight in Salisbury. Even the tea she had attempted to consume had revolted against her in disgusting fashion, leaving her weaker and more miserable than she had been at the onset of her journey.
Worse, she was sure there was at least one vomit stain upon the hem of her traveling gown, and it was entirely possible the sour stench assaulting her nose on the odd breeze originated from her.
Thankfully, she was known to the butler, who showed her into the blue salon to await Hattie with an unperturbed smile of welcome. If he thought it odd she made her call accompanied by her lady’s maid and a child who clutched a small cage in one hand bearing a pet mouse, he said not a word.
But then again, he was in the employ of Torrie, and everyone know the Viscount of Torrington was a ne’er do well of the first order. Or, at least, he had been. Until the accident. Hattie’s letters to Marchmont had been sparse and spare of word concerning her brother, and Monty, being Monty, had not bothered to write her more than a handful of lines, none of which contained any news of note. Even her mother’s letters had been laden with unimportant meanderings on the weather, which seemed a favorite subject of hers.
She could only hope Torrie had improved, and that she was not about to thrust too great an encumbrance on an already burdened household. When the butler took his leave, Catriona commenced pacing, wringing her hands as she worriedly wore tracks in the thick Aubusson.
“Do sit down, my lady,” urged Sadler. “You’ve had so much upset these last few days, and what with all the travel and your sicknesses, it is not good for the babe. You look frightfully pale.”
But Catriona could not bear to sit after having been forced to ride for two days across the countryside once more. Alessandro’s carriage was well-appointed, it was true, but not even the most expensive traveling vehicle could atone for hours spent upon one’s rump.
“I am fine, Sadler,” she reassured her. “Thank you for your concern.”
“You does—do—look like you may be about to cast up your accounts,” added Olivia, her lip curling in distaste.
The mere mentioning of vomit was making her feel as if she may have to empty her stomach all over again. She pressed a hand over the sickly swirl and swallowed against a sudden knot of queasiness.
“I am fine,” she reassured everyone, which was all she seemed to be doing since discovering she was with child.
And which was always the worst sort of prevarication.
She was not fine.
Indeed, she was the furthest from it. She was miserable, physically and emotionally. Drained. Terrified. Elated. Lonely. Lovesick. Grief-stricken. Awed. Tired yet unable to sleep, hungry yet unable to eat. Overjoyed at the tiny life beginning inside her, yet despairing over what it meant for her marriage. She longed for the man she loved, and yet she could not have him.
“You doesn’t—ahem, don’t—seem fine,” Olivia countered, still having quite a lot to learn about her manners. “Have they got any cats here? Ashes can’t live beneath the same roof as those furry little killers.”
It occurred to her, rather belatedly, that Hattiedidhave a cat. A great, fat, snowy white beast called Sir Toby. The creature was most disagreeable. It only liked Hattie and not anyone else.
“There is one,” she managed to say past a fresh wave of sickness. “But fret not, for the thing never leaves her chamber. It’s a most disagreeable cat.”
“Tell me you are not speaking of Sir Toby Belch,” Hattie said as she swept into the room, looking utterly fetching in an evening gown of pretty pink silk with a rich floral motif overlay in gauze.
The contrast between her dark hair and the pale pastel of her gown was arresting. Her hair was artfully curled around her heart-shaped face, and she had never looked more beautiful. Catriona took one look at her beloved friend and burst into tears.
“Oh, my darling,” Hattie crooned, sweeping her into a violet-scented embrace. “Why are you crying?”
She could not seem to find the words, nor to form them. The tumult of the last few days descended upon her all at once, and here, in her friend’s arms, she felt the first bit of comfort she had known since the moment Alessandro had informed her he would be returning to Spain as soon as possible.
That everything they had shared meant nothing to him.
