A Sense of Propriety

Chapter 26

The rain beat down heavily upon the semi-dilapidated slate roof of a countryside inn, the miserable weather forcing all occupants within its vicinity to find shelter inside.

There was one man in particular who stood out amongst the huddling crowd, his regal-like attire drenched in rainwater and mud as he trudged through the entrance. Thick smoke from the various pipes and fires choked his nose and throat, and were it not for the cold water running down his back, he would have returned to his horse that had been taken to the inn's stable.

His steps were heavy, the expensive leather boots caked in mud. His limbs were weary and his expression was held in a permanent scowl for the last several days with no promise of easing. He made his way to an empty table silently and sat down, requesting a drink when the innkeeper approached him.

With a grumble beneath his breath, the Marquis of Midrake removed his top hat from his head and ran his fingers through the dark wet strands a couple of times. For the better part of three days, he had done nothing but ride for extensive periods at a time, going at such speeds that should he not have been a skilled horseman, he would have broken either his horses' neck or his own.

He knew that he should not take his frustrations out on his horses or his anger on his staff. But he could not seem to control himself.

He was angry. Angry at everyone, and especially himself.

No matter how hard he tried, the unwanted memory of Cordelia smiling in the Viscount's arms sent boiling-hot anger rippling throughout his entire body. She had played him for a fool, and he had been stupid enough to fall for her. Her complete disregard for his affection cut him to the quick, leaving him defenceless to the intensity of the pain he was experiencing.

The events leading up to her abrupt departure kept repeating in his mind with torturous continuity. She had changed. The world had changed her. For the Cordelia he knew would never have done something so despicable. She was not the same, and he had blinded himself to that.

He should have noticed it. For all he knew, it could have been a rouse from the start. An excuse for them to be alone in a room without anyone raising any questions. No, he knew it to be true. For there was absolutely nothing wrong with the Viscount when Landon had returned to the room.

Why? Because he was nowhere in sight when he returned. After enquiries were made, he soon discovered that he had left the house completely, vanishing into the night just like Cordelia.

His lips twisted in disdain at the thought, glad that he had ordered the carriage to go straight to London without pause. At least it would have hindered their . . . progress.

The thought made his blood boil with fury. He had thought not seeing her would have made the situation better, would have soothed the gaping wound in his chest a little, but no. She was completely under his skin and a permanent stain on his soul.

The more he tried to forget her, the more he longed to have her.

And the thought made him sick.

With an angry curse, he tossed the hat aside and glared at the mould-ridden wall that faced him. The innkeeper returned with a mug of bad decisions, and he gulped it down within a few seconds before demanding another.

The warmth of the alcohol seared his cold body, leaving a burning sensation rippling throughout his arms and legs. He grunted as he leaned over the table, burying his head in his arms, wishing that he could forget everything.

Wishing that he could forget her.

With his head buried, he heard the booth behind him be occupied by someone who sounded as though he was out of breath, most likely from running from the rain. The innkeeper requested an order, and when the man responded, the Marquis grew rigid.