"How many more bags must still be loaded, Martha?" Lady Mayfield questioned as she rested in the drawing room, her injured leg elevated and travelling dress draping elegantly about her person.
"Only a few more, m'lady."
"Excellent, we must leave now while there is a respite in the weather. I hate travelling in the rain."
The old maid bowed her head in acknowledgement and moved from the room, leaving the Dowager Countess to stare at the paper in her hands, which she had received from her son. He had made a new acquaintance while at the Midrake ball and had called on him for a visitation.
That was surprising in itself
With his extended stay, she had asked him to enquire what may have happened to his cousin. The groom that she had sent had found nothing more than she already knew, and the lack of knowledge on what Cordelia failed to remember made her extremely uneasy.
Still pondering over the recent events, Lady Mayfield was jarred from her thoughts abruptly by a pounding fist on the front door. She glanced towards the entrance hall with a frown before realization dawned on her. Then her lips thinned into a tight line and she rose from her chair.
The loud knocking continued as she made her way into the entrance hall and noticed the butler reach for the door.
"Remain precisely where you are," she told him firmly, causing the older man to look at her in surprise as she approached the door.
Never once was a lady expected to answer the door. Propriety demanded it. For Her Ladyship to request him not to answer, made him gawk at her in astonishment. But one look at her livid expression revealed to him the severity of the situation, and he bowed before backing away from the door. Lady Mayfield opened the door with a strong jerk, forcing the knocking to cease instantly as she gazed upon the frightfully dishevelled Marquis of Midrake.
He had no hat on his head, causing his dark locks to curl in unruly tangles due to the recent rain. Thick dried mud caked his boots and dirty water splashes marred the once-expensive fabric of his shirt and coat.
All in all, he hardly looked like the Marquis of Midrake.
He blinked, his lips parting as he took note of the unexpected face that met him at the door.
"Lady Mayfield," he stated blankly, at a complete loss for words.
Her expression was stone cold, her shoulders unforgivingly tense as she leaned on her walking cane. "I believe that is my name," she stated without even the slightest hint of humour.
The coldness in her voice jolted the Marquis from his shock, and he cleared his throat as he looked over her head and into the entrance hall of her home. "I need to speak to Miss Sutton."
Lady Mayfield's eyes hardened into pure onyx. "She is not available at present."
She moved as if to close the door on him, but he braced one hand against the hardwood quickly to prohibit the action. "Please, I need to speak to her," he stated, his voice growing urgent.
"And do you think that she needs to speak to you?"
The look of contempt on her face made him lower his gaze. "I . . . was not aware that she was in a state of . . . distress."
The Countess raised her chin indignantly. "Do you honestly take me for a fool, Lord Midrake? Do you? Any man with the slightest sense of propriety would have noticed that she had been incapacitated and would have behaved differently to you. And do not pretend that I did not notice the bruising on her arm, no doubt from when you dragged her outside to be thrown into a carriage. Why should I let such a man be near my niece only to humiliate her further?"
"I . . ." he paused, unable to form an appropriate response.
She stepped closer, her dark eyes blazing. "I have met lesser men who far surpass you in integrity. And quite honestly, after your conduct, the last thing that you deserve is a title. Any gentleman who saw her in such a state would have attempted to remedy the situation, but no. You shuttle her off like a wanton strumpet without even the aid of her maid to assist her on the journey. And now that you have come to realize your shortcomings, you have returned in an attempt to grovel to earn my approval. Well, let me make it perfectly clear here and now. I do not approve of you. You certainly are your father's son, and I hope you are proud of that!"
Lord Midrake thought that the Viscount's words were deadly, but he did not know the feeling until he stared into the furious gaze of the Countess, who appeared lethal in every sense of the word despite being so much shorter than himself.
The butler had come up behind her upon hearing her raised voice, forcing the Marquis' attention back into the house. It was then that he noticed her, at the top of the staircase by the balustrade of the second floor, looking like a mythical nymph in her white muslin gown and pale skin.
Cordelia's expression was guarded as she looked back at him, her lips sealed shut as she watched the scene unfold before her. It seemed as though all others fell away from his sight as he gazed upon her, taking note of the withdrawn look of her eyes and sunken cheeks, no doubt from her recovery from being overdosed.
His heart twisted with pain, and he found himself speaking before he could filter his words. "Do not marry him," he said with all the earnest pleading he could muster.
The Countess' head snapped around to notice her niece surveying the two of them. She turned back to him quickly and, raising a hand to his chest, shoved him out the door before taking a quick step in pursuit to close the door behind them abruptly.
He turned his gaze to the Countess, his gaze beseeching. "Please do not let her marry him," he begged urgently. "Please."
There was a moment of confusion in her gaze before her expression steeled. "And why should I not? He clearly will treat her better than you."
Lord Midrake felt his world collapse around him, and he very nearly fell to his knees before her. "Please, I . . . I was completely irrational for how I treated her, I realize that. I thought . . . I thought that she had played me for a fool. I had no idea that my mother was attempting to rid her of my life. Please, do not let her marry the Viscount. He was an accomplice in the whole thing. He does not love her. He only desires her money."
"Excuse me?" she asked, unable to hide her surprise
The Marquis ducked his head in shame. "My mother . . . she overdosed Miss Sutton on opium in an attempt to make her more compliant when the Viscount proposed to her. It was a set-up. The Viscount is in terrible debt and my mother wanted Miss Sutton out of my life. She bribed him to propose to her while she was in her weakened state with the promise of paying all his debts. They planned it so that I would walk in . . ."
Her gaze was hard. "And who did you hear this from?"
"The Viscount himself. He admitted it to me shortly after I found him being threatened by several henchmen for one of the gambling houses that he owes a great deal of money for."
The Countess remained silent for several breaths as she stared at him, her dark eyes attempting to read his very soul. He was not sure what she saw, for she sighed heavily and uncharacteristically ran a harsh hand down the side of her face.
"This is precisely why we are leaving for Rome. Cordelia does not need to be involved in such a debacle any more than she already has been."
"Rome . . ." he breathed out in shock.
Her gaze was hard and yet searching as she looked at him. "Yes. We will be residing there for the next few months to allow her some time to recuperate. Now, I must continue with the preparations. Kindly take your leave before I ask Nelson to escort you off the property."
Knowing that he could not risk angering the Countess any further, he took a step back and then another. "No need. I shall leave."
"Good day to you, Lord Midrake," she said with a tight jaw before turning and slipping through the door so quickly that it did not offer him the slightest chance of seeing the young lady within.
With a heavy heart and beaten mind, he glanced down at his attire, only now realizing how deplorable he appeared. But he could not find it in himself to care as he walked down the few steps from the front door and made his way to his horse that remained obediently where he left it, its chest still heaving after its strenuous run.
The biting autumn air chilled his hands, making him burrow them in the pockets of his coat. Only, he paused when he felt his fingers brush against paper. Without withdrawing it, he knew precisely what it was.
He had felt so pathetic clinging to it all these years, especially in the last three days when he should have torn it to shreds. But now it was a glimmer of hope; his last hope possibly. With a slight boost in optimism, he grabbed his horse's reins and quickly led him to his townhouse. There were always several staff on the premises to ensure the property remained kept, and he called to one to tend to his horse as he rushed through the house and to his study.
He paid no mind to his furniture as he sat down in his soiled clothes and drew the paper from his pocket to spread it out on the desk before him. Choosing a quail feather with a fine tip, he allowed the words to pour from his fingertips, withholding nothing.
When at last he finished and was waiting for it to dry, he glanced from his window to see a large travelling coach come to a halt before Mayfield House with Martha and several other maids standing outside ready to load the luggage.
Not allowing himself any more time for delay, he took the letter as well as the old paper and gently folded them together, sealing it with the wax seal of his title. Not willing to trust anyone with the letter but himself, he rushed through the house like a madman, much to the astonishment of his staff who only blinked once before he was from their sight.
The distance seemed too far between his house and the coach as the maids assisted in loading the vehicle, and when he saw Martha turn to make her way back to the house, he called her by name.
The old woman paused and then slowly turned to look his way. At first, there was a sign of fondness in her eyes, as was common with most people who had been in long, close acquaintance, but then her expression hardened in an instant to one of cold disdain, the knowledge of how he had treated her beloved Miss Sutton still fresh in her mind.
Nevertheless, she still offered him a low curtsey in acknowledgement, as was compulsory to do so. "Lord Midrake. To what do I owe the pleasure?" she asked, though her grinding teeth proved to him what a lie it was.
He did not waste her time, knowing full well how stringent she could be when it came to time. "I need you to give this to Miss Sutton . . . please," he stated and offered the folded letter to her.
Martha's gaze lowered to the extended object, and her pale lips thinned into a tight frown. "I suppose I cannot enquire as to what it is about?" she asked, though they both knew that it was not her place to ask such questions.
The Marquis shifted uncomfortably under her scrutinizing gaze and lowered his eyes to the pavement beneath them. "It is . . . an apology for my behaviour. It was inexcusable, and I wish to offer her my sincerest apologies for my actions."
Martha's old eyes were stern. "As you should. The household is extremely upset about your misconduct towards her. So much so that we are even leaving because of this. Miss Sutton can no longer bear the city."
"So I am aware," he replied sombrely, remembering all too vividly that they were on their way to Italy within the next few hours. "If . . . you could please give it to her, I would greatly appreciate it."
Martha's lips twisted in a hard scowl. "I have half a mind to throw it in the storm drain after what you did to her! She deserves a sincere apology in person. This," she paused to gesture to the letter, "is a coward's way out. I thought I raised you better than that, Landon."
The Marquis ducked his head further, knowing that his old nursemaid was right in every sense of the word. It was not the way she had raised him, and he knew that he had not only infuriated the Mayfields but severely disappointed the only woman who was ever kind to him in his youth. If he had had more influence on his parents at his young age, he would have prohibited them from firing Martha just because she started looking old.
But at the same time, he was glad to know that such a devoted individual was standing guard over Cordelia, even if it was against himself.
"You may do whatever you feel is best," he murmured at last, completely crushed as his shoulders sagged.
The sight of his defeated expression made the old woman pause, and she noticed for the first time how exhausted he appeared. He seemed to have not slept for many nights, his body sunken and eyes fatigued. His clothes looked as though they had not been changed in days.
She wanted to enquire about his own health, but the door opening for more maids to bring luggage to the coach forced her to turn her attention back to the task at hand.
Silently, the Marquis withdrew from the servants and returned to his own home, dismissing any who came close to tend to him. He walked towards his study with a heavy heart and equally heavy steps, closing the large door behind him with a solid thud.
He gravitated towards the study window, a brilliant floor-to-ceiling design framed by rich crimson drapes that spilt upon the dark wood floor. Beyond the crystal-clear panes, he watched the main road and the coach that was being loaded with the last of the luggage.
Just then, another carriage, a smart-looking chaise drawn by a pair of stunning black stallions stopped before the coach. And then, he noticed her. Exiting from Mayfield house in a gown of soft blue with hair intricately styled and held beneath a matching bonnet trimmed with lace, was the lady who had captured his heart . . . and whom he had so callously thrown aside.
The mere sight of her in all her splendid beauty nearly had him collapsing to his knees, and it took everything within him not to rush down the stairs and plead for her forgiveness. He almost did until he noticed the Dowager Countess exit as well, and the two ladies made their way towards the chaise.
The Countess was assisted into the carriage first, and as the footman was about to assist Cordelia, something caused her to pause. Her gaze lifted and her deep cornflower blue clashed with his stormy grey.
For one blissful moment, time seemed to stop as they gazed upon one another, a very similar instance making its way into both their minds of when he had been sent to the military all those years ago. Only there were several differences between then and now. They were older, and now it was not himself who was being driven away, but the very opposite. And this time, he was the reason that she was leaving.
She seemed to hesitate as the footman gestured for her to step up into the carriage, and for the briefest second, Landon felt his heart leap in hopefulness.
But then something altered in her expression. Her blue eyes hardened in a way that he had never seen before, and her shoulders squared and straightened proudly. When she turned her face away from him, he felt as though he had been shot, and he watched helplessly as she was assisted into the carriage.
She never looked back even as the carriage began to move.
But the Marquis did not leave his post, and he watched in anguish and despair as the chaise eventually moved from sight.
[A/N] Phew, quite a bit happened in this chapter. What did you think of Lady Mayfield? I always love it when a calm, collected character loses their temper when an injustice occurs to someone they care about. But do you think she was right in prohibiting Lord Midrake from seeing Cordelia? Or should she have let him speak to her?
Let me know your thoughts and theories on what is going to happen next in the comments, and thank you so much for all your support!