She closed her eyes and tried to sleep; beside her, Richard did the same.
Disillusionment followed them into troubled dreams.
The next day dawned clear, with a brisk breeze scudding clouds over a pale blue sky-a morning bright with the promise of a new season. Perfect for traveling.
Catriona noted the signs from the top of the manor steps and struggled to reconcile them with the heaviness in her heart.
She would normally have gone to pray this morning, but had changed her mind. It was the first time in her life she'd put something else higher than her devotions to The Lady, but she couldn't deny herself her last sight of Richard. It would have to tide her over, probably for months. Possibly until their child was born. And maybe even longer.
Before her, her people scurried to secure the last of Richard's trunks to the carriage roof-he'd left some things behind, for which she was more pathetically grateful than she would ever let anyone know. They would be her only physical link with him in the coming months.
Blinking back the prickling heat behind her lids, she watched the horses-Richard's handsome greys-led up. Her people, unaware of any undercurrents-not, indeed, the sort of folk who were at all susceptible to such subtleties-threw themselves into the final preparations with innocent energy. They simply imagined this was how it was supposed to be, their trust in The Lady-and in her-was complete. The only member of staff who seemed at all put out was, of all people, Worboys. Catriona studied his long face, and wondered, but could reach no conclusion.
Then Richard appeared from the direction of the stables, where he'd gone to bid Thunderer good-bye. He strode across the cobbles, his greatcoat flapping about his gleaming Hessians. He was immaculately dressed as always, as he paused to give orders to the grooms harnessing his greys, Catriona drank in the sight.
Drank in the faintly bored, distant expression on his face, the easy air of ineffable superiority that was so innate a part of him.
He turned and saw her, hesitated, then strode toward her; Catriona looked her fill. To her, he was, quite simply, gorgeous-the most fascinating man she'd ever met.
He was also the epitome of a bored and restless rake shaking the dust of a too quiet backwater and an unwanted wife from his highly polished boots. That fact was declared in the hard planes of his face as his eyes met hers, in the cynical set of his lips. Bravely, desperately, holding her cloak of regal assurance in place, Catriona smiled distantly.
"I'll bid you adieu, then. I hope you reach London without mishap."
She lifted her head and met his hard blue gaze directly, that had been the most difficult speech she d ever made.
Richard studied her eyes, searched them, for some sign all this was a dream. It felt unreal to him-couldn't she sense it? But even more strong than the sense of unreality was the feeling-the compulsion-of inevitability.
It had seemed inevitable they would marry-he'd accepted that and hoped, in his heart, that from their marriage he would gain the stability he'd sought-he'd needed-for so long. Instead, now, it seemed inevitable he would be disappointed in their union, and would, once again, be footless, unanchored, drifting in life's stream. Unconnected to anyone.
He'd thought-hoped-that their marriage would be his salvation. It appeared he'd been wrong; it was therefore inevitable that he would leave.
Would walk away from his wife and leave her to manage on her own.
Uncharacteristic rancor filled him when her eyes gave him no hope, no sign, no encouragement to change his mind and stay. "I'll leave you then."
The words echoed with the bitterness he couldn't hide.
She smiled and held out her hand. "Farewell."
He looked down, into her eyes, trying to fathom, at the last, what shimmered in the vibrant green depths; he took her hand-and felt her fingers slide into his. Felt the touch of her palm, felt her fingertips quiver. And felt-sensed-
"Here you are sir!"
They both turned to find Mrs. Broom standing beaming just behind them, virtually between them. She held up a packed basket. "Cook and me thought as how you'd be grateful of some real sustenance on the road. Better'n that terrible inn food."
Richard knew for a tact that neither Mrs. Broom nor Cook had ever been to an inn in their lives. It was a measure of how his mind was functioning that that was the only thought he could muster. He felt shaken-and torn-and turned inside out. Taking the basket from Mrs. Broom and summoning a weak smile for her from somewhere, he passed the basket straight to a groom and looked back at Catriona.
Only to see her smile evenly. "Good-bye."
For one instant, he hovered on the brink-of refusing to accept her dismissal, of hauling her into his arms and refusing to let her go, of telling her straitly how things would henceforth be between them-
Her steady smile, her steady eyes-and the black cloud of inevitability-stopped him.
Faultlessly correct, he inclined his head, then turned and strolled nonchalantly down the steps.
Catriona watched him go and felt her heart go with him. Knew to the depths of her soul that she would never be the same-be as strong-without him. He paused to speak to his coachman, then entered the carriage without a backward glance. He sat back and Worboys shut the door; the carriage lurched into motion and headed, gathering speed as it went, down the drive and into the park.
Raising a hand in farewell, one he couldn't see, Catriona murmured a benediction. She watched, silent and still at the top of the steps, ignoring the people trooping past her, until the carriage disappeared into the trees.