He clenched his hands into fists. Catherine was right. He was a monster.
The bottle of scotch was where he had left it the night before. He downed the first shot without blinking, and poured himself a second. The alcohol mocked him as he held it aloft and on a muttered curse Marcus flung the glass against the wall where it shattered upon impact. His legs shook from the weight of his guilt and he collapsed into a leather chair to bury his face in his hands.
Where had it all gone wrong? They had been so bloody happy. So certain of their love for each other. He had never imagined he would ever find someone like Catherine. Someone so sweet and loving. Gentle and kind. But he had found her, and then he had left her. Left her when she begged him to stay, only to return and promptly leave her again. He had driven her into the arms of other men. She had been young and na?ve, an innocent bride of eight and ten. He abandoned her to the wolves to pursue his bloody fortune, and what had that gotten him? How did his cursed riches serve him now? His money did not keep him warm at night. It did not kiss him good morning. It did not put a child in the nursery. He was a fool. A selfish, arrogant fool.
Abruptly Marcus stood. This was his chance, he realized with a sharp intake of breath. His chance to make things better. To repair the damage he had caused. He needed Catherine in his life. Even with her temper and her flair for the dramatic and her silly moods she made his life better. Hell, she made him better.
He wanted to see her nose crinkle again when she laughed. To catch her against him and kiss her senseless in the middle of the day for no reason. To carry her upstairs when she fell asleep reading in front of the fireplace and use only his tongue to wake her. He wanted his wife back… and come hell or high water, he was going to get her.
Chapter Five
It was well past noon by the time Marcus found Catherine behind the cottage curled in the shade of a large oak tree. He had searched everywhere else he could think of first: the stables, the small apple orchard she used to spend hours trying to paint – unsuccessfully, he had recalled with a rueful smile; Catherine was many brilliant things, but an artist was not among them – and he had even started down the road thinking she may have left Woodsgate all together, but had turned around when he remembered the towering oak in the wildflower meadow she had often napped beneath during their honeymoon.
He thought she was sleeping now as he approached, until her head lifted with the alertness of a skittish deer. Quickly she climbed to her feet and brushed a few errant pieces of grass from her long skirts. When she finally lifted her chin the accusation in her cool blue eyes was like a slap to the face. Marcus reeled back as a cold, clammy sweat broke out across his temple. Suddenly winning his wife’s affections back did not seem like such a simple task.
“Cat, I am so sorry –” he began hoarsely, but she cut him off with one raised finger.
“Do not waste your breath in an apology, Lord Kensington. If anything, I should be the one to apologize. I never should have come here. I have sent word to the nearest town that I shall require a carriage to take me to Kensington. From there I will pack my things and return to London with all post haste.” Her voice was level, her expression serene. She might have been telling him about the weather, and Marcus was taken aback by her calmness.
He had expected her to rage at him. To yell and throw things as she always did when she was in the midst of one of her tempers. Or at the very least give him the silent treatment, which she had deemed necessary only once before when he had inadvertently forgotten her birthday. He deserved those things and more for what he done to her, but this… He didn’t know how to react to this.
“What about the divorce?” Bloody hell. Infuriated with himself, Marcus swept a hand through his dark hair and cupped the back of his neck, pinching the muscles that ran taut beneath the skin. He had not intended to mention the damned divorce. Nothing was going as he had pictured it in his mind. Catherine was supposed to be weeping and he was supposed to take her in his arms and beg for her forgiveness before confessing his undying love. Instead she stood before him perfectly composed without a shimmer of a tear on her beautiful face, and he was the one acting like a hysterical female.