No Man's Bride (10 page)

Perhaps tomorrow she would be the one scaling the wall.

W
hen Quint strode into his dining room that evening, he did not expect to see his bride. In his experience, women were almost always late, either because they were so vain that they could not leave their mirrors or because they desired to make grand entrances.

He almost wished he wouldn’t see her. Then he could pretend this whole swindle of a marriage had never happened.

But Catherine Fullbright was waiting for him. She stood at one end of the dining room, staring idly at a painting of horses grazing in a field. After the events of the long day, Quint did not feel like talking. But this was his wife, little as he liked to remember that. He supposed he
had better say something. “Do you like art, madam?”

She turned, and he noticed at once that she was finally dressed. She wore a blue-and-white polka-dotted calico gown that was more suited for a day dress and which was also too short and too tight. The sheet she had worn all morning revealed less of her figure. He took a deep breath and tried not to stare. She had gone to some trouble to look presentable by pulling her hair up and away from her face. In the candlelight flickering from the chandelier, her golden hazel eyes shone.

Catherine looked at the picture one last time before replying, “Actually, I care little for art. But I do like horses.”

“Do you ride?” As soon as he spoke, he regretted the words. The image produced in his mind had nothing to do with horses. But the damn dress she wore was too tight at the bosom and strained a bit at the hips. How could he help thinking of unleashing her straining body, removing her gown so she could ride him? He took a step closer, wanting to see her more clearly, to be closer to her.

“I do ride, actually.” She took a step back, and he moved forward again. “My cousin Madeleine and I often ride together.” Her voice wavered. She backed up again, bumping her shoulder on the corner. “Sir, please stand back.”

Quint stopped and shook his head to clear it of lascivious thoughts. He’d allowed his carnal
impulses to guide his actions, and though he might be attracted to her, she made it abundantly clear that she felt nothing for him. This marriage was looking worse and worse.

Not that it had ever looked good. He’d been drugged and deceived. How was he ever supposed to feel affection for a woman who was part of that? And yet, there was no denying he wanted her.

Quint retreated. With a slight bow, he pulled out a chair from one side of the table and inclined his head. He saw her release a pent-up breath. So she was relieved not to be subject to his advances. The long years of their doomed union loomed before him. He had to find an escape.

She took the proffered seat, and he considered his own place carefully. He could sit opposite her and give her the space she needed. Over time, she might not find him so repulsive. On the other hand, he found the idea of yelling at her across the room as they sat at opposite ends of his enormous dining table distasteful. He pulled out the seat beside her. She would have to get used to him sooner rather than later.

He took his place, and his butler entered and began directing the footmen to pour the wine and serve the soup. Valentine inquired after her health and whether the food was to her liking. Catherine smiled and seemed pleased with the food. He waited until she had finished her soup to reveal the train of his thoughts.

“Miss Fullbright—or, rather, I should say Lady Valentine.”

She glanced up at him, eyes narrowed. “Miss Fullbright is fine.”

He frowned. He would have rather she was still Miss Fullbright as well, but she was his wife now, and as such, she’d become Lady Valentine. One day she would be Lady Ravenscroft. He tried to let that thought sink in. “Perhaps we might compromise. As we are married, why not use given names? I will call you Catherine, and you may call me Quint.”

“Quint is your name?” she said with raised brows. “I had no idea.”

“I shall be the fifth Marquess of Ravenscroft. My parents thought it appropriate.”

“I see, and I accept your compromise.”

“Good.” He lifted his wineglass and sipped. That had been easy. He did not think his next proposal would be accepted so warmly. “I have yet another suggestion, and this may be less to your liking.”

She tensed, looking as though she’d been expecting this. “Go ahead.”

“I think that in light of the scandal news of our marriage will certainly cause, it might be best if we were to retire to the countryside. London will have too many distractions.” The image of her cousins climbing through the window flashed in his mind.

Catherine blanched, and Quint bolstered his
defenses, preparing for a fight. Her eyes had turned from honey to amber, and he now recognized that as a sign of her anger. Or was it fear?

“Absolutely not,” she said, just as the footmen came in to clear away the soup bowls.

Quint waved the men away.

“Do you expect me to leave for the country with a man I do not even know, much less trust? In the country, I’ll be alone. I’ll have nowhere to run.” She looked almost wild as she spoke, her eyes bright and the color high in her cheeks. Quint knew that if he made the slightest movement, she would bolt. Quite suddenly, her behavior toward him all morning began to make sense. She’d challenge him, then retreat, challenge him, then cringe back again. Could it be that she feared him?

“Why would you need to run?” he asked carefully.

“How do I know what you plan?” She scraped back from the table and looked prepared to flee. Quint allowed it. He did not move, made no attempt to make her stay.

“I assure you I have no plans, but I suppose you will have to learn to trust me, whether that is in the city or in the country, it makes no difference.”

She shook her head. “It makes a difference to me. My friends are here. And you need to be here in case you receive a letter from one of your friends with a solution to ending this marriage.”

He leaned back in his chair. “A letter from my friends can reach me just as easily in Hertfordshire as in Town. But if we remain in Town, we will attract attention. People will come to call, and I will be expected in Westminster.”

“That is not so very bad.”

Quint went on as though she hadn’t spoken. “People will want to know about our marriage, and they will ask us to dinners and balls because we will be of interest.”

Now her face went pale.

“I’d like to put the social events off for a bit, if possible.”

“As would I.”

Quint noticed that she was clutching her hands together. She took two deep breaths. So her behavior at his betrothal ball had not been a ploy. She was truly uneasy in crowds. Another reason for retiring to the country. He would build her courage and her trust in him. And perhaps he would begin to reveal the nature of her soul as well.

“Good, then I’ll make arrangements for us to leave in the morning.” He began to stand, and she stood too.

“No! I did not mean that you should make arrangements to leave, just that we should avoid the public. Perhaps we could go into seclusion here. Only my cousins and your friends would be allowed inside.”

“I won’t be a prisoner in my own house.” He
began walking toward the door, and each step he took, she matched, backing toward the door.

“And I am already a prisoner. Please, don’t come any closer!”

Quint stopped, leaned on the table, and closed his eyes. She was terrified of him. What the hell had he done to make her afraid? It galled him. He wanted to shake her and tell her that there was no reason to fear. Somehow he doubted that tactic would work.

He opened his eyes. “Catherine, I’m not going to hurt you. You needn’t look like you think I’ll attack.”

“I’m sorry.” She put her hands over her face. “I just-I wish I could go home. And yet I don’t want to go home. I can’t go home ever again.” Her voice was small and frightened, and he wished she trusted him enough to allow him to hold her.

The poor girl’s life had been changed irreparably, and she was fighting that fact as hard as she could. She was holding on to her past, her old way of life, and he could hardly blame her. He’d held on to his own illusions as long as possible. But now he had to face the situation. They were not going to dissolve this marriage—not without more disgrace and shame than he was willing to bring to his name or his family. She was alone in the world now. Except for him.

“Catherine, I know this isn’t what you wanted, but please tell me you understand that part of your life is over. You must accept this marriage.”

“But you said you would write to friends—”

“And I have, but it is something I do to ease my conscience, to know I have explored every avenue. I have very little hope that any of them will find another solution for us. You are my wife, and I do not expect that to change.”

“But why does anything have to change? Why can we not stay here and—”

“No. Everything has changed. Your life as you knew it is over.”

Her lip trembled then, and Quint could not stop himself from closing the distance between them. He couldn’t stand seeing her—any woman—in so much pain. He placed his hand on the door before she could turn the handle and open it. He knew trust was a gift to be given, never taken. But in this case, perhaps the giver needed a bit of encouragement. He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him.

She stiffened at first, her body rigid with fear, then she melted against him. She was crying silently, and he patted her back and shushed her.

After a few moments, her tears subsided. Quint knew he should pull away, but he did not. He liked the feel of her in his arms. She was taller than most women he knew, and he liked that her height was close to his own. She fit him.

And with his mouth close to her ear, whispering words of comfort, he smelled the skin of her neck and felt the softness of her hair. No wonder he thought of peaches when he was near her. She
wore that scent, and her body was giving and supple like that fruit.

And so he did not move. He held her in his arms, basking in her warm body and her sweet smell. Finally, she began to move away, and it took all his willpower, but he let her go. She looked into his face with those indefinable hazel eyes, and a last tear rolled down one cheek. He brushed it away, his hand lingering on the softness of her cheek, then caressing her full lips, and trailing to her chin. He knew he shouldn’t, but he could not resist. He leaned down and brushed her lips with his.

The kiss was sweet, her lips as soft and warm as a summer peach. He wanted to open the fruit, taste its sweetness, explore its flavors and textures, but her hand came up. With a gasp, she pushed him away.

“Catherine, I’m sorry—”

Her eyes were full of fear, and she pushed past him, opening the door and scrambling into the foyer and up the stairs. Quint stepped back into the room and shut the door behind him. No point going after her. He’d scared her now, and it would probably be some time before she allowed him to get close again.

He leaned his head back, and he could still feel her in his arms and smell her on him. God, he wanted her. For the first time, he allowed the traitorous thought that had niggled in the back of his mind all day free. He was glad he had married
her. The sight of her in his bed, wrapped in his sheets—hell, even seeing her standing in his dining room—excited him. God, help him, but he needed to possess her.

More than ever, the necessity of taking her to the country became clear. He did not want a wife who was afraid of him. His country home was small and cozy. There he would have ample opportunity to get close to her, show her how to trust him.

He was still standing in the dining room when he heard Webster speaking to someone in the hall. Quint opened the door and saw his assistant, Harold Meeps. The small, slight man was laden with sheaves of paper, and his glasses were perched on the edge of his nose.

“Oh, good evening, my lord,” Meeps said with a bow that almost tumbled his load. “I hope I haven’t interrupted dinner.”

“No,” Quint strode forward and took a stack of papers. “We’ve just finished.” Glancing at the documents in hand, he noted they were communiqués of various matters before Parliament as well as answers to inquiries he’d made concerning forthcoming bills. “I presume this is not a social call.”

“No, sir,” Meeps said. “You said you would be away from work for a few days, so I thought I would bring some of it to you. As you can see, my lord, we are already behind.”

“Yes, well, that may be a continuing problem,”
Quint answered, waving Meeps toward his study. “I’m afraid I may be away a bit longer than anticipated.” He opened the study’s door and held it until Meeps had passed through. Quint took a seat at his desk and motioned for his assistant to take the seat opposite. As his study was set up very much like his office in Westminster, the arrangement was familiar to the men.

“Are you still feeling ill, sir?”

Quint paused in the midst of organizing his sheaf of papers and raised a brow at his assistant. “An illness? Is that what they’re calling marriage these days? Or is it just my marriage?”

Meeps pushed his glasses back on his nose and wrinkled his forehead. The assistant had red hair and a wealth of freckles, and his freckles stood out more when he was agitated. “You’ve married, my lord?”

Quint shook his head. Meeps had difficulty remembering anything that did not have to do with politics or affairs of state. The man could recite legislation and political speeches verbatim, but he did not recall the name of Quint’s estate or that of his betrothed. “Yes, Mr. Meeps.” Quint began sorting again. “I married yesterday morning. Surely there was something about it in the paper. I confess I have not had a moment to look at it. Have you?”

“No, my lord. Too much happening in your offices right now. But I have the
Times
right here.” He extracted the newspaper from the bottom
third of his stack. “Would you like me to look for a relevant article?”

“By all means.” While Meeps clucked over the news, Quint read and signed and replied to the various correspondence before him. He’d just finished his pile and started on the mountain before his assistant, when Meeps let out a small cry.