No Man's Bride (13 page)

“I’m not used to compliments,” she said, looking away. “And I couldn’t tell if that one had a double meaning.” The last was said so quietly, Quint missed several of the words and it took him a minute to piece the statement together. When he did, he laughed.

“Yes, that seat is nice, too.”

“Sir!” she said with a shake of her head, and then she spurred Thor faster. The horses galloped over the green countryside, up small hills and past rambling brooks. Flowers were beginning to bloom in the wild places, and birds sang with abandon from the trees.

A while later they rode beside one another again, and Catherine said, “This is beautiful country. Did you grow up here?”

“No. My family estate is in Derbyshire, but I
spent the occasional week or two here when I was a boy. My grandfather acquired the land and built the house. He intended it for my father, a house of his own until he inherited the marquessate.”

“And did your father ever live here?”

Quint shook his head. “My grandfather died just after the house was finished. My father became the marquess at age fifteen. The house was given to me when I became of age, and I hope to live here many years.”

Catherine nodded. “I am sure your mother and father are very nice people. What do they think of all that has happened between us?”

Quint gave her a sideways glance. She didn’t ask the easy questions. “Naturally, I wrote to my father as soon as I realized what had happened. I asked his advice, but as yet have received no reply.”

“Too soon, I imagine,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Was that one of the ‘friends’ you told me about?”

He nodded and turned his horse back toward the house. He was growing hungry, and morning was fading fast into a blue-skied April noon.

“What do you think he will say?” she asked, turning Thor and spurring him to catch up.

“I think he will say what he always says in these situations.”

“And what is that?”

“To do my duty.”

She laughed, and the reaction surprised him. She must have seen the look on his face because she added, “That sounds like something a father would say.”

“Yes, yes it does,” he agreed. “My father is nothing if not conventional.”

“And you are not?”

“Not at all. My father is a member of the old guard. Sometimes I think the man should have been on the boat with William the Conqueror. He has that conquering mentality.”

“And you do not.”

He saw the doubt in her eyes.

“I want reform. There are people starving in London and throughout the countryside. The poverty is wretched, while so many of us live in luxury.” He gestured to their horses and the beautiful rolling landscape surrounding them. “How can I have all this and begrudge a poor man, woman, or child a full belly?”

“You don’t have to convince me,” she said. “My cousin Maddie runs an orphanage, and she preaches reform all the time.”

“Yes, the orphanages are only the beginning. There’s so much to do, so many reforms to pass, and they are increasingly more difficult to shoulder through Parliament.” He spoke with real feeling, warming to the conversation, until he remembered that he was supposed to be learning
more about her. And somehow she had tricked him into opening up.

“And what does your father think of all your efforts at reform?” Catherine asked, and Quint took the opportunity to direct the topic back at her.

“He thinks I am young and idealistic. He thinks poverty has always existed and will always exist. He thinks I waste my time.” The stables were coming into view, and Quint raised a hand to the boy waiting for them.

“I see.” She was looking into the distance when she said it, and Quint wondered what she was seeing there. Her own father, belittling her efforts? Finding her interests and diversions a waste of time? Or had she and Edmund Fullbright been of the same mind? Annoyed, Quint continued to teeter between believing her the victim of a barbaric father or a deceitful little vixen. Which was she?

Finally, he said, “And my father thinks I am the greatest son a man could have.”

She turned then, her eyes wide with surprise. “But you said—”

“A man can be proud of his son without approving all he does. My father thinks I walk on water. Perhaps it’s a good thing we have our political differences. If I were any more perfect, he’d petition to have me canonized.”

She smiled, and he slowed his horse to give them a few more minutes alone. “I do not expect
perfection, Catie. My parents love me in spite of my flaws, and I will treat my children the same.”

“Your children?”

He nodded and took another chance to prod her. “I know you have not agreed to that aspect of our marriage, but I want you to know, before you make up your mind, that I will treat our children well, and I will love them no matter what.” He watched her closely and saw the flash of disbelief in her eyes.

“The sons, you mean,” she said.

The stableboy was approaching now, and he took Quint’s reins. With practiced ease, Quint dismounted and was beside her, his hand on her waist as he set her down. He looked into her eyes. “The sons
and
the daughters. If they are our children, Catie, I will love them with all my heart.”

Again, he saw the play of emotions on her face—disbelief, scorn, skepticism. “You don’t look as though you believe me, Catie,” he said, still holding her, hands wrapped around her warm waist. “Why not? Didn’t your father love you?”

The veil fell over her face, hiding her emotions for the first time that day. “Let me go,” she finally said, pulling out of his arms. “You’re hurting me.”

He held his hands up, palms out. “I’m not even touching you.”

“You don’t have to.” She turned and fled. He watched her go, and then bent to lift his greatcoat from his feet.

C
atherine didn’t know where she was running or why. She simply knew that she had to get away. She couldn’t breathe when Valentine was close to her. She couldn’t think or reason. For the past two days, it seemed all she did when she was in his presence was to obsess about the way she felt when he touched her. Lord, she did not even believe he had truly begun to woo her yet, and he was already too much in her thoughts.

Not that he could be otherwise, considering she was now in his house and under his protection. Catching her breath, she slowed to a walk, angling away from the house and toward a sparse copse of trees. She needed a moment to be alone. In the past two days, Valentine had spoken first
of her sharing his bed and now of their shared children. She’d never considered that she would have either opportunity. She’d vowed to be a spinster, and suddenly she was in the position to be a wife and a mother.

She took a seat on an enormous root poking out of the ground. She wanted children, but she also feared motherhood. Her own mother was little more than a slave to her father. She was at his every whim, his beck and call. She suffered first and most severely when he was not pleased.

As a result, Cordelia Fullbright was a hard, cruel woman. Catherine did not know if she had always been thus, but she remembered her father berating her in front of Catherine and Lizzy. Catherine had learned to see her mother as an object of disgust. What if Catherine was forced to stand helplessly by as Valentine turned their children against her? Or worse, he might mistreat their children.

No, she would never allow that. She would not be like her mother.

Catherine sighed. More and more, she was torn between yielding to Valentine and resisting him. If she yielded, she risked so much. If she resisted…

But she was in far too deep to think of resisting now.

Yesterday he had said the decision to share the marriage bed was left to her, but a man who would one day be a marquess would need an
heir. And surely he would need a legitimate heir. She was his wife. That was her duty. She could refuse him, and the result?

No heir.

Catherine stood and paced in front of the tree. So the truth of the matter was that Valentine was playing with her. In reality she had no choice. She would bear his children whether she wanted it or not. That was, unless he found a way to be rid of her. And why should he want her to stay? He’d never wanted her to begin with. It was Elizabeth he’d courted, and Elizabeth he obviously still loved. Catherine knew she was a pale second.

She managed to avoid him the rest of the day. She even escaped dining with him as he’d been overseeing a business matter with his steward. But that still left the entire night to be shared, alone with him in their room. She tried to wait up for him, not wanting to be asleep and vulnerable when he came in, but as the hour grew late, her eyelids drooped. There was a creak and she jerked awake. Somewhere a dog barked, and Catherine shook her head to clear it.

She picked up a book. The clock ticked away the hours, the monotonous tock-tock-tock lulling her to sleep. Finally, the words of her book blurred, and the novel grew heavy in her arms.

Her father’s house was full of laughing people. Catie could not see their faces, only their huge
red lips and gaping mouths. She ran and ran, but everywhere she turned faces popped before her, laughing at her.

The hard floor was cold and damp under her bare feet, the way littered with sharp odds and ends that she could not identify in the dark. She stretched her hands out in the blackness, knowing what she would feel but powerless to stop herself.

Her hand closed on the sticky cobweb, and she felt the spider move over her hand. She jumped back, but her foot skidded over a soft, squishy rat. The rat sank its sharp teeth into her flesh.

Catie cried out and shook her foot, trying to dislodge the rat, and it was then that the spider made its way up her arm, past her shoulder, and onto her face. It crawled into her mouth.

Catie screamed.

“Catherine. Catherine!”

With a wrench of air, she sat, arms up and ready for battle. It was dark, and it took her a long, terrifying moment to realize where she was. Moonlight pooled through the curtains, emitting enough illumination for her to see the man at the edge of her bed.

She pushed backward, scrambling away, feeling another scream in her throat, but Valentine caught her, pulled her close and…

Held her?

Suddenly she was on his lap, and he was
rocking her, his hand caressing her hair. “Shh, baby,” he whispered. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

They were the words Catherine needed to hear, and she relaxed, burying her face in his shoulder. He was not wearing a shirt, and his bare skin was cool against her hot cheeks. He felt so good, so strong, so safe. She wanted to curl up in his arms and never leave.

It was a small thing, an easy thing to turn her head so that her lips were against his shoulder. It was equally simple to press her mouth against his neck, feel the quick pulse beating against her mouth. He did not bend his head to hers. She looked up at him, shy and intrepid all at once. He was staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth to hers. She’d never kissed a man, and her heart was racing so fast she feared it would jump out of her chest. She did not know what to expect, but his lips were exactly what she craved. They were cool against her heated skin, and he tasted of mint. She pressed her mouth against his, and the shock of the connection buzzed through her.

Her heart galloped on, and her breath was short. And then his arms tightened on her, pulling her closer so that her breasts pushed against his chest. His prickly hair tickled her through the thin nightgown she wore. His hands held her
securely, but somehow he also managed to touch her. She felt him move over her waist and her hips. He cupped her bottom and she felt the bulge of his erection against her. Quint groaned, and his hold became almost painful.

She was afraid of him and thrilled by the new feelings, too. His mouth descended on hers again, and her head began to swim. The first tendrils of fear and uncertainty cascaded over her skin. She realized that he was easing her back on the bed, and she was torn. His kisses were consuming. She wanted them to go on and on. She wanted his lips and his hands on her all the time.

But then his hand slipped beneath the hem of her gown, and she felt his tentative fingers on her knee. It was too fast, too foreign a feeling, and she bucked and pushed him away. But her struggle was unnecessary. As soon as she’d tensed, she was free. She opened her eyes, his sudden absence making all that came before seem like a dream.

A match flared, and the lamp on the other side of the bed came to life. Catherine squinted at her husband. His hair was disheveled, his color high, and he was running his hands through his thick hair.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I did not mean—” He paused and looked at her. “You were having a nightmare. I only wanted to wake you.”

She nodded. In the lamplight, everything seemed different. She was no longer anonymous.
She was ashamed of her actions. What would have happened if she had not stopped him?

Lord, she still wanted him. That was the most humiliating part. She looked at his bare chest and his rumpled hair, and she wanted to press herself wantonly against him. She wanted to touch him and kiss him and lick him.

Oh, Lord. What was wrong with her?

“Are you well now?” he asked.

She stared at him. No, she wasn’t well. She was thinking about licking him. That was not normal. But then she realized he was speaking of her nightmare. The faces, the closet, the rat bite and the spider. She shuddered violently.

He started for her, but she held up a hand. “I’m well. I just—” She was startled to find tears on the back of her hand when she wiped her eyes, and this time a wave of her hand did not stop Valentine from sitting beside her.

“It’s a dream I have sometimes. A nightmare,” she mumbled, trying to keep him from seeing her face.

“Perhaps talking about it will help,” he murmured. He took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles. “The room is alight. No shadows. Tell me.”

Catherine did not want to tell him. It was silly and humiliating that something from so long ago should still terrify her. She was too old to be afraid of spiders and rats.

And yet she needed to tell him. It was so hard
to keep it all inside. And the dream was so real, so horrifying.

“I’m a little girl,” she heard herself say. She stared down at the bedclothes, not his face, but she was glad he did not release her hand. “I’m in a closet under the stairs. Alone. I’m there because I’ve been bad, and I’m scared because it’s cold and dark, and I can’t see. I cry to be freed, but no one comes.”

Valentine took a deep breath, and she glanced up at him. His eyes were dark. Angry?

“I’m hungry and so frightened, and I’m pounding on the door until my hands are sore. But no one comes.”

The tears were streaming down her cheeks now, and she let them fall. And she let Valentine pull her into his lap again. She’d wanted him to. She’d needed him close to say this last part.

“And then I feel something slither over me. A-a rat, I think, and I jump up and my hand is tangled in a cobweb, and I feel the spider, its furry legs all over me. And I scream and scream. But no one ever comes.”

“Shh,” Valentine said. “You don’t have to say anymore. I’m here now. You can sleep, and you’ll never have to dream that again. I’ll be right here to keep the nightmares away.”

He was lowering her on the bed again, but this time his touch was only one of comfort. She closed her eyes as he pulled the sheets up around her.

“Catherine,” he whispered just as she began to drift off, “how old were you when he locked you in the closet?”

“Ten,” she said. He began to pull away, and she reached out and caught his wrist. “But it was only a dream. You understand that?”

He leaned over her and caressed her cheek. “I understand. Now I understand.”

The next morning Catherine received three letters: one from Ashley, one from Madeleine, and one from Josephine. All three were angered that she had been forced to leave Town, for they assumed she would never leave of her own volition. Ashley seemed to take her absence as a personal affront and threatened to come out to Hertfordshire and make sure she was well. Maddie talked more of events in Town, particularly the difficulty her father was giving her about going to the orphanage every day. He worried for her safety.

Catherine wished Josie’s father would worry more for her safety. Josie’s letter was filled with tales of a Lord Westman and pirate’s treasure. As usual, it sounded like Josie was getting into plenty of trouble.

Catherine spent the morning writing letters to reassure her cousins and to give them her opinions on their various dilemmas. Maddie got sympathy and Josie a stern lecture. Ashley was instructed to stay in London for the time being.

Catherine stayed in her room as long as possible, avoiding Valentine. The events of the night before had not been far from her mind. She was ashamed of her forwardness, angry that she had told Valentine about her “dream,” mortified that when he saw her again he would pretend nothing happened and mortified that he would not.

There were so many times in the short days of their acquaintance that he had seemed to want her. He’d touched her and looked at her with desire in his eyes. Last night he could have had her. Catherine had no illusions on that score. She would have willingly done whatever he’d asked.

And yet, Valentine had not taken her. He had pulled away, preferring to lull her to sleep than into his arms. She woke in the bed alone this morning. And no wonder. He had no feelings for her. It was Elizabeth he loved.

Catherine finished addressing her letters and put away the writing materials she’d requested. She could hardly avoid Valentine for the rest of the day, or even the rest of her life, as she’d like to. She always waited for things to happen to her. Today, she was going to face the world.

She found her husband in his library. She knocked twice and opened the door. Valentine looked up when she entered. He was sitting at a large mahogany desk that matched his eyes. No wonder his eyes reminded her of that wood. He looked at home behind the desk.

Before him were a stack of papers, a pen, an inkpot, and a pot of tea. She could see the steam still rising from the pot, and could almost feel the warmth of the fire in the hearth.

“Catie,” he said, putting down his pen. “Come in.”