No Man's Bride (19 page)

Quint sincerely hoped so.

As soon as she entered the house, Catherine noticed that the door to Quint’s study was closed, but she did not think anything of it. He was awake, and he was only a few feet away. She could not wait to see him.

She hurried through the foyer and with a quick tap on the door, opened it, and said, “Are you finally out of bed? Thor and Hazard are waiting for their morning ride.”

Quint was indeed behind his mammoth desk, as she’d expected, but he rose awkwardly when she entered and glanced to his right. There another vaguely familiar man was also rising from one of the armchairs, and the heat bloomed in her cheeks. “Oh, I see you are busy. I am sorry.” She turned to close the door, but her husband’s voice stopped her.

“Lady Valentine, please, join us.”

Catherine did not want to join the men. The man with Quint looked harmless, but new people made her uncomfortable. She could never think
of anything to say. But, dutifully, she turned around and, closing the door behind her, stepped into the room.

“Please.” Quint gestured to one of the couches near the hearth. She was accustomed to sitting in the armchairs, but Quint’s guest was in her usual spot. She went to the couch and arranged her skirts carefully so that she did not have to look at the men right away. Quint came to sit beside her.

“Lady Valentine, you remember Mr. Meeps. He is one of my advisors.”

Catherine glanced up at the pale, red-haired man. He was thin, wore small glasses, and dressed completely in black. He looked like a clerk. “Sir, it is a pleasure.” But it was not. If a political advisor had come all this way to speak with Quint, it meant something important was happening in Town. It meant the end to this short-lived idyllic time alone with Quint.

Apparently, she was to be involved as well. She did not want to be involved.

Meeps nodded at her and retook his seat in her chair. She looked at Quint. It was strange to see him like this. After all they had shared last night, here she was sitting beside him, acting as though they were complete strangers. Why, she knew what he looked like without his trousers on. He knew what happened to her when he…

Her face began to heat, and she decided not to think of that at present. But it was difficult when
every time she looked at her husband, images from last night came rushing at her. She wondered if he had a similar feeling, but he seemed completely at ease.

No, that was not exactly true. He was saying something to Mr. Meeps, but his gaze kept darting back to her. He had the look of the jailer whose duty it is to escort prisoners to their executions.

The jailer looked at her, a sympathetic and yet determined look on his face.

“What is it?” Catherine said immediately. “What’s wrong?”

He smiled at her, but the happiness didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing is wrong. We’re returning to London, as we discussed last night.”

“And Mr. Meeps?” She knew that was not all. The ax had yet to fall.

“Mr. Meeps and I were discussing political strategy. And I thought that while we are in Town, we might host a ball or a soiree.”

Catherine blinked. Her head felt light, almost as though it had come unattached and was tumbling fast and furious toward the Aubusson rug beneath her feet. “A ball?”

“Yes. I’ll help you, of course.” He said something else, but his voice was murky and she could not comprehend.

A ball. A party with dancing, loud music, and a crush of people. An opportunity for her to make a hundred mortifying mistakes, especially if she were the hostess. Everyone would be looking at
her, watching her. She clutched her fingers together tightly.

One, two, three…

Meeps began to speak. It was a moment before she understood him. “—for Lord Valentine’s career. Of course, you must invite the prime minister, the prince regent, the Cabinet ministers—I will send you a complete list. As your town house is rather small, you might think of having the ball in one of the assembly—”

The prime minister? The prince regent? No, no, no. She could not possibly host these men. What would she say? What would she do? The preparations for an event like this were unimaginable.

The cozy study began to feel hot and cramped. The walls inched closer until they crouched over her like angry beasts.

Four, five, six…

Catherine stumbled to her feet, and Valentine caught her arm. Both he and Meeps jumped to their feet. “Are you well?” Quint asked.

“I think I shall go upstairs and lie down,” she said. She tried not to look at the walls hunkering closer, not to hunch as she strode through the shrinking door, but she could not force her feet to slow as much as she should have. She darted through the door, and when she heard it click shut behind her, she broke into a run for the stairs and managed to make it to their room before she lost her breath entirely.

Catherine was gulping for air when she closed
the door to her chamber. She leaned against the door and shut her eyes, thankful this room was still its original size. She counted to ten and climbed onto the bed she’d shared with Quint just a few hours before. Curling into a ball, she pressed her fingers to her eyes to hold back the sting of tears and tried to breathe deeply.

How could he? How could Valentine do this to her? He knew hosting a ball like this was her greatest fear. And yet he’d thrown the suggestion at her as if it were nothing—a choice between a lemon or apple scone at tea. And not only did he want her to eat this enormous, fearsome scone, he wanted her to do so in front of the whole of London Society.

London Society. The upper ten thousand. The
haute ton
. The most scheming, most unforgiving, most vengeful collection of people since the Romans. And here she was, a defenseless gladiator, thrown in the pit with the lions.

And for what? His career. His ridiculous career.

“Catie?” There was a tap on the door, and the knob turned. Belatedly, she wished she’d thought to block it. Not that that would have stopped him. She sat and tried to smooth her hair.

“I don’t want to talk right now. I’m not feeling well,” she managed. Lord, he looked handsome this morning. He must have finally accepted that his hair had grown too long, and he’d pulled it back into a queue, secured by a black string. His
shirt and cravat were white as snow, and he was dressed to ride, boots, riding coat, and all.

She watched him stride across the room toward her, ignoring her wish to be alone. If she were a gladiator, he was the lion. She knew his body now, could imagine the bunch and pull of his muscles as he moved. She looked at his hands and remembered how they’d felt on her flesh, how they’d stroked and caressed until she was breathless with needing him.

She looked into his eyes, trying to distract herself and hold on to her anger. But looking into his face didn’t help. That too brought back memories— the rough scrub of his beard against the inside of her thigh, the way his long lashes framed those mahogany eyes, the feel of that full mouth on her nipple.

She turned away from him but felt the bed dip as he sat beside her. It was strange to have him so near her again. Here they were on the bed, where they’d shared so much last night, but now all she felt was betrayal. She’d thought he had finally accepted her, was coming to care for her. But he hadn’t changed at all. He still cared more about his career than anything else.

She wanted to turn her back on him, to walk away and never look around, but she could not because she had changed. His wooing, his gentle nature, the way he’d loved her last night—those things had changed her. She needed him. She had fallen in love with him.

And he loved his career.

He sighed. “Catie, I know this is not what you had in mind when we discussed returning to London. You get nervous when you attend balls—”

“Not what I had in mind?” she whispered, but her words were loud enough to silence him. “No, it wasn’t what I expected, but perhaps that’s because you deceived me into believing you cared how I felt. What was it you said? You wanted me to be happy?”

“I do want you to be happy.”

“Then don’t force me to host this ball.” She turned to him and met his gaze head-on. “In fact, don’t force me to return to London at all. Let’s stay here for the rest of the Season.” She prayed he would accept her suggestion, prayed he would be the man she wanted him to be, but he was shaking his head.

“I cannot. I’m needed in Parliament.”

“Then you go back. I’ll stay here, and you can join me when the session is over.”

“I’m not leaving you,” he said, taking her hand. It would have been a sweet statement had not his eyes been hard and determined.

“Why?” she said, withdrawing her hand. His touch still evoked too many memories. “Surely, I have not become indispensable to you in so short a time. Surely, you can live without me for a few weeks.”

He stood and ran a hand through his hair, disordering his neat queue. “Why do you have to
make this so difficult, Catherine? I understand your fears, but I need you. Can you not do one thing for me?”

“For you or for your political ambitions? That’s what this is really about.”

He shook his head, then suddenly turned and knelt before her. “I have a chance at a seat in the Cabinet. Do you know how long I have wanted this and worked for it?”

She looked away. Already her heart was melting. How could she resist his pleas? After last night, after the gentle way he had been with her, how could she deny him anything? Even when the one thing he wanted terrified her.

“I have worked my whole life for this opportunity, and I am so close,” he was saying. “I deserve this, but I need you. Charles Fairfax is my competition, and he’s been gathering his supporters this past week you and I have been away.”

“And he’s married to the Duke of Astly’s daughter.” She glanced at him. “I must seem a poor choice in comparison. Especially considering whom you really wanted.” And Elizabeth would be waiting for him back in London.

“Damn it!” Valentine rose and paced away from her. “I don’t have time for this right now, Catherine. I want you, you know I do, and I need you right now. I need your support.” He turned on his heel. “Do I have it?”

She gave him a long look, took a deep breath, and said, “Yes, you have it, but let’s be clear, Lord
Valentine. You need a wife. You don’t need me. You’ve considered me a liability from the start.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? And why should I believe you, when you lied to me last night?

“I did not lie—”

She stood and crossed to him. “Then look me in the eye and tell me that you did not have your career in mind last night even as you spoke of our returning to London only to make me happy.”

To his credit, he did not look away. “Catherine, I care for you. What happened between us last night—”

“Don’t speak of it to me,” she said, forcibly restraining her tears. “Do not ruin that for me as well.” A rogue tear escaped her defenses. He reached out to stroke it away, but she realized his intention too late and flinched back.

“Goddamn it, Catie. I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.

“It’s too late for that. Just go.” She turned away from him, staring at the white walls of her room. “I’ll begin packing. We can leave as soon as you are ready.”

Q
uint didn’t understand women. He didn’t understand why they had to mix everything up in their minds until everything a man said or did produced offense in one way or another.

He’d traveled back to London with Catherine a week before, and since that time, he’d exchanged barely half a dozen words with her. Not that he’d seen her very often. He’d been so busy that he could not even remember the last time he slept.

Forget sleeping with her. He supposed he could add that to his list of transgressions—deserting the marriage bed. She probably assumed he’d neglected her on purpose. Nothing could be further
from the truth. He wanted her, thought of her constantly, but he did not have time to smooth her ruffled feathers.

She’d been angry, and he could understand that. The anger came from fear. He’d asked her to do something that terrified her. Naturally, she was frightened and lashed out. But he did not understand how she managed to connect one small favor with everything else he felt for her. He still cared for her. He still wanted her. Why would her hosting a ball for his political allies change anything between them?

But it had.

Now when he looked into her eyes, he no longer saw fear and wariness. He saw pain, and somehow he was the source of that pain. He supposed she saw his request for her to host the ball as a betrayal of some sort, but that was ridiculous. Why couldn’t she see that hosting the ball would actually be a good thing for her? It would help boost her confidence. The ball was as much for her as for him.

Well, that supposition might be stretching things a bit, but the ball was at least not solely for him.

As he strode into his London town house, he tried to remember the last conversation he’d had with his wife. Barring that, he tried to remember when he’d last seen her. It had been at least a day. Surely not more than that. Not two days.

The clock in the foyer struck one. She was
probably asleep by now, but Quint could not afford to wait any longer to see her.

He’d mentioned the ball to the prime minister, and Quint had to be sure the plans were going according to schedule. And, of course, there was another transgression. Quint had promised to help her plan the thing, and he hadn’t lifted a finger to do so. He’d been too busy, overwhelmed by bills, speeches, and correspondence.

But he would rectify everything now. He would apologize and renew his offer of assistance—or at least the best efforts of his own assistant—and she would forgive him.

He hoped.

And after she forgave him, he would kiss her, make love to her, and all would be right between them again.

He hoped.

He took the steps two at a time and clomped down the hallway. Her door was open, and he slowed as he neared it.

“Oh, good, Lord Valentine. You have returned.”

Quint peered into Catherine’s dimly lit room and saw her seated on the low plush bench used at her dressing table. A valise crouched at her feet.

He frowned. “It’s after one in the morning. Why are you awake and dressed?”

“I was waiting for you. I wanted to tell you good-bye.” She stood and bent to lift the valise.

“What are you talking about?” His eyes swept
the room. Her armoire was open, and except for a few scattered linens, it was empty. The dressing table was bare of combs and brushes. Nothing personal remained in the room.

Quint felt the old prickle of unease at the back of his neck. He lifted a hand, rubbed it away, but it returned with a vengeance. Nothing good came from that prickle.

Catherine stepped before him. “I’m leaving you.”

“Oh, no you’re not,” he said, reaching for her valise, but she drew it away.

“Catie, do you want me to pack this robe?” Her cousin, Lady Madeleine, walked into the room through the open dressing-room door. As soon as she spotted him, she halted and began to frown. “Oh, it’s him.”

“What the hell does that mean?” he barked. Of course it was him. He lived here. “What are you doing here?”

She glanced at Catie. “Didn’t you tell him?”

“Of course,” Catie answered, still keeping her gaze on him. “But he’s not taking it well.”

“I’m standing right here,” Quint said. “You don’t have to speak as though I’m not home.”

“But that’s exactly the problem,” Lady Madeleine said, narrowing her eyes at him. “You never are home. That’s why Catie’s leaving you.”

“The hell she is. She’s my wife. She can’t leave.”

Catherine raised her brows at him. “Watch me.”
She turned to her cousin. “We can send a servant for the rest of it. Let’s just take this and go.”

Lady Madeleine nodded, and the women stepped forward, but Quint blocked their exit. “You’re not leaving.” His heart was racing now, panic galloping through his blood. “You’re my wife.”

“You’d hardly know it the way you treat her,” Lady Madeleine spat.

“The way I treat her? What have I done?”

“Nothing at all except practically desert the poor girl. She’s lonely here by herself all the time.”

Quint opened his mouth to defend himself, but Lady Madeleine waved him silent.

“Not to mention, you’re making her host that ball. You know how social events frighten her. How could you?”

Quint felt his panic being quickly replaced by anger. “I do not have to defend myself to you, but be assured, Lady Madeleine,” he directed his words to her cousin, but looked at Catherine, “I would not ask her to host this ball if I did not think she would rise to the challenge. The experience will be good for her.”

“Of course, it will be good for her,” Lady Madeleine said, “but that is not the point.”

“Now you are speaking as though I am not here,” Catie said with a scowl at both of them. “I have heard quite enough. I am leaving.”

“Don’t even think of it.” Quint stepped closer,
but Madeleine jumped between them. He spoke over her head. “Your place is here with me.”

Catie gave a bitter laugh. “There’s nothing for me here.”

Quint wanted to reach out, grab her, and shake her until she saw sense. “What are you blathering about?
I’m
here.”

“No you’re not.” She thrust her hands on her hips. “You’re never home. Why, it’s taken you two days to realize that I’m leaving you!”

Quint opened his mouth to protest, but he was speechless. She’d been planning this for two days? As he watched, she pushed past her cousin to stand nose to nose with him. She was proud and strong and brave, no trace of the fearful Catherine he had first known.

“And now you’ve come home.” She poked his chest. “And you expect me to jump to do your bidding. Well, I won’t. I’m leaving.”

Quint narrowed his eyes and restrained himself from gripping the finger she poked at him and hauling her away with it. “Are you saying you want a divorce?”

“I don’t care. I’m leaving. I’m going to—” She glanced at her cousin.

“The Americas,” Lady Madeleine provided.

“That’s right. I’ll leave for the Americas and start over.”

Quint leaned close to her, not touching her, but his face only inches away. “You are not going to the Americas. You’re staying here with me.”

She glared at him. “Make me.”

He growled, prepared to do just that.

“If I go, you can have your divorce and then marry Elizabeth. It’s what you’ve wanted all along anyway.”

Quint’s brain felt twisted and hazy. “What the devil are you talking about?” Why didn’t women ever argue logically?

Suddenly Lady Madeleine was pushing them apart. “Now, just a moment.” She put her hands up. “Let’s not say or do anything we’ll regret later.”

“It’s a bit late for that,” Quint said, and Lady Madeleine rounded on him. Quint took a surprised step back.

“That’s right, sir. Keep stepping back.”

“I think it’s time for you to go home, Lady Madeleine.”

“Not until Catie is happy. No one does anything until everyone is happy. We have to fix this mess.”

“But I don’t want anything fixed,” Catherine protested. “I have a long trip ahead of me. I want to get some sleep.”

“Then you’ll go to sleep in my bed,” Quint said. “You’re my wife.”

“Not for long,” she shot back.

“Goddamn it!” Quint started for her, but Madeleine was between them again.

“Why don’t we all sit down and talk this
through,” Madeleine suggested. “Catie, you sit there at the dressing table. Lord Valentine, you take that blue armchair.”

Quint watched as Catherine took a seat at her dressing table, and he grudgingly moved toward the armchair. He sat slowly, and then Madeleine said, “Good. Now, the most important thing is finding a way to bring the two of you back together.”

Catherine glared at her. “Why would we want to do that?”

Maddie glared back. “Because it’s obvious you’re miserable without one another.”

Quint straightened. “I am not miserable.”

“Oh, hush,” Madeleine said. “You are miserable, and Catie is too. She hasn’t slept for crying so much.”

“Traitor,” Catie said.

Quint glanced at his wife. She did look tired, and her eyes were swollen.

“What we have to do is to find a way to make both parties happy.”

Quint raised his eyes to the ceiling. His wife’s cousin was obviously a politician in training, but if Lady Madeleine’s efforts would make Catherine stay, then he’d play along.

“Very well,” Quint said, trying to sound magnanimous, “what do you suggest?”

“A compromise,” Madeleine said. “Catie will agree to host your ball.”

Quint glanced at his wife. She nodded. “But that’s only provided
you
agree to a few conditions.”

“That’s right,” Lady Madeleine said. “Catie would like—”

“There are conditions?” Quint spat out. “This is a marriage, not a treaty negotiation.”

“It won’t be either if you keep interrupting,” his wife said. “I
will
leave.”

He refrained from rolling his eyes, and finally ground out, “Go on.”

“First of all, you have to be home for dinner every night.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—”

“Good night, Lord Valentine.” She rose and motioned for her cousin to follow.

Quint clenched his fists. Goddamn it! What the hell kind of negotiation was this?

“Catie,” he said, though his jaw was locked. She paused and looked over her shoulder. “Every night is a bit steep. Perhaps—”

She turned back and started for the door again. Quint closed his eyes. “Fine. I’ll be home for dinner every night. What else?”

She turned back to him, smiling. The smile almost made his concession worth it.

“You must help with the preparations for the ball. Your job is to deal with the invitations.”

“Fine. No problem.”

“Not one of your assistants. You. Personally,” Catherine said.

Quint frowned. “What difference does it make if I do it or Meeps?”

She shook her head. “If you’re going to argue, I’m going to call for the carriage.”

“I’m not going to argue,” Quint said, clutching the arms of his chair. “I agree. Put your things away. You’re staying.”

She smiled again. “Right away.”

To Quint’s relief, his wife picked up her valise and headed into the dressing room to unpack. He smiled. Finally.

“Obviously, you think you received the better end of the bargain.” Lady Madeleine was standing before him, hands on her hips. Quint’s smile faded.

“Two things,” she said. She gave him a look Quint supposed was meant to strike fear in his heart. “You had better fulfill your end of this bargain. Catie wants you home, and you can stop giving speeches and fawning over the prime minister long enough to be there for her.”

Quint did not so much as blink. “I do not fawn.”

Lady Madeleine shook her head. “One of these days, you are going to realize that there’s more to life than bills and debates. Cabinet posts and undersecretary positions are all well and good, but they won’t ease the loneliness. They won’t warm your bed, and they won’t comfort you when you’re old and sick. You will lose Catie if you take her for granted.”

Quint rose. “I know what I’m doing, Lady Madeleine. I don’t need your advice.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s what men always say. You do realize that you almost lost her tonight?”

He inclined his head civilly, but inside, his stomach pitched and roiled. “I won’t lose her,” he said. “You can be certain of that.”

Later that night Quint rose from where he lay beside Catie’s warm, naked body. He paced the room and eventually went to sit at his desk. He had more work to do tonight, and the new rules his wife had forced him to agree to would not lighten his load.

He looked at his sleeping wife. Her goddamn cousin was right; he’d almost lost her. She’d almost slipped right through his fingers while his mind was on political matters. The thought terrified him, even now. He would have probably said or done anything she’d asked to get her back.

He didn’t know what terrified him more—that he was completely at his wife’s mercy or that he no longer seemed to mind that he’d lost control of their relationship.

She had all the power now. She all but had him in the palm of her hand. If he were not careful, he would soon find himself in love with her.

Quint swallowed and glanced back at his wife.

Did she feel anything for him? Did she love him?

Damn! He rose and paced the room. He didn’t need her to love him. Her needed her to trust him, to obey him, to host his friends.

He didn’t need her to love him.

And yet he wanted her to, he wanted to hear her say those words.

He’d made love to her tonight with a possessiveness he did not know was in him. He would never let her go. Never. But he would not abandon his dream of the Cabinet position either.

Quint looked at the papers on his desk. The two desires—his wife and his career—should not be mutually exclusive, but increasingly Quint feared that’s exactly what they were.