No Man's Bride (6 page)

One, two, three…

“Are you still intent upon not marrying, Miss Fullbright?” His voice was lower than it had been. It resonated through her.

“Quite so, sir.”

He was looking down at her, and she finally had to look away. She was afraid what would happen if one of them did not.

He reached out and placed a finger on her cheek, turning her face back to his. His finger was warm against her skin, a tantalizing contrast to the cool evening. She shivered.

“May I ask why?” He did not remove his finger. In fact, he seemed to be moving it closer to her mouth.

“I-I am not inclined to marry,” she said, though she hardly knew how to speak anymore. “I do-do not wish to be under a man’s thumb.” She had
not meant to give so much away, but when the words were out, she glanced quickly up at him.

He took his hand away. “Ah, so that is the reason for this streak of independence. Surely you realize that by not marrying, you merely remain under your father’s thumb.”

“The devil you know…” she whispered, but she did not think he heard. And if Valentine would only play his part, she wouldn’t be in her father’s house much longer.

Valentine took the place beside her and stared out over the lawns. He did not speak, but his knee touched hers. Catherine’s breathing hitched. The feel of him beside her made her shake. She wanted to lean into his solid warmth, feel him put his arms around her. Equally strong was the impulse to run, to escape this man and all men.

“You’re trembling, Miss Fullbright,” Valentine said, voice so low it was barely a rumble through her bones. “Shall I give you my coat, or are you well enough to return inside?”

Catherine looked at him, and this close she could see his face very well. His gaze was admiring, his focus on her lips, and under the heat of that look, she could not answer. Why on earth was he looking at her that way? Men never looked at her like this.

“I thought I told you to put on a shawl.”

“You did, but—”

“Too late.” He placed a finger over her lips. “I can’t resist you now.”

She tried to protest, but instead, to her astonishment, she found herself surrendering, closing her eyes and feeling his hand come around her waist.

One heartbeat, two…

“Quint, there you are!” a shrill voice called across the lawns. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

Catherine opened her eyes and turned to see Elizabeth rushing toward them. As recognition dawned, Elizabeth’s movements changed from graceful to jerky. Catherine stiffened, ready for the full force of her sister’s wrath, knowing it was inevitable and also that it was necessary.

Valentine stood and stepped away from the bench. “Elizabeth, dear, I’m sorry to have left you. Your sister felt unwell.”

Catherine saw the angry retort on Elizabeth’s lips and willed her to say it, willed her sister to show Valentine what she truly was. Elizabeth glanced at her, and Catherine knew her sister saw the expectation on her face, and quite suddenly, as though Elizabeth had seen through the entire ploy, her face relaxed and then transformed into a mask of concern.

“Oh, my! Catie, are you well? Would you like me to fetch Mother?”

Catherine glared at her. Where were the accusations, the tantrums? Had she not seen Catherine sitting with Valentine? Had she not seen that his arm had been wound about her? One more
heartbeat and she would have been kissing him!

But Elizabeth was all worry and distress. She took Valentine’s place beside Catherine and put her hand on her arm. “Oh, dear, not again. Poor, Catie.”

Catherine almost laughed. Poor Catie? When had those words ever escaped her sister’s lips?

“It’s silly, really,” she said, looking at her fiancé. “Catie is terribly afraid of crowds. She can barely attend a ball without dissolving into a fit of hysterics.”

Catherine jerked at the exaggeration, and Elizabeth dug her nails into Catherine’s arm.

“We usually have to take her home and put her to bed. Quint, would you be a dear and fetch my mother? I don’t want to leave Catie in this state.”

He bowed. “Of course. I shall send her right out.” He started for the house, and Elizabeth’s face transformed, the full force of her fury focused on Catherine.

Just as quickly it dissolved when Valentine slowed, looked back, and said, “Good night, Miss Fullbright. I do hope you recover quickly.”

“Thank you,” Catherine managed before the pain from Elizabeth’s nails digging into her arm made her gasp. She tugged her arm away and stared at the half-moons of blood welling up. “Lizzy, that hurt!”

She glanced up in time to see Lizzy’s hand coming toward her, but not in enough time to avoid the slap. Her sister’s hand cracked across
her cheek with enough force to snap Catherine’s head back. She cried out and leaned forward in an attempt to keep her balance on the bench, but Elizabeth merely used the opportunity to try and backhand her. Catherine caught her wrist and pushed back, but she was off-balance and went sprawling.

She did not fall far or hard, but the indignity of it hurt quite enough. “That was for what you did to me at the Beaufort ball.” Slowly, Elizabeth rose and stood over her, treading on the hem of Maddie’s gown. “You stupid bitch. What were you trying to do out here? Lure him away from me?”

Catherine didn’t answer. Instead, she stared at the dark smudge Lizzy’s dainty ball slipper had left on Maddie’s silk gown.

“As though a man like Quint Childers would be interested in an old hag like you. Stick with what you are good at, spinster, and stay out of my way. If I catch you near him again, I’ll kill you.”

“Elizabeth!” Both girls jumped and swiveled to see their father striding toward them. “Get inside now before you make a scene and ruin everything.”

“But, Daddy, she—”

“Get inside,” he growled. “The Duke of Chawton has just arrived, and when I return, you had better be dancing with him.”

Elizabeth spared one last glance at Catie and then rushed toward the house. From the ground, Catherine looked up at her father, wondering if
there was any point in attempting to defend herself when he would side with Lizzy anyway.

But she would not sit still and wait for him to strike. She stared at her father’s shoes and knew if he tried to hit her, she would throw everything she had back at him. Even if she had to scrub chamber pots for a week, he would be the one sorry tonight.

And then suddenly his shoes were gone. She looked up, almost afraid it was a trick, but all she saw was his back. He was walking away, returning to the house and the ball.

Catherine tried to rise and then saw the drops of blood near the mark from Elizabeth’s slipper. Maddie’s dress was ruined. If she returned to the ball now, Elizabeth would tell everyone she’d tripped or had a nosebleed. Valentine would pity her. Elizabeth was on her guard now. Catherine knew she’d never get close to him again.

She was doomed to whatever her father had in store.

Q
uint paced his bedroom, listening to the clock chime four. It was the day of his wedding, early morning, and he could not sleep. Back and forth he paced, his bare feet sinking into the thick burgundy-and-blue Turkish rugs covering the hardwood floors. His bedroom was his sanctuary in an otherwise unimpressive town house in Mayfair. He’d bought the house because he did not want to live in his parents’ residence in Grosvernor Square. He’d wanted his own space. His house boasted a small dining room and study on the ground floor; a large drawing room and smaller ladies’ parlor on the first floor; and two adjoining bedrooms on the second floor, along with several smaller bedchambers.

Quint supposed those were intended for the residents’ children. But he did not plan to live here long with his wife. As soon as he and Elizabeth married, they would begin to search for a new house that would suit them both.

With that intention in mind from the start, Quint had not taken much time or effort to furnish the house in style. His wife could have charge of that duty. The one exception was his own bedroom. He’d commissioned a large full tester bed with Chinese silk hangings in dark blue and matching bedclothes. The furnishings in the room were tulipwood of the best quality. His favorite piece was his large mahogany desk with lion’s paws for feet. He had an identical piece in the small study downstairs and another in his office in Westminster. Quint liked consistency, and he arranged each of the desks in the same manner, with matching pens and inkwells. In this manner, wherever he chose to work, he was at home.

He paced to his desk now and opened a folder on a new investment proposal he was researching for the prime minister. The government and Mr. Perceval would thank him if he recommended the proposal and England prospered. Likewise, if he recommended the proposal, and it turned out to be a swindle, his name would be vilified. He could not afford to make a mistake, in this or any area of his life.

He stared at the pages before him until the
words blurred. Standing, he began pacing again. He was restless and impatient, and he didn’t understand why. He wanted to marry, and he knew the woman he had selected would make an excellent wife. She was a bit young at seventeen, but he was no old man at thirty, and a young bride meant a malleable bride.

Still, he felt a niggling prickle of unease on the back of his neck, just at the hairline. It was not an unfamiliar sensation. He’d felt it often before a vote on a bill in the House. Usually when things would not go his way.

Why the ominous prickle should appear right before his wedding was a mystery, but he’d felt it the last week or more—ever since the betrothal ball his fiancée’s family had given.

Quint crossed his bedroom and opened his dressing-room door. It was a small closet, and on the other side was another door, now open, which led to his bride’s room. Though they would not live here more than a few months, he’d had it refurbished specifically for Elizabeth. It was his wedding gift to her. Last week he’d had the room painted, papered, and upholstered in pale blues and lavenders. But now, as he stared at it, he could not picture Elizabeth there. When he looked at the bed he saw—

But it was not true that he couldn’t see Elizabeth in the room. He could picture her standing by the window, an impatient look on her face, and he could see her primping in the mirror of
the tulipwood dressing table. He could even imagine her at the large kingwood-and-tulipwood armoire, sorting through clothing, attempting to pick the perfect gown for an evening out.

But he could not see her in the bed, could not see himself sharing it with her. When he looked at the bed, he saw—

He turned and strode back to his own chamber. Standing before his own bed, draped in dark blue, he willed himself to imagine Elizabeth there.

The image of a hazel-eyed, olive-skinned girl appeared before his eyes. Her silky black hair fell in soft waves to her waist, caressing generous curves. She was naked—her golden breasts covered by long, lustrous tresses—but the slight swell of her stomach and the curve of her hips drew his gaze. He wanted to reach out and touch those jutting hips, wrap his hand around her waist, and pull her lush, warm body against his own. He could smell her now, her fragrance rich and heavy like ripe peaches. Closing his eyes, he imagined taking her mouth with his and running his hands down along her body until he cupped that sweet derrière and pressed her hard against—

Quint opened his eyes and, hands on the coverlet before him, took a shuddering breath. The little witch had enchanted him. That was the only explanation.

He hadn’t cared one whit for the chit before the
betrothal ball, but from the moment he’d seen her in the low-cut white satin gown, he could not take his eyes from her. Damn fool girl. Why hadn’t she worn a shawl with that gown? Better yet, why hadn’t she stuck to dressing in the poorly fitted gowns he was used to seeing her wear? He did not want to know that underneath those ugly shapeless things, she was so ripe and lush a man’s hands ached to caress her.

Unlike so many of the pale, cool beauties of the
ton
—hell, unlike his own betrothed—Catherine was alive. Her skin, her hair, her complexion glowed with luxuriousness he needed to taste, to touch. Beside her, Elizabeth looked pale and wan. A slip of a girl beside a goddess.

Quint had tried to avoid Catherine at the betrothal ball, but she had sought him out. Even then he attempted to ignore her. He tried to be cold, but she thawed his reserve until he found himself alone with her, arms about her, mouth so painfully close to touching hers that he felt he would go mad for wanting her.

And he still wanted her. There was no doubt in his mind that the ache in his groin and his agitated state were due in part to Catherine Anne Fullbright.

Quint was not a rake. Nor was he a saint, by any stretch of the imagination. He was a disciplined man. He did not want or need a woman in his bed every night. And he did not seek to bed every woman he met. There were women available to
him, and he occasionally partook of their charms. He was a vital man of thirty, and he had needs. His needs were not pressing. There were often weeks when he did not even think of women, especially when he was consumed with important political affairs. More than anything else Quint sought a mate with the same goals as he. He fully intended to be faithful to Elizabeth, and he hoped one day he would come to love her, as his own parents had learned to love and cherish one another.

Quint knew what he wanted, and that was why he could not understand how he—an honorable man, a disciplined man, a rational man— could not cease fantasizing about his fiancée’s sister.

Was he so depraved that he imagined betraying his wife before they’d even exchanged vows?

Was he so degenerate that he could not stop images of Catherine—Catie, her sister had called her—lying under him, her legs wrapped around him and her breathing hard and rapid?

“Damn!” He turned and swiped his hand over his desktop, toppling several books and sending papers dancing all over the room. There went all his careful notes for the prime minister.

Shaking his head, Quint knelt to restore the desk to order and his temper to its usual evenness.

There was a quiet knock at his door, and his valet, Dorsey, said, “Are you well, my lord?”

“Fine,” Quint called. “Come back in an hour. I’ll be ready to dress for the wedding.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Quint listened for the receding footsteps and then returned to his task. With each paper he ordered, each book he set to rights, each pen he set in its usual place beside the blotter, he wiped Elizabeth’s sister from his mind. He ordered his bedroom as he ordered his thoughts, and there was no place for Catherine Fullbright in either.

The bedroom door slammed open, and Catherine sat up with a scream lodged in her throat.

“Elizabeth, go to your mother’s room. Now.” Her father stood in the doorway, the light behind him, his shadow falling over Catherine’s bed like a shroud.

Catherine watched as her younger sister scrambled out of her bed, passed her father, and hurried out the door. It was Elizabeth’s wedding day, and Catherine had only moved back in the room from the attic two days ago. Perhaps her father had forgotten he’d allowed her to move back?

“Father,” she stuttered. “Remember, you said I could sleep in here now.”

But he remained blocking the doorway, and Catherine shrank back when he raised the lantern he carried and stepped into her bedroom.

He was not alone. Beside him was a large man, almost as wide as the door and almost as tall. He
had his ham-sized fists outstretched, and he leered at Catherine with obvious intent.

“F-f-father, what do you want?” Catherine pulled her knees up against her chest and tried to make herself small. With the two men in her bedroom, the room already seemed unbearably tiny and cramped. She struggled for breath as her heart pounded incessantly in her temples.

One, two, three…

“Well, what do you think?” her father said to the beefy man, holding the lantern closer to Catherine so that she was visible. She lowered her head, and her father grasped her chin and yanked her face back up. “Stand up girl. Show him what you got.”

She screamed as he hauled her from the bed. Her nightshirt ripped on the bedpost so that it fell open over her shoulder. She caught it before it could expose more skin. Head ringing, she clutched her father and looked up in time to see the beefy man grinning down at her. God help her, she could see the bulge in his pants.

“I like her. Ten pounds, you say?”

Catherine blinked. Ten pounds? Was she being sold? Here and now, thrust out of her warm bed and bartered away like a piece of meat?

“Ten pounds,” her father agreed, and stuck out his hand. The beefy man handed him a wad of blunt and then reached for Catherine.

She screamed. She screamed like she had never
screamed before, so loud that it would wake not only the house but the neighbors and the whole city of London.

“Stop that infernal wailing,” her father bellowed. “I gave you a chance. I brought you suitors and took you to balls. But you wouldn’t listen.” He bent low and his rank, brandy-soaked breath wafted over her. “You and that little hoyden cousin of yours had to make
plans
.” There was dried spittle on his lips, and she could see he hadn’t shaved for several days. Stray, gray hairs grew in at all angles on his chin and cheeks. “Now, you see that I keep my promises.”

He hauled her up and all but threw her at the beefy man, but Catherine reached out at the last moment and grabbed her father’s hand. Her thoughts were wild now, desperate and jumbled, and all she could think was
no
,
no
,
no
!

She held fast to her father’s hand, even when he tried to pry her fingers loose.

“Get off me,” he said, but she held on. And somehow she leashed her terror, gathered it into a ball, and used it to fuel her courage. She looked up and into her father’s face. He was staring down at her, his expression uncertain. She did not think he had expected this from her.

“Daddy,” she cried, using the endearment she hadn’t spoken since she was a little girl. “Please, don’t do this to me. Please. Anything but this.”

“I won’t have this insubordination,” he roared. But she held on. “You’re no longer my daughter.”

“Daddy, please, no. Please. I’ll marry. Whomever you choose. Anything. Please don’t give me to him.” She glanced ay the brute again. “Please, please.”

“You’ll do whatever I ask?” he said. “Marry whomever I say?” When she looked into his face again, she saw the slightest hint of a smile. Her blood turned to ice, and she felt her stomach heave.

“Anyone?”
her father pressed. “Even your sister’s betrothed?”

Catherine swallowed the acid in her throat. She wanted to scream
no
. What her father suggested was wrong. Immoral. She glanced back at the beefy man, then back at her father.

Catherine swallowed the acid in her throat and nodded.

“Good.” Her father strode to the door and clapped his hands and Meg, their much-abused housemaid, came in carrying a tray of tea.

Catherine looked from Meg to her father. “What is that?”

Her father poured the steaming brew into a large cup and thrust it into her hands. “Drink it, or I keep his money.” He nodded at the beefy man.

Catherine swallowed. “But, Father, this will never work. Valentine is no fool. He’ll know I’m not Elizabeth. Even if I’m veiled, he’ll know.”

Edmund Fullbright smiled. “Don’t you worry about Valentine. I bribed one of his footmen to
give him the same brew you’ll take. Now drink.”

The brute shifted, his gaze never leaving Catherine’s breasts.

Catherine gulped the foul-tasting brew, not caring that it scalded her tongue.

Three hours later, she stood in the chapel. It was cool and quiet inside, but to her everything appeared hazy and blurred. She swayed, but her father’s hand on her elbow steadied her. She was glad that she could not see clearly, glad that her groom’s face was obscured, and that the tea her father had given her before the ceremony numbed her. She did not want to think what she was doing.

She did not want to think of Elizabeth at home, crying, as Catherine took her place. She did not want to think what Valentine would do when he lifted the heavy veil and saw his bride.

But perhaps he would not notice. She’d seen him sway and stumble and knew he, too, was drugged.

The parish priest was speaking, saying her name, and behind her, she heard her father cough. He’d done so each time her name was required. He’d hacked and coughed, concealing the sound of her name, so that she did not even know whether her name or Elizabeth’s was spoken.

And then she was being shaken from her lovely quiet place. She was urged to speak, and she obeyed. It seemed so much easier to obey now that she had drunk the tea.

She spoke the words required of her, listening to the voice coming from her lips in wonder. It did not sound like her, and yet she liked listening to the voice. She did not want the voice to stop.