No Man's Bride (7 page)

But she was hushed, and the voice went dead, and Catherine wished she herself were dead because then her heavy veil was lifted, and she looked into mahogany brown eyes. The shock and disgust on Valentine’s face was a physical blow. And then all went black.

Catherine stretched and tried to open her eyes. They were so heavy, though, that she almost rolled over and went back to sleep. Her whole body was terribly burdensome. She could not seem to move it. Every time she did, her head ached. But she could not sleep all day. She had to go to Elizabeth’s wedding.

With an immense burst of will, she opened her eyes and tried to focus. The room was dark, the bed’s blue silk drapes drawn. She blinked. Her bed did not have drapes. Reaching out, she parted the luxurious material and peered into an unfamiliar room. The curtains, also blue, were pulled shut, so she had no idea of the time, but she felt as though she’d slept for a week.

She closed her eyes again and tried to think where she was. She’d been asleep in her bed and then—

Catherine shot awake. Everything flooded back to her so quickly that her head throbbed with the
effort to contain it all. Bits and snippets of images poured over her.

Her father bursting into her room.

The beefy man’s ham-sized fists.

The cool church.

Valentine lifting her veil.

No!

She had to find Valentine. Lifting her head from her pillow, she forced herself to ignore the pain and sit. As she did so, the sheet she wore fell back. Catherine gasped, noting she wore nothing underneath. She was naked in a strange bed.

There was a groan and beside her something moved, and then a man’s arm emerged from the silk bedcovers beside her.

Catherine screamed and clutched the sheet, pulling it to her chin. She kicked at the man and scooted as far toward the edge of the bed as possible.

“What the hell?” he said. She was pulling all the sheets to cover herself and revealing him in the process, and her eyes widened as she realized he, too, was naked.

One, two, three, four…

Good Lord! She was in bed with a naked man. She pinched her arm, hoping it was a dream.

Her arm hurt, and she did not wake. Then the man rolled over, turning so that she could see his bare chest all the way to where the last vestiges of sheets barely covered him at the hips.

Catherine stared, unable to take her eyes off
him. And then she jumped up, tripped over the sheets, and stumbled to her feet. She screamed again, backing away from the now-naked man and wrapping the sheets tightly around her. She had to escape, to get away from this man. But she could not go home. She could never, never, never go home. Anything but that.

“Who the devil—” Valentine was looking at her now, frowning, seeming confused. He did not appear to recognize her yet or understand what was going on, but Catherine knew. Oh, God, she knew all too well what had happened.

Her father’s plan had succeeded. He’d forced her agreement, drugged her, then drugged Valentine, too. And now Quint Childers, the Earl of Valentine, was staring at her, naked and aroused, and lying in the bed they’d shared.

“S
top screaming,” Quint said, when he found his voice. “I can’t think with you screaming.”

The woman closed her mouth, her hazel eyes wide and frightened. He ran a hand through his hair and tried to understand what was going on. One minute he’d been sleeping, dreaming that a soft, warm woman was beside him. The next moment, he’d been shoved, thrust into coldness, and had his senses assaulted by a high-pitched keening. His head throbbed with a dull ache that numbed his usually quick wits.

What the hell was going on? And what was he doing in his bed? He thought back, mentally re-
traced his steps, but the path was not easy. It was dark and winding, and at first all he could remember was a church. Talking to Edmund Fullbright in a church. And he’d been angry—they’d both been angry because—

Quint bolted upright and swore. Catherine yelped and jumped back, taking all of his bedclothes with her, and then he swore again. He was naked, with a morning erection he could not hope to hide.

At least now he knew why she was screaming. “Damn, damn, damn! That goddamn bastard. I’m going to have his head.”

Quickly, he rose and pulled on his dressing robe. In two strides he was at his desk, pen in hand, fumbling for paper. And then he paused. How the hell was he going to fix this with a pen? He needed a pistol. He needed to find Edmund Fullbright, shove the pistol into his mouth, and pull the trigger.

Quint gripped the desk. No, he had to be rational. He had to think.

He looked at his pen again. He would write a letter and decry the wrong that had been done to him. He’d tell how his father-in-law had drugged him. He didn’t know how, but he knew that the deed had been done. He’d been drugged and only half-lucid when he and his bride had exchanged vows, and he’d lifted his bride’s veil and found not Elizabeth but Catherine.

And then her father had taken him aside and showed him the marriage license. There, swimming before his blurry vision, was Catherine’s name, not Elizabeth’s. Fullbright had warned Quint not to make a scene. One sister or the other, what was the difference? He was married to a Fullbright now, a niece of the Earl of Castleigh, what else did he want?

Quint had told Fullbright in no uncertain terms that he wanted Elizabeth. And then Mrs. Fullbright had come in with Catherine and tea. More tea.

Quint thought of the tea he’d drunk yesterday morning. That was how Fullbright had done it then. And he’d never thought, not until he had that second cup.

Now he pulled paper after paper off his desk, tossing the used sheets on the floor, but he could not find a clean one. Quint dropped his aching head in his hands. It was no use. He’d seen the marriage license. And he had signed it. He was married to Catherine. He’d said the vows to her, and he didn’t even remember whether the priest had said her name or Elizabeth’s. And now, to seal the deal, he had slept with her. He didn’t think he had taken her, made love to her, but he could not be sure, and what did it matter anyway? She would be ruined. Even if he arranged an annulment, she was already ruined.

He
was ruined—all his hopes and dreams, his plans for the future disappeared into dust when
he’d lifted that veil. He allowed his head to fall into his hands. He allowed himself a moment of mourning for what might have been, and then he steeled himself. This wasn’t over, not by far.

Slowly, he turned back to the room and faced Catherine. His wife.

She had pushed herself into a corner, her face pale and wary, as though she feared he would pounce on her at any moment. She looked afraid and confused, and with her hair down about her shoulders, very much like he’d pictured her in his fantasies. Quint pushed the image away and tried to keep his thoughts honorable.

“We need to talk,” he said.

She nodded.

“Your father—”

“I won’t go back,” she said, her voice shaky but strong. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want this to happen, but I will
not
go back.”

Quint frowned. “Then you knew?” he said. “You willingly took part in his plan.” He tamped down the burst of anger that threatened to flare up again. Now he knew the kind of woman he was dealing with.

“No!” She stepped out of her corner, the words spoken so vehemently that he almost found her believable. “I had no choice. He-he—if I hadn’t gone along he would have…” She trailed off, and he watched her glance about his bedroom, then turn her gaze on him. Her hands tightened on the pile of silk bedclothes at her throat. He
wondered if she realized they gaped at her side, showing him the curve of one honey-colored breast.

He looked away. He didn’t want to feel lust for her right now. He was angry, so angry, and lust would only complicate the matter. He wanted to strangle her. How dare she deceive him like this? How dare she and that bastard father of hers do this to him and Elizabeth?

She was speaking again, and he glanced at her, fury making her words hard to understand at first.

“I don’t understand how this happened,” she was saying. Catherine gestured to the bed. “How did we end up here? I don’t remember—”

“You were drugged,” Quint said without preamble. “Opium, as I’m sure you well know.”

She closed her eyes. “The tea. He made me drink it before we left for the church.”

He leaned forward in his chair and pounced. “So you were drugged, but that doesn’t change the fact that your name was on our marriage license. You stood with me in the church and said the vows.”

“I didn’t want this,” she said, her voice a mere breath.

“I don’t believe you.” He could see the shock on her face, but he didn’t care. “Tell me, why should I believe you? You all but seduced me the night of the betrothal ball.”

She curled her lip, mirroring his own disgust. “You wanted to be seduced.”

“Well, I didn’t want this marriage. I didn’t want
you
.”

She flinched, then took a breath.

“You’ve made your feelings for me plain. What are you going to do?” Her voice still shook when she spoke, but he wasn’t sure exactly what she was afraid of—the fact that she was naked in a room with a man or the threat of having to spend the rest of her life with said gentleman.

“There’s nothing I can do.” He ran a hand through his hair again. Bloody hell, he wanted to kill that bastard Fullbright. But his anger was already smoldering, being replaced by something like despair. “I know of no escape.”

“But we could get an annul—”

He shook his head. “Annulment, divorce. Either choice leaves you a ruined woman. Where will you go? Your father will not take you back, and your family will be disgraced.”

“I told you that I won’t go back.” The color had returned to her face now, and her hazel eyes were bright with anger. Even doomed as they were, he could appreciate her strong will. She took a step forward. “And I won’t accept this marriage.”

Quint gave a bark of laughter. “Is that so? And just what do you propose we do, Miss Fullbright? There is no way out of this without causing a scandal. And not just a scandal that people will
whisper about for a Season and then forget. If we even hint to the public that we were duped into this marriage, you and I will never recover.”

He knew the words he spoke were true, knew the rational part of his mind was beginning to emerge, and yet the facts, logical as they were, were no easier to accept. With bile in his throat, he forced himself to go on.

“We must use all of our skills to persuade the public that I changed my mind and intended to marry you all along.”

“And who will believe that? What about the banns, the betrothal ball?”

Valentine looked at her as though she were a simpleton. “People will believe what I tell them. I’ve built my reputation on honesty and integrity.” And made the mistake of believing others were the same. What a fool he’d been.

Bedclothes still clenched tightly to her chin, she advanced on him. “So that’s what this is about. You are worried about your wretched career. Well, I couldn’t care less about your political advancement. I won’t be your wife. I’ll-I’ll run away.”

“Oh, no you will not.” The little deceiver might have helped trick him into marriage, but she would not ruin his career, too. Quint stood and stared down at her, though she was not much shorter than he. “Do you think I want to be married to you? A woman who stands here and tells
me she cares nothing for my entire life’s work? A woman who isn’t half as pretty or remotely as charming as her sister, and I am stuck with you for life?
Life
. Do you think that’s what I want?”

She took a step back, but he caught her wrist.

“Do not dare think I don’t know what you did, you little liar. But my hands—our hands—are tied. There is no way out. And I will not have you do anything rash that might jeopardize both our reputations. I need a partner, not a liability.”

Catherine wrenched her wrist free of his hold and took two steps back. “You want a partner? Ha! You want a lapdog to follow you about and nod at your every pronouncement. I’m sorry I’m not the sweet, biddable wife you’d hoped to get, but I assure you Elizabeth would not have been so either.”

“I suppose now I will never know. Damn it!” He slammed his hand down on the desk, angry at the situation, his own foolishness, and his loss of control. “Damn it all to hell. I don’t even know what to do with you.” He made a dismissive gesture. “I should just send you home. Let your father deal with you.” It was an idle threat, but her body tensed in immediate fear.

“I won’t go. And if you even try—”

“Don’t presume to tell me what you will or will not do. You’ll do what I say.” Quint couldn’t stop the words from spilling out of his mouth. He did not intend to speak them. He didn’t even mean
them, but something about her defiance and the reckless look in her eyes set him spinning.

“You pompous, self-centered bastard,” she spat. “You don’t have to worry about me. I won’t be your problem much longer.”

She swept the train of the bedclothes over one arm, marched to the door, opened it, and stomped into the hallway.

“Where the devil are you going now?” Quint said, following her. “You can’t walk about London dressed in a sheet.”

“It’s not your concern,” she called over her shoulder, now descending the staircase that would lead to the entry hall. “Go back to your room and feel sorry for yourself.”

Her voice began to fade, and he had to start down the first flight of stairs. He passed a maid who was staring after the woman dressed only in a bedsheet and who then goggled at him in his dressing robe.

“I’m not going back to my room,” he said when he’d caught sight of her again. “And you are not leaving. Get back into that bedroom.”

She’d reached the last three steps and descended them without even pausing. As she marched toward the front door, Quint’s butler rushed forward to open it for her.

“Webster! Do not open that door!” Quint roared. Webster paused, but she breezed past the man.

“Thank you anyway, Webster,” she said as
though she’d known the man for years. “I can open it on my own.”

Webster bowed, “Yes, madam.”

Quint ran a hand through his hair and rushed down the last steps. “I order you to stop. Now!
Elizabeth!
”

His new wife’s back went ramrod straight, like a stag who has been shot with a mortal arrow. She paused, hand on the doorknob. Quint held his breath, praying to God she’d reconsidered.

She looked back. “My name is Catherine.” And she opened the door and walked into the London morning.

Quint looked at his butler and then back at the line of servants peering down the hall and over the staircase. As one, they looked down and proceeded to work diligently at their tasks.

Quint grabbed the door and slammed it shut. Idiot woman! Let her go out there and make a fool of herself. This was exactly what he’d meant when he’d said he didn’t want her doing anything rash.

From outside he heard a man yell, and then there was a crash, and Quint shut his eyes. Dear God, the woman was already stopping traffic. Quint pulled the door open again, saw his wife strolling, head high, shoulders bare, sheets pulled up to her ears down the walk in front of his house. He whipped back to his servants. “Fetch my boots and my horse.” They gawked at him. “Now!”

Quint went after her. It had taken more time than he liked to fetch the horse from the mews and to saddle the beast, but Quint had used the minutes to tug on the pants he’d worn the day before. Unfortunately, the quick search of his room had not uncovered Catherine’s clothing.

Quint spurred his horse forward, following the trail of surprised and whispering people Catherine had left in her wake. He saw her a moment later, and he thanked God it was early enough that most Londoners were still abed. She could have been hurt or accosted by now.

“Catherine!” he yelled, galloping up beside her.

She barely glanced at him. “I see you remember my name.”

He tightened his grip on the reins to stop himself from snatching her right then. “It was a small mistake. And an understandable one.”

“I see.” She marched on.

He decided to try reasoning with her. “Catherine, I know you’re upset right now, but you have to come home.”

“I have no home,” she said, and he could have sworn she increased her pace.

“I meant come to my home. Just for now. Temporarily. Until we sort all of this out.” Quint looked ahead, trying to determine where she might be headed. As he did so, he saw the Secretary of the Navy’s coach approaching. He ducked his head as the secretary peered out the window at him.

Catherine did not even notice. “I don’t think so.”

Quint was becoming desperate. Another block, and they would reach the heart of Mayfair. Not to mention, it was later than he’d first thought. The streets were already beginning to crowd. He tried one last attempt at reason. “Catherine, I’m going to ask one more time.” He spurred his horse forward so that it blocked her path. “I’m begging you,” he said, choking on the words as though they were poison. “Please turn back.”

She barely glanced up at him, stepped to the right, and walked straight by the horse, dragging the bedsheets in the dirt after her.