Authors: Elizabeth Thornton
“Buenas noches, mi esposo,”
said Señor Matales.
“Buenas noches, mi esposo,”
repeated Catherine back to him.
There was something else she hadn’t taken into her calculations. Marcus was supposed to be her husband. From the start, she made sure that she had her own bedchamber and Marcus never entered it uninvited. But she couldn’t keep him at arm’s length when others were present. Marcus insisted that they behave like a happily married couple. Consequently, he touched her a lot, stole kisses, teased her unmercifully. He had a playful side to him as she should have remembered from the Isabella incident in Spain. That very morning, in the breakfast room, he had pulled her onto his lap and kissed her just as the maid entered with a fresh pot of tea. Catherine had wanted to hit him, and the twinkle in his eyes had told her he knew it. She couldn’t hit him with the maid there, and after a while, she hadn’t wanted to. She touched her fingers to her lips, remembering that kiss.
At that moment, Marcus appeared in the doorway and he paused for a moment to study Catherine before she noticed him. He’d found himself studying her now and again during the last week, and had discovered, to his
chagrin, that she was more similar to his wife than he’d bargained for.
Catherine shied away from him at every turn, tried to keep him at arm’s length. It aroused the hunter in him. Only Catalina had ever evoked that primitive side of his nature. And now Cat.
But Catherine was different from Catalina in other ways. Her intelligence, the scope of her interests, her wry wit were uniquely hers. She amused him, and that was the last thing he could have said about Catalina. Even Catherine’s cool, intimidating stares amused him. She might not know it yet, but she wanted him. Beneath that cool exterior, he sensed a reckless, adventurous side to her, and he wanted to be the one to offer her that adventure.
Since he was a married man and she didn’t want to be married, the only solution was to take her as his mistress. He’d already established there was a mercenary side to her and he was willing to pay handsomely for the privilege.
But first he would give her time to become accustomed to his touches, his kisses, what he wanted from her. When he felt his body harden in anticipation, he strode into the room.
“Buenos días, mi esposa.”
Marcus’s voice brought Catherine’s head whipping round. He was dressed in skintight doeskin breeches, black topboots, and a gray riding jacket, and seemed quite unconscious of the elegant impression he gave. As she continued to stare, a small smile touched his lips.
Recalled to her senses by that smile, she responded tartly,
“Buenos días, mi esposo.”
“It’s time for your riding lesson,” he said.
She grimaced, and after making her excuses to her tutor, she followed Marcus out of the room.
The last thing she needed was riding lessons, but this was something else she couldn’t tell Marcus, for how could she explain? The only horses her family had owned were placid ponies to pull her father’s one-horse buggy. A country doctor could not afford a stable of horses, and Marcus would know it. He also knew that she had been boarding Vixen for only a few months.
She’d learned to ride in Spain.
El Grande
had taught her how, along with her instinct for self-preservation. Anyone could learn to ride if it was a case of life or death, and it had been just that, quite literally, on more occasions than she cared to remember. Right this minute, she longed for a good gallop … but that was impossible with Marcus.
As the groom led out Daisy, the horse Marcus had chosen for her, Catherine began to act her part. She’d done a lot of playacting since they’d arrived at the lodge. It was becoming second nature to her now. In a voice that only he could hear, a plaintive voice, she said, “Is this really necessary? You know you’ll never make me an accomplished rider in the short time we’ll be here.”
“I’m aware of that. All I’m hoping for is that you’ll learn to handle your mount better, improve your seat, and so on.”
She became indignant. “I know how to ride! Ask McNally. Ask Emily Lowrie. I’ve even been out on Vixen.”
“Poor Vixen,” said Marcus, and laughed. “I suppose you think you’re a crack shot too?”
He was referring to the time he had set up a target and asked her to shoot at it. More playacting on her part. She’d loaded the pistol with the precision her father had taught her, but she’d been very careful to aim wide of the mark. Marcus had hooted with laughter.
“I do know how to shoot,” she said now. “You made me nervous. That’s all it was.”
“Oh, I’m not finding fault,” he said. “If you’d been a crack shot, you might have killed me the night we met. If you’d been Catalina, you wouldn’t have missed.”
“Catalina, Catalina, always Catalina. Is there anything this paragon of a woman can’t do?”
Evidently her words had startled him. “What?”
“It sounds to me as though you are still in love with her.”
His face darkened. “Don’t be absurd. I was never in love with her. Catalina Cordes is a devious, scheming bitch who deserves everything she is going to get. Now, would you mind if we went on with the riding lesson?”
She smiled to mask her contempt. So he
had
been trifling with poor Catalina. No, she didn’t regret her Spanish marriage, not one whit, and he could roast in hell before she would help him out of it.
With hands on her waist, he lifted her into the saddle. “No, don’t clutch at the reins,” he scolded her. He demonstrated, not for the first time, the correct hold so that she would not ruin her mount’s mouth. “Relax,” he told her. “Daisy is a docile as a lamb.”
She didn’t want to overdo it, so she followed his instructions but managed to look uncomfortable.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“I thought we’d ride to the folly,” he said.
“The folly?”
“You remember the little house that overlooks the valley?”
“Oh, that folly.” It wasn’t a house so much as a shelter for anyone caught by a sudden storm. It also had the best view for miles around.
“We shall take it at a slow canter,” he said.
She wondered what he would say if she told him she’d outrun countless French cavalry patrols in the hills of Spain. “I’ll try to keep up,” she murmured.
It was a slow, boring ride and Catherine wasn’t sorry when they reached the folly. She was feeling distinctly uneasy with the way Marcus was looking at her, the way he touched her, making her hold the reins just so, or sit straighter in the saddle. There were no servants to see them now.
What had she expected? He was a rake and she was a woman. Did he think she would be the next woman in his bed? The gall of the man! It was no more, no less than she expected.
“What is it, Catherine? What are you thinking?” He had dismounted and was tethering his horse to the folly’s rail.
The look in his eyes reminded her to be careful. He was uncanny at reading her mind, and that made him doubly dangerous. “I’m worried about meeting your family. I guess I’d be a fool not to be.”
He was standing beside her mount, eyes narrowed as
he stared up at her. “Put your hands on my shoulders,” he said.
When she obeyed, he lifted her down from the saddle. He didn’t let go, and her heart began to race. His body was brushing against hers and his eyes were on her mouth.
As his head descended, she quickly gasped out, “Your family, Marcus … How do they feel about the fact that you married a Spanish girl?” She pulled out of his arms. “Tell me more about them so I’ll know better what to expect.”
There was a faint smile on his face as he tethered her mount. “Is is really the thought of my family that put that look on your face?”
“What do you mean?”
“I think I unnerve you,” he said, and grinned.
In her primmest voice, she said, “Though it may be difficult for you to understand, I’m not really your wife. We are playacting, Marcus.” She raised her voice.
“Playacting.
If you once overstep the line, I promise you I’m going straight home to Hampstead. Do you understand?”
“Quite,” he said, but he was still grinning.
She swung away from him and pretended an interest in the view. “I’m nervous about having to mix with the aristocracy,” she said, “not to mention playing the part of a Spanish girl.”
He came up behind her and stretched one hand around her shoulders to rest on the upright post, boxing her in. “My stepmother is not from the aristocracy. She was a tailor’s daughter. She isn’t received in polite society. I thought everyone knew.”
“Not received?” she asked, astonished.
“I take it you don’t know the story of my disreputable family?”
“No.” What she knew was the story of his disreputable self.
“I hardly remember my father,” he said. “He died when I was just a boy. From all accounts, I didn’t miss much. Even when he was married to my mother, he was an inveterate adulterer and seducer of young women. When my mother died giving me birth, he lost all discretion,
all decency. He caught sight of Helen Shore, my stepmother, in a London street. She was eighteen and he was close to forty. He was completely taken with her. She refused to have anything to do with him, but that didn’t stop my father. He simply abducted her and carried her off to his castle in Warwickshire.”
“What a charming man!” said Catherine acidly, thinking,
Like father, like son.
Marcus smiled faintly. “He wasn’t the first nobleman to consider himself above the law. This all happened in the last century, in 1785 to be precise. Things are different now. Catherine, don’t look at me like that. I have never yet abducted a young woman. This is my father and stepmother I’m telling you about. I assure you, I am nothing like my father.”
Her tone was dry. “Perhaps you should start comparing yourself to someone else.”
“Who, for instance? Melrose Gunn?”
She frowned at him. “Marcus, just tell me what happened when your father abducted your stepmother.”
The heat in his eyes gradually cooled. “They were married in the chapel at Wrotham. In time, she bore him two sons and a daughter.”
He paused, then said, “This new marriage did not improve my father’s character. He continued to be as unfaithful as ever, and died in a duel over another man’s wife.”
“Your childhood must have been quite unhappy.”
“Not at all. My father’s saving grace as a parent was that he never was there. And so when he died, I hardly missed him.”
Catherine felt a surge of pity for Marcus. When her mother died, it seemed as if her world had ended. “Why isn’t your stepmother received in polite society?”
His profile was to her and he seemed absorbed in the scenery. Below them, the valley with the river running through it was spread out and the trees were ablaze with color. He turned his head to look at her. “People didn’t want to believe he had married her, a tailor’s daughter. They preferred to believe she was his mistress. As a result,
when his friends came calling, their wives stayed at home.”
“But that’s cruel.”
“Yes, isn’t it? I was too young at the time to know what was going on.”
“But your father
did
marry her?”
“Oh yes. Helen had an excellent witness in my father’s chaplain, and the marriage was entered in the chapel register.”
“Then how could anyone doubt their marriage?”
“There was a bracelet, the Wrotham bridal bracelet, a family heirloom that has passed to each earl’s bride in turn. The tradition began with the first earl. My mother wore it, for instance, but my father never gave it to his new bride, and no one knows what became of it.”
There was a long silence as she digested his words. Amusement kindled in his eyes. “What?” he said. “No more questions?”
She shot him a sharp look. “I need to know these things if I’m pretending to be your wife. Now what about your half brothers and sister. You haven’t told me about them.”
“There’s no point in going into that. You’ll meet them all soon enough. In the last six years, remember, I have hardly been at home. I’ve been off fighting a war. We’re almost like strangers. Now don’t worry, Cat. You’ll have no problem handling my family. You can handle anything.”
He’d taken to calling her “Cat” and she found it disturbing. Only Amy had ever called her that. It was too cozy, too intimate for her liking, but she hadn’t voiced her objections, knowing he would disregard them anyway.
“Not I, Marcus.
Catalina.
I hope I can live up to your expectations.”
“You and Catalina are not so different.”
This wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “Oh, come now,” she scoffed.
She didn’t resist when he cupped his hands on her shoulders. She was sure he suspected nothing, but alarm rippled through her all the same. She couldn’t afford to make a wrong move.
“Your looks are deceiving,” he said. “On the surface, you look like a very proper lady. No one would guess that you are A. W. Euman,
The Journal’s
most respected commentator, or that you go around town with a pistol concealed in your muff. Catalina’s looks were deceiving too. No one would have suspected that she was a partisan and could fight as well as any man.”
As casually as she could manage, Catherine eased out of his grasp. She didn’t know what alarmed her more, the admiration in his eyes or the way he was putting two and two together without being aware of how close he had come to hitting the mark.
She managed a light laugh. “If I’m to pass myself off as Catalina, I’d better get back on Daisy and practice some more.” She turned away and made for the tethered horses. Marcus followed her. “I’ve been thinking about this, Marcus, and I wonder if we’re going about it the right way. I’ll never learn to ride as well as a Spanish partisan. Couldn’t we come up with a good reason why I should stay away from horses?” She wasn’t speaking out of nervousness, but because she wanted to convince him that she and Catalina were nothing alike.
“What reason?”
“I’m sure if we put our heads together we can come up with something. As for the language, I’ve been thinking about that too. I’m not going to say a word in Spanish if I can help it. I shall tell everyone that I was raised by an English governess and that’s why my English is so fluent and my accent so polished.”