Authors: Shana Galen
And just as she began to relax, Valentine moved his fingers.
It was a very small movement, and she might not have noticed it at all except that his hand in hers had been absolutely still up until that point. Now she felt one finger move, tracing a small circle on the inside of her palm. She shivered and tried to ignore the sensation. But he repeated the movement, this time the circle grew bigger, his finger tracing the underside of one of hers when the circle was complete.
She looked at him, but he was still staring out his coach window, his face impassive. Perhaps he moved his fingers without thinking. She tried to loosen her hand, to free it unobtrusively, but he did not release her.
With a sigh, she went back to looking out her window, and then a few moments later, he began caressing her palm once again.
Catherine tried to ignore it, but it was difficult when each new touch made her feel hot and cold all at once. Her arm tingled, and she noticed that each new caress was different from the last. One caress was soft, that next more firm. He drew a small circle on her palm, and the next circle was so large, his touch extended over her wrist, making her pulse throb deliciously.
Catherine continued to stare out the window, but she could not believe Valentine’s caresses were unintentional. He was the devious one, not she. She had to remember he did all of this for his career. He didn’t care for her; he wanted to control her.
But what to do? Should she say something? Ask him to cease? Even as she contemplated her options, he grew bolder, his fingers actually traveling up her arm, tickling the sensitive under skin and tapping over her delicate inner elbow.
At that Catherine could no longer sit still. She was already squirming in her seat, and when his fingers glided over her inner elbow, she turned to him, eyes burning.
“Sir, I must ask you to cease at once.”
He turned from his window to regard her, brow raised. “Cease what?”
She glowered at him. “You know what. Cease touching me.”
“Am I not allowed to touch my own wife?”
“I’m not truly your—”
“And I am merely holding your hand.”
She let out a frustrated breath. “No, you’re not. You’re
caressing
me.”
He gave her a look of mock-horror. “Good God. Can you ever forgive me?”
She pinched her lips at him and glared. “Stop making fun of me. You promised to respect me, and I want you to cease.”
“Very well.” He turned so that he faced her more fully. “I will cease if you tell me why.”
“It makes me uncomfortable,” she said, and felt a blush creep up her cheeks. Lord, she hated when she blushed.
“How?”
She frowned. “What do you mean? I just feel unsettled. I don’t like it.”
“Are you certain?”
She shook her head in disbelief. “Of course I am certain. I know when I am uncomfortable.”
“I don’t doubt it. But you said you felt unsettled. That feeling is not always unwanted. Sometimes it can even be pleasurable.”
Catherine felt her cheeks burst into flame.
“Did my touch give you pleasure?” Valentine asked.
Catherine had to avert her eyes. It was a scandalous question, not fit for a discussion even between husband and wife. Certainly not appropriate for two people who were united by the
merest thread. She looked down at the hand he still held and, with his words swirling in her ears, couldn’t help but imagine those fingers sliding over her shoulder, her collarbone, flitting across the swell of her breast.
She shivered and tried to free her hand, but Valentine held tighter. “What were you thinking just now?”
“Nothing. I-I—”
He placed a finger over her lips. “There is no shame in feeling pleasure or imagining pleasurable activities. Do you know what I was thinking?”
She shook her head, desperate to know while at the same time wishing he would simply leave her alone. She didn’t like the way she felt—the oversensitivity of her skin, the way her nipples hardened against the material of her stays, the dampness between her legs. She felt restless as a filly on a new spring day, and she longed for the cozy, comfortable days of winter.
But now that Valentine had awakened her, he seemed loath to allow a return to sleep.
He slipped his fingers between hers again and leaned closer. “I was thinking about you in my bedroom. I was imagining standing in the doorway, watching you slide that gown off your shoulders, down your arms—”
“Stop, sir! This is not proper.” But she could feel the heat and pulse between her legs growing.
“—baring your back,” he continued. “I can see
all that honey gold skin until the dress drops to your hips, revealing the dip at the small of your back. And I want to kiss that place. Flick my tongue over it and lave it until you writhe beneath me.”
His fingers were sliding over hers once again, back and forth, up and down. And Catherine wanted to silence him, but she did not have the strength. Lord help her, but she wanted him to do all the things he described. She wanted to feel his hands on her.
And then, just when she felt she could be silent no longer, when she felt she must demean herself and beg him to touch her, he released her hand and sat back. Once again, he parted the carriage curtains and peered out into the landscape, his face impassive, his warm, strong hands immobile at his sides.
Catherine stared at him, trying to comprehend the transformation. This man, her new husband, was obviously a man of much control. And he was also a man of much passion. As she stared at his unreadable face, she wondered which side of him she liked more.
T
he sun was low in the sky by the time Quint turned to his new bride, and said, “This is it.”
She sat forward and parted the curtain, letting a spill of violet-tinged twilight into the carriage.
“Look down at the top of the next rise,” Quint said, pointing into the distance. “That’s Ravensland.” As the coach topped the bank, Quint gave his bride a sidelong look. He watched her face, waiting for any telltale sign of disappointment. His family had large estates, of course. His mother and father lived in Ravenscroft Hall in Derbyshire, but this property was his own— small and simple and unassuming.
If Catherine had usurped her sister and married him for money, he’d know it in a moment.
And he did. As soon as Catherine saw the house, her eyes widened, and the first smile he had seen all day teased her lips. Without looking away from the house, she said, “Oh, it’s lovely. I was afraid it would be some monstrous thing that rambled on and on and where I’d get lost.” She turned and smiled at him, and Quint was caught staring at the full, ripe peach that was her mouth.
“But it’s not,” she said, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of his stare.
Quint blinked. What was she talking about? He hadn’t heard a word since—“Oh, monstrous. Right, you are. It’s a good house, but I don’t have the room for a full complement of servants. I hope you don’t mind, but I can always hire from the village.”
“Oh, no. I don’t mind. In fact, I can help out.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary.”
With an abashed smile, she turned back to the window.
Quint was relieved that those piercing brown-gold eyes had left his face. It gave him a moment to collect himself. Whenever he was close to his bride, she seemed to distract him with some new quality he hadn’t noticed before. All day in the carriage, it had been her scent. The comparison of her mouth to a peach had not been capricious. He’d smelled peaches, and the closer he leaned to
his bride, the more intoxicated he became. When she had been sleeping on top of him, the scent was so strong and so tantalizing that he had been unable to resist stroking her long, black hair.
But his attempts at seduction had been quite deliberate and quite personal. He’d planned most of this last night. He would win her affections while remaining coolly detached. But it would not be easy. Everything about her tempted him, and he knew the signs of a drowning man. Allowing himself to care for this woman was a dangerous proposition. She had tricked him into marriage.
Beside him, Catherine tensed, and he peered past her. They were nearing the house now, and his servants had come out to greet him. There were perhaps nine in all—good people, most of whom had worked for his family for years—but Catherine eyed them as though they were a revolutionary mob after her head.
“Catie, you needn’t be afraid.” He put his hand on her arm and she jumped.
“I’m sorry,” she said, putting her hand to her heart. “I become nervous around new people.”
Quint stared at her and forced himself to take a deep breath. What was his job but meeting new people—diplomats, up-and-coming stars of Parliament, even political opponents? The world of politics was constantly shifting and changing. What was he to do with a wife who ran and hid every time she saw someone new?
The coach slowed and pulled around the circular drive, and one of Quint’s footmen opened the door and lowered the stairs. Before he exited, Quint gave Catherine’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll be right by your side. Just smile, and you’ll get through it.”
She nodded somewhat stiffly, her face pale and her hands trembling in his. Quint prayed she wouldn’t faint or make a scene.
Quint exited first, then with great ceremony, he held out his hand and assisted Catherine from the carriage. When she stepped down, he whispered, “Smile.”
She gave a tight grimace.
Quint could see that for their part, his staff was ecstatic to meet their new mistress. The servants clapped and cheered at the sight of Catherine, but this only seemed to make her more nervous.
Quint held up a hand to quiet them. “Your new mistress, Lady Valentine.”
The servants cheered again, and Quint felt Catherine go limp beside him. He put an arm about her waist and assisted her up the stairs to the door, but he couldn’t stop himself from wondering if this was an act or real fear.
His housekeeper came forward, eager to be first to welcome the new mistress, but Quint whispered to her, “Mrs. Crumb, might we do introductions another time? I fear my wife is overly tired from the long trip.”
“Of course, milord. I’ll have her things brought to your chambers.”
“Then you received my letter?” Quint asked.
“Yes, milord. And this morning the workers began the improvements that you specified.”
Quint felt like a scoundrel. He’d sent that letter by express post last night, indicating he wanted the room that would have been Catherine’s completely redone. While the room was in need of remodeling, the work was not necessary, especially considering that the other rooms in the house were occupied or untenable. In effect, Quint had ensured he and Catherine would share a bedroom. It was devious and low, not something that Quint would have normally done, but how else was he supposed to get close to her?
And after all she had done, did she deserve any better?
“Thank you, Mrs. Crumb.” As the housekeeper led Catherine away, Quint tried to give her a reassuring smile. She looked terrified, not a bit like the devious little liar he imagined her.
At length, when Quint had settled back into his chambers, gone over accounts with his estate manager, and attended to various other tasks associated with being a property owner, he looked at the clock and saw that it was after eleven.
He took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. No point in putting it off any longer. It was time he joined his wife in bed.
And he wasn’t going to feel any qualms about doing so. She had wanted this marriage enough to have him drugged. She had duped him. Hadn’t she?
The rest of the house was dark and silent as he walked up the stairs, lamp in hand, and opened the door to his room. Catherine was sitting in bed, book propped on her knee. She looked up at him, and he paused for a moment to catch his breath. Her long, silky hair flowed over the pretty pink nightgown she wore. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyelids heavy. He had the crazy impulse to go to her, take her into his arms, and just hold her. The impulse was shaken when she saw him. She clutched the covers, and shrieked, “What do you want?”
Quint closed the door behind him slowly and set the lamp on a small side table. “I want to go to bed.”
He sat in a silk-striped armchair and began taking off his boots. Dorsey, his valet, had not accompanied him on this trip, and that had not been an accident. Quint wanted no servants interrupting his time with his wife.
“But why do you not go to your own room?” Catherine asked, scooting away from him.
Quint noted her behavior. Could this fear really be an act?
He set one boot on the floor and began on the other. “This is my room.”
She blinked at him. “Then where is mine?”
“Yours is under construction. Unfortunately, I have not been as diligent in the upkeep of this house as I should have. I intend to remedy that now. I am afraid we will have to share a room.” He finished with his boots and stood to remove his tailcoat.
“Then I will sleep in one of the other rooms.”
Quint shrugged off his tailcoat and laid it over the arm of the chair. “All are occupied.” That was not strictly true, but she did not know that.
He began unbuttoning his shirt, and Catherine jumped up, grabbing the robe at the end of the bed. “Sir, you promised you would not”—she swallowed and clutched a hand to her throat, closing the robe over her neck—“you promised you would not force yourself on me.”
He paused and looked up at her. Bloody hell. She was pale and trembling. Obviously terrified. Keeping his voice low, he said, “Nor do I intend to. I assure you that I will not touch you.” He pulled his shirt over his head, and she took another step back.
“I-I do not believe you. How do I know—”
“Catherine, I am tired,” he said, “I want to go to bed. Nothing more.” And at this point, that was true. Her behavior, as usual, gave him more questions than answers, and he needed time to consider them. He began to unfasten his trousers, and Catherine let out a small yelp.
“Very well, if we are to share a room, then I will sleep on the couch.” She pointed to the vel
vet chaise longue across from the bed, then scurried over to it and lay down.
Quint sighed. He should have foreseen this and had the damn thing removed before they arrived. “You’re not going to sleep on the couch. If you won’t share a bed with me, then I will sleep on the couch.”
“But I don’t want—”
“Catie, get in the bed. I’m going to blow out this lamp and lie down on the couch. Unless you intend to lie on top of me, you’d better be in bed.”
She scrambled to the bed again and had climbed in when he blew out the lamp. He lifted his coat from the arm of the chair, and, feeling his way across the room, lay on the couch, with the coat over him.
In the darkness, the room was silent. Quint did not even think Catherine dared breathe. He turned on his back, his feet hanging over the edge of the chaise. Shifting onto his side, his shoulder dropped off the couch. He sighed, wishing for his large, comfortable bed.
But there would be many days to come. The better he knew her, the better he understood her, the easier it would be to win his way into his wife’s bed. Then he could mold her into the wife he needed. She was like a skittish horse who had to be calmed and soothed, and who, with a bit of attention would become a confident, prancing beauty. That was his Catherine.
Quint rose early the next morning, dressed, and
left his wife sleeping. She had curled into a ball and had one hand fisted under her chin. He restrained the urge to go to her and brush the hair from her face. Instead, he went down to the stable and found his groom. An hour later, he knocked on their bedroom door. It opened a sliver, and honey hazel eyes blinked at him.
“Get dressed,” he said. “I have something to show you.”
“But I don’t—”
“If I have to break down this door and pull you out,” he hissed, mindful of a maid dusting nearby, “I will do it. Now meet me on the front lawn in a quarter hour. You’ll like what I have to show you.”
And he marched down to the lawn and paced away the minutes. He’d stopped pacing and was watching the sun burn off the clouds and glint off the dew at his feet, when he heard behind him, “Is this what I’m meant to see?”
He turned to see his wife in a thin summer dress, standing on the lawn behind him, shivering.
Immediately, he swept off his greatcoat and draped it about her shoulders. He looked into her face and noticed it was pale and tired. “Didn’t you sleep well?”
“I might have slept better if I’d been
alone,
” she grumbled. “Why did you drag me out of bed so early?”
He grinned. Very well. She wasn’t a morning
person. He’d be certain to schedule only afternoon social events.
Without asking permission, he took her hand and led her down the path. They walked in silence for the first few minutes. Catherine yawned and blinked at the rising sun, and generally looked about herself as though she could not quite believe what she saw was real. Quint was fascinated by the play of emotions on her face, though it hurt his opinion of her devious nature. As he watched her, it seemed her every thought was revealed. He saw the surprised and mulish look on her face when he’d taken her hand and refused to let go. He saw her face light when she glimpsed a deer standing in the distance, still as an icy pond, watching them. And now he watched her face again as they rounded the next corner and the stables came into view.
He needn’t have bothered to pay such close attention. When she saw the horses in the paddock beside them, she let out a gasp of pleasure so loud that Quint’s stableboy looked up.
“You have horses,” she breathed, and he noticed that her pace was no longer sluggish. Now she was all but pulling him forward.
“I thought you might like a morning ride,” Quint said.
“Oh, yes! Yes!” By then she was almost running, and her smile of joy practically split her face. But when she reached the horses, she slowed
and looked back at him. “Which one shall I ride?” she asked.
Quint glanced at the chestnut mare he had been about to suggest she take, and then decided against speaking up. There was a gelding so pale he appeared white that Quint preferred when he was home, and he saw Catherine’s face break into a rapturous smile at the sight of the horse.
“You choose,” he said.
She glanced away from the white gelding. “Really?”
“Please. Take your choice.”
“I—” She glanced at the white horse again and then at the others. With a last longing look at the gelding, she said, “I’ll ride the chestnut, I think.”
Quint laughed, and she spun round.
“Why do you laugh, sir?”
“Because that was very noble of you, but I didn’t bring you out here this morning so you could be noble. You want to ride Thor, don’t you?”
Her eyes strayed to the white horse again. “Is that his name?”
“Yes, and you’re staring at him like a starving child stares at a mince pie. Ride him, Catherine. He’s yours whenever you want.”
She blinked at him, and he could see the uncertainty in her eyes. “But what will you ride, then? I am sure Thor must be your favorite horse. He is such a beauty.”
“I’ll ride Hazard over there.” He pointed to a dappled tan-and-brown horse. “Come on, let’s go. The morning is getting away from us.”
They rode away from the stable, Quint leading the way. Initially, they gave the horses their heads and galloped into the brisk spring morning. When the horses tired, Quint took her on a meandering tour of Ravensland’s extensive grounds.
“You have a good seat,” Quint said. “And you handle Thor very well.”
“Thank you,” she said, but he saw the telltale blush.
“Now what have I said to embarrass you?” he asked.