Authors: Shana Galen
By then, she knew what he wanted. He wanted her to open her mouth, and she was surprised to find that she wanted the same. She was not disappointed at what she felt. His lips slanted over hers, warm and moist and making her feel sensations even more mesmerizing than she had felt last night. Her whole body seemed to come alive against his, and she couldn’t seem to get close enough to him. She pulled his head down farther
with the hand on the back of his neck and ran her other hand along his back.
She thought she heard him groan quietly, but then he flicked his tongue into her mouth, and she was not sure of anything. Heat flooded through her. She knew her face was flaming, and she knew that if anyone ever saw her doing this, she would die of mortal shame. And yet she did not stop him. With each moment, the kiss grew more into a caress, his tongue probing and searching and spinning her to new heights of sensation.
His touch and his kiss sent heat flooding through her. Her hands tingled with it. Her breasts ached with it, and her stomach clenched. And then the heat reached that spot between her legs, and she felt her thighs become wet. She had the oddest sensation, and she wanted to rub herself. Even more, she wanted him to touch her there.
He’d withdrawn his tongue now, but their mouths were still fused. The sensation between her legs was growing, making her restless and excited, and when he withdrew his tongue she followed him. With a thrill of adventure, she entered his mouth. He met her there, kissing her harder, pulling her closer, showing her what to do and how.
And then, as though he knew what she was feeling, he parted her legs with his own and slid a leg between her thighs. He kept one hand on
her back and the other on her neck, still kneading away her inhibitions, but she felt his thigh press against her. At first the touch was light and tentative, but she felt a jolt when his warm body caressed that inner part of her, even through her skirts and petticoats.
His touch grew more insistent. He rubbed against her again and again, the strokes of his tongue mimicking the thrusts of his thigh.
And Catherine could not take it anymore. She broke the kiss and gasped. But the gasp came out sounding much more like a moan, and not the kind of moan a lady like her would make. She sounded like a common whore.
It was all too much, and she released him and pushed her hand against his chest. Reluctantly, he allowed her to go. She stumbled back, her hand to her throat, and stared at him.
Unbelievably enough, he looked as flushed and affected as she. His hair was mussed, the dark waves falling over his forehead, his eyes were bright, and he breathed in rapid bursts that matched her own gulps.
“God, I want you,” he said on a gasp. “Please.”
She stared at this man, the only man she’d ever known who asked before taking. The only man she’d ever known who told her she was worth something, who told her she deserved more. More than anything, she wanted to yield to him. But again, if she submitted, if she let him sweep her away, allowed him to make her believe she
meant more to him than she did, and then he took it all away…what then?
She took another step back. Her head was spinning, and she knew she needed time to think. She needed so much time to think these days.
“It’s still your decision,” he said, straightening. “I won’t touch you unless you allow it. But now you know how it can be. God, Catie, please trust me.”
She turned and fled to her room. She threw herself on their bed, quick to bury her head in the counterpane so that she could hide the blush from her face.
She took deep, soothing breaths until her heart slowed and she was able to count to a hundred. And then she opened her eyes and stared at the green-and-yellow-papered walls.
She could still feel the pulse beating between her legs, still feel the moist ache that begged to be quelled. Hand trembling, she put her fingers there and pressed against her flesh, hoping to staunch the feelings, but they only intensified, and the image of Valentine, his hair disheveled and his eyes hot and full of desire for her, made her want him more.
Quickly, she withdrew her hand and tried to think of banal topics: the weather, bread pudding, horses. But there again she thought of Valentine. He’d allowed her the pick of the best horse. He’d shown her his home, and she could still remember the way he’d beamed and the
pride in his face when they’d ridden about the property. And then last night, when she’d been frightened, he’d held her and soothed her.
She shook her head, but she could not deny the inevitable. She had married a good man. He was nothing like her father. Quint Childers was a good man.
With a sigh, Catherine flipped onto her stomach.
And so what?
That didn’t mean she had to fall in love with him. That didn’t mean she had to trust him.
He spoke of passion, of pleasure, but he didn’t speak of love.
Because he didn’t love her. He loved Elizabeth. Catherine knew she would only open herself to a lifetime of pain if she allowed Valentine into her heart. All her life, Catherine had fought with Elizabeth—for her parents’ affection, for space in their shared room, for respect—but she would not fight Elizabeth for Valentine’s heart.
That was a battle Catherine feared she would never win.
Q
uint sat behind his desk and tried to concentrate on the documents in front of him. His recommendation to the prime minister was due soon, he had a speech to write for Parliament, and he still had to go through piles of correspondence. Here was a letter with information on a labor law he was researching, there a request from an MP for support of a new tax bill.
Quint stared at the work for the better part of the afternoon and made no progress whatsoever. It seemed no matter which issue he turned his attention to, the only issue he could really concentrate on was that of his marriage. He was not a violent man, but at that moment he could have cheerfully murdered Edmund Fullbright.
Quint had been wrong about Catie. He could see that now. Not that he hadn’t had reason to distrust her, but no more. Now he felt nothing but righteous fury for her. Edmund Fullbright was the worst kind of scum—the kind of vermin who belittled those weaker than himself, the kind of man who made himself feel powerful by knocking down people like his wife and daughter.
Quint hadn’t lied to Catie when he’d said that relationships didn’t have to be like that. He had promised not to hurt her, and he meant it. He would protect her, cherish her. He’d give her confidence and power, all that her father had stolen from her.
Quint leaned back in his chair and scrubbed his fingers over his face. If only all his plans were as easily executed as devised. He needed to return to his political work, but Catherine, with her long black hair, large hazel eyes, and blatant mistrust of men—and him in particular—plagued him far more than the reports of American discontent on the seas. The Americans he could deal with. His wife was another matter.
Still leaning back, he linked his hands behind his head and tried to consider the issue of his marriage as he would that of a pesky foreign dispute. In many ways, his wife was similar to a rebel colony. She was submissive but willful, coarse but full of potential, beautiful but teeming with hidden dangers. Quint imagined the early settlers of the American colonies coming ashore
and seeing their new home for the first time. It had probably not felt any more like home to them than his marriage to Catherine felt like the union he had hoped for with Elizabeth.
Still, the colonists had weathered the storm. They’d suffered through the cold winters and hot summers, they’d fought back the threats, and they’d carved out a niche for themselves. And look at them now. The bloody colonies were a proud, confident country in their own right. And he supposed that was what he needed from Catherine. If she were to share the political stage with him, she had to be proud and confident.
And here was Meeps, speaking of a Cabinet position. How few men were ever considered for such an honor at the tender age of thirty, and yet the opportunity was there for the taking—if Quint played his part well.
And if Catherine played hers.
But how did one take a raw, new land and mold it into a nation? Quint sat forward and made a note on a scrap of paper littering his desk. First, one staked one’s claim. He could check that off. He felt a bit like Christopher Columbus must have when he mistook the Americas for India. Quint himself had been promised India, but he was in possession of America, and he would make the best of it. Not that that would be any hardship.
He closed his eyes and felt Catherine’s warm, soft body against his. One hand had been on the
long column of her neck and the other just above the sweet curve of her bottom. How he’d wanted to take her in both hands, grasp her hips, and pull them against his straining erection—his need for her the result of her innocent but oh-so-tantalizing kisses.
But that was not the way. He’d known it, and held himself back as best he could. Even when she’d met him thrust for thrust, their tongues mimicking the ancient rhythm both their bodies knew instinctively.
Quint let out a long breath and went back to his list. Yes, he had staked a claim, and he had not frightened the native away. He was wooing her and would continue to do so. But what next?
One worked to make the colony profitable. One built settlements and organized laws and—
Quint sat back again and smiled.
—and one cultivated the land. One plowed the virgin earth and planted one’s seed and hoped the endeavor would come to fruition. It was only after a successful harvest—after the settlement reaped what it had sowed—that a great nation could be born.
And Quint saw it was this way with Catherine as well. He’d bed his wife, earn her trust and her affection, and then he would begin to build her confidence and her skills until he’d molded her into the wife that he wanted. Until she was the perfect political hostess.
There was only one small problem with his
colonization scheme: it took decades to forge a nation, and he needed a political hostess in a matter of weeks. The Cabinet position would not wait. If he did not take it, his rival Charles Fairfax surely would. Fairfax had the political clout and the perfect wife.
Quint ran a hand through his hair and peered out the window beside his desk. The midmorning rains had ceased, and the sky was once again blue and clear. It was a perfect day to go for a walk or…to ride into the small village nearby.
He looked back at his work. It was still waiting for him, and he really could not justify leaving so much undone for an afternoon of pleasure.
Except that when he looked outside again, he saw Catherine as she’d been yesterday morning. She’d been walking along the copse of trees, her long, dark hair blowing out behind her, her thin dress molded to her legs and her breasts, the color high and bright in her face. His groin tightened, and he looked back at the documents, then, with a resigned sigh, he rang for his curricle and sent a note to his wife. The government of England would have to wait. Quint Childers, Earl of Valentine, had colonizing to do.
An hour later, he sat beside his wife in his curricle and drove at a fast clip toward the village. She had acted reluctant to venture out with him and had barely been able to meet his eye when she’d come down from her room, but he had seen
that beneath her embarrassment and mistrust of his intentions lay excitement.
She was a colonist as well—eager to explore a new world—or at least a new village. When he’d seen her still wearing the thin, too-tight muslin gown, he’d bundled her up in his cloak, and that gave him a brilliant excuse for going into the village.
She needed new clothes. There was a seamstress there who had sewn for the family for decades, and Quint told Catherine they would call on her and perhaps have dinner in one of the pubs.
She’d protested at first, but it was not hard to convince her. But when was it ever difficult to convince a woman she needed a new dress or a hat? The village was only five miles or so, and when they’d left Ravensland behind, Quint turned to her, and said, “I wish I could apologize for my behavior this morning.”
She’d been staring at the view of rolling hills and blue skies in the distance, but she turned those hazel eyes on him quickly enough. “You
wish
you could apologize, sir? I wish that you would apologize. Your behavior was most…disconcerting.”
He hid a grin. What she really meant was that her own response had been disconcerting. There was a passionate woman inside her somewhere, and he intended to free that woman. “Yes, well,
as I said, I wish I could apologize, but as it stands, I cannot. In fact, I think that you ought to be the one to apologize.”
“Me?” she screeched, and swung her body toward him. “What have I to apologize for?”
“Being irresistible for one.”
“Oh, please.”
“Being so beautiful and so tempting that I had to have you. You went to my head,” he said, giving her a sideways glance, “and I lost control of our kiss.”
She shook her head. “Men always blame women for their own lack of control. I see you are no different.”
“But I had meant the kiss to be controlled and”—he swallowed and attempted to say the word without laughing—“chaste, but you have a power over me—”
She snorted.
“—that renders me quite helpless.”
“Lord Valentine, if this is your idea of wooing, you will have to do better than falsehoods and exaggerations. I know I am not beautiful, and I know I am not irresistible. Men have been resisting me for twenty years, and I imagine a man like you has little problem doing the same.”
The words were edged with emotion, and he knew she spoke from her heart. He could not stop himself from taking her hand, nor could he dam up the hole her statement made in his heart. “Is that what you really think?”
She nodded and tried to free her hand. “It’s what I know.”
He let her hand go. “Then you have been misinformed. I wanted you last night and this morning—before that even—and I still want you. I sit here beside you, and all I can think about is how good you felt in my arms, and how soft your mouth was, and how much I want to—” He cleared his throat.
She was staring at him, hazel eyes wide.
“You are a powerful woman, and a beautiful one, Catherine. I wish that for one day you would try to see yourself as I do.”
She began to protest, but he took her hand again and kissed the gloved fingers. The village was coming into view. “Today, Catie. Just for today, when you are in the milliner’s or the dressmaker’s shop, try to see yourself as I do. Try to see how truly beautiful you are.”
And then he steered the horses through the village, releasing her hand so that he could raise it in greeting to the locals he had known since he was a child. The first stop was the dressmaker. He escorted Catherine inside, spoke with Mrs. Punch, the proprietress—a woman who had dressed his mother and sisters when they were in the country—and promised to return in time to take Catherine to dine at the pub.
As he was leaving, he slid behind Catherine, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “See yourself as I do,” he whispered.
“What a scamp,” Mrs. Punch said, as Valentine disappeared out the shop’s door. “I can only imagine what the boy said to make ye blush so. Pretty girl like you. I’m sure he doesn’t deserve ye.”
Catherine blinked. Now Valentine’s silly words and phrases must really be going to her head because she thought the old woman had actually called her pretty.
Catherine looked about the shop. Mrs. Punch had led her to a back room filled with mirrors and half-finished sewing. But the space was neat and clean, and she’d been led to a spot before one of the mirrors in the center of the room. At the back of the room was a door to another area, and behind her was the door to the main shop. It was a pretty shop, with large windows and plenty of bright materials arranged neatly within.
The whole village appeared neat and simple. The buildings lined the street in pretty rows, each with a sign hanging out front, indicating its name. Most of the shops also had window boxes, and they were already bursting with flowers in pinks, yellows, reds, and purples. The people were friendly. Almost everyone they had passed had waved a hello to Valentine, and some were so cheery, Catherine had found herself smiling.
Now, in the dress shop, Mrs. Punch called for her assistant, and the girl swished in from the front room, holding an armful of lace. “Put that
away,” Mrs. Punch said. “I need you to fetch me all the best muslins and silks.”
The girl blinked. She had a large rosy mouth, straw-colored hair, and enormous blue eyes. Catherine was glad Valentine had not been here to see her. Unlike her, this assistant was truly desirable. Catherine imagined that she had no lack of suitors.
The girl swished away, and Mrs. Punch shook her head after her. “Lazy girl, my Clare, but she’s got a good eye and can sew better than anyone else in these parts. Well, better than anyone else but me.” She hobbled behind Catherine and began unfastening her gown. “Let’s get this ill-fitting thing off ye and get some measurements.”
A sudden flush of modesty lit her cheeks in the mirror across from her, and Catherine said, “Oh, but can’t I leave the dress on?” She did not want to stand about half-naked, especially when the beautiful, rounded assistant would return any moment.
“Nonsense. Ye have nothing to be ashamed of. You’re a lovely girl, and I can’t stand seeing ye in that ugly dress. It’s all wrong.”
And so with little other choice, Catherine submitted to having Maddie’s gown and stays removed, and she stood in her shift with her arms up, then out, then down as Mrs. Punch took measurement after measurement.
“Have you known Lord Valentine long?” Cath
erine asked when Mrs. Punch stopped to scribble a number on the paper she kept in her apron pocket.
“Oh, yes. I’ve known the lad since he was so high.” She held her hand off the floor to about the height of Catherine’s knees. “And I’ll tell ye, he was always a rascal.”
“I can believe that,” Catherine muttered.
“The boy could argue with a tree trunk if he felt so inclined.” Mrs. Punch wrapped the measuring tape around Catherine’s bust, and Catherine swallowed and tried not to blush. “Never got in trouble, no, not Master Quint. Whenever he was at fault, he managed to argue his way out of it. No surprise to any of us that he ended up in Parliament.”
She was writing on the pad again, and Catherine peered more closely at the older woman. “You seem proud of his accomplishments.”
“Oh, the whole village is proud that one of our own done so well. Put those on my chair,” she told Clare, when the assistant returned laden with various shades of muslin and silk. “And finish these measurements.”
The girl obliged, taking the measuring tape and stringing it along Catherine’s back. Catherine closed her eyes and tried to pretend she was somewhere else. “But Lord Valentine told me he did not grow up here,” Catherine said, when the assistant had paused in her efforts and was making a note of the measurement.
“Oh, well, him and his family were here often enough.”
“What is his family like?” Catherine asked, then thought better of the question, but as it was too late to take it back, she added, “As we’ve only just married, I do not know them very well.”
Or at all.
“The Lord and Lady Ravenscroft are proud but good,” Clare said, though Catherine had not been speaking to her. Mrs. Punch nodded her agreement. “Why, I never seen a noble lady who cared so much about people like us.” Clare paused and glanced at her. “Excepting yourself, of course, my lady.”