Only Scandal Will Do (22 page)

Dalbury took a step back.

“I have
not
given you leave to use my name so familiarly, Lord Dalbury,” she said. “Nor will I address you in any other manner. If you wish to speak to me, you may call me Lady Dalbury. That is the name you have forced upon me, therefore, I assume it is the one you wish to use. I will answer to nothing else.”

“Katarina, I hardly think–”

Kat spun on her heel and walked two steps toward the fireplace. But attuned to him, she waited to hear the pursuit that would come. She stood stock-still until she sensed him close behind her, imagined she felt his breath on her neck.

“Katarina...”

She whirled about and put her hand out to ward him off.

He stopped mid-stride, looking wary, and took a step back.

“I am retiring for the night, Lord Dalbury,” she announced, with more courage than she felt. “I suggest you do the same. In case you do not recall, your bedroom is that way.” She pointed toward the far door.

Dalbury stared at her and sighed. “I had hoped that calm demeanor was real,
Lady Dalbury
.” He eyed her coolly from head to toe. “It would have made this evening much pleasanter.”

Nerves stretched so tight she could feel them crackle and her bravado worn perilously thin, she stood silent, not taking her eyes off him.

“You mean to deny me your bed?” The question came softly to her ears, but the underlying tone of amusement indicated he did not take her seriously.

“Yes, my lord. That is exactly my intention.”

His brow furrowed and confusion puckered the fine lines around his eyes. “Katar...God, this is ridiculous. I cannot call you Lady Dalbury when we are in bed!” He ran a hand through his hair, causing the ends to stick up rakishly.

“Then there will be no hardship for you tonight, my lord.”

“No hardship!” His dark eyes widened. “You cannot believe that we will not... But we are
married now
.”

“Yes. That we are.” She stared at him, unwavering. “But not by my choice.”

“You chose to wager.”

“I chose to save my brother’s life. Can you not see that?” Kat shook her head, unsurprised by his lack of understanding. “What else could I do?”

Dalbury stood, mouth open, searching for an answer.

“None of this has been my doing,” she continued, her voice rising in indignation, “but I am the one who must pay for it. So now, Lord Dalbury, it is your turn to pay. You seem to like purchasing things. And I have turned into a canny bargain, haven’t I? Purchased for a lifetime instead of just an evening.” Her face heated at the memory of his thousand pound bid. She turned to the fire to hide her humiliation.

“But Ka–Lady Dalbury. Despite those concerns, we are married under the law.” The warmth of his hands on her shoulders rivaled that of the fire. “Would it be so truly bad to spend the night with me?” His whisper tickled her ear, sent shivers down her neck. With his thumbs, he kneaded small circles at her nape, and the tension there released.

Weariness from the day’s stresses overwhelmed her, and she closed her eyes. She wanted nothing more than to melt into his strong arms, feel them surround her, so safe and secure. But it was a lie and she must face the truth.

He cared nothing for her. She was nothing more than a means to an end for him. If she relented, he would use her and be on his merry way to the next woman. Kat retreated from the edge of surrender. Back stiff, she jerked out of his grasp and staggered toward the fireplace. She whirled to face Dalbury. His astonished face transformed from caring into the impatient lines of a thwarted hunter. “Come here, Katarina.”

She raised her chin and stared at him.

Dalbury shook his head and released a loud sigh. “Will you please come here, Lady Dalbury?”

Still she did not waver, but gave a single shake of her head.

“Will you at least give this a chance?”

“And if I say no, will you force me?” The implication of her words must have sunk in because Dalbury’s face drained of color.

“You think I would do that?” He pierced her with his gaze, searching for a denial.

“You attempted it before, and since I have only known you for three days, I cannot be sure–”

“I did not try to force you, madam!” Dalbury drew himself up to his full height, towering over her. “I was under the impression you were playing your part in that wretched scene.”

“And do you think I am playing a part now, my lord?” The icy question seemed to stop the marquess’s protest cold. Heart in her throat, she continued. “I assure you I am not. Just as I can assure you that I will not come willingly to your bed, tonight or any night.”

The lines in Dalbury’s face hardened at her avowal and his cynic’s mask crashed into place. “Indeed, my dear?” he replied. “Why do I find myself doubting that? As I recall, in the past three days you have said the same thing about dancing with me and marrying me, and both have come to pass.” His eyes glittered with challenge. “I look forward
eagerly
to proving you a liar once again. My lady.” He executed a perfect bow, spun on his heel and strode through the doorway at the opposite end of her bedchamber, slamming the door so hard the pictures on the walls rattled.

Kat stared at the door and released the breath she had been holding. She felt weak all over, and took two steps toward the chaise before the floor rushed up to meet her. Collapsing with a loud thump as her legs gave out, all she could do was sit and wonder what to do next. From the direction of Lord Dalbury’s rooms came the muffled sound of breaking glass.

The door behind her flew open, startling her so badly, she cried out and tried to crawl away from this new menace. Margery burst in, face flushed, brandishing a poker.

“Has he hurt you, my lady?” She gasped, and darted a glance around the room, seeking an attacker.

“Margery, my God. Have you been in there the whole time?”

“Yes, my lady. Lord Manning give me strict instructions to listen and see if his lordship was harsh with you.” She peered at Kat, apparently seeking evidence of bruising. “Did he lay hands on you?”

“No. Here, help me up.” Grasping the maid’s hands, she rose on unsteady legs. “Now, help me out of this gown and bring my night rail.”

“The fancy one with lace, my lady?” Margery swiftly unpinned the gown, efficient despite her trepidations.

“The plain cotton one, please.” Though she doubted Dalbury would crash back through the door to continue their argument, still she glanced over her shoulder. She suspected she had seen the last of her husband for the night.

Margery returned with the gown and soon Kat was snug under soft covers, a hot brick at her feet, a large shot of brandy in her hand. Blessing Margery, she downed the spirits and relished the slow burn that stole through her body. She blew out the lamp beside the bed then pulled the curtains and stared at the darkness that surrounded her.

Her wedding day. The thought sent an odd little hitch to touch her heart. She could hardly have imagined a more nightmarish one had she tried. Kat thumped the pillows in an attempt to get comfortable, though she doubted she would sleep at all.

She found herself fighting the memory of his strong arms around her, the way the warmth of his body had sunk into her... There was much about the marquess she might like–his wit, his skill with a sword, the willingness to respect her own prowess. And his form was not
un
appealing. She conjured him before her in an instant: his tall, proud stature, the rugged features of his face, the brawny strength of his gentle hands.

That seductive image became instead his outraged visage when she’d suggested he might force her to his bed. She’d asked because she had no way of knowing what he was capable of. The catch in her heart, almost a pain now, seemed to persuade otherwise. She’d wanted to hurt him, to make him feel some shame for forcing her into this marriage. Well, apparently she’d succeeded, though the victory was cold.

They were truly married, no matter how incredible it might seem. And according to her closest friends in Virginia, a bride should be happy, thrilled, in love.

She was none of those things.

A bride should be lying in the arms of a man she trusted and adored, who would do anything for her. She was alone, in a strange bed, facing life with a man she did not know, did not love and dared not trust. The rake had proved that tonight, beyond a doubt.

The little catch of pain rose from her heart into her throat and became the tears she had not allowed herself to shed before the ceremony. Before she’d become tied to the one man she feared would never feel anything for her. The man who could never be what she wanted him to be.

* * * *

Duncan had slammed out of Katarina’s bedchamber, not caring if the house fell down around him. He now strode to the table that held a decanter of his favorite brandy, poured a hefty amount into a glass and tossed it down his throat, savoring the pleasant flame it ignited in his belly. God knew something should be pleasant today, though it certainly was not his bride.

He poured another drink, this time not stopping until the glass stood brimming over. Might as well drink the night away. No other way to occupy his time on this wedding night. He stared down at the glass in his hand then hurled it into the fireplace, causing the logs to blaze up and crackle wildly.

Why had he thought she would be different tonight? Because she’d responded magnificently this morning when he’d nipped her neck and claimed her as his. Her little moan had almost undone him. She’d even admitted she believed he could be kind to her. He had been certain she felt something for him.

He stood before the fire, staring into the roaring flames, and let despair wash over him. How could she have said such a thing to him? That she would think he would rape her was more than an insult. It was beyond reason. Had that night in March turned her mad?

Oh, no. Not mad. Stubborn and vindictive. He rubbed the still-healing scars on his cheek. Vindictive and vicious. And he had married the bitch. God, he should have let her sail to Virginia and marry that lieutenant or captain somebody. Better for him to be the recipient of her affections.

Duncan left the fireplace and threw himself into the window seat overlooking the rear garden. A glorious view on a moonlit night, but tonight only a new moon shone, and the garden lay still and dark. Like his bed.

He could take a mistress again, by God, if Katarina was going to be cold and unwilling. Amorina even...

The mere thought of Amorina’s luscious body had always aroused him. But somehow, the image of her, naked, welcoming him into her bed now left him cold. Most disturbing, because he had not had a woman in his bed since Italy, over two months ago and... He winced as the image of Katarina naked in his bed, her glorious copper hair streaming over his chest, created an arousal so potent he grunted in pain. He took several deep breaths and willed his flesh to do his bidding.

Why did he desire this insufferably insolent and headstrong woman?

Well, she was not so much insolent as spirited, not headstrong but... He chuckled to himself. Katarina was stubborn. She would not back down one iota in that duel. And when she lost, she’d still agreed to marry him, even though she’d looked as though she was headed to the gallows.

He sighed and some of the tension left him. He had badly misjudged the woman who was now his wife. Somehow, he’d expected her to acquiesce to the marriage when she’d lost the duel to him. As one of those insipid girls in the
ton
would have done. He doubted Katarina had ever acquiesced to anyone in her life.

Restless with the realization he was much to blame for his cold marriage bed, Duncan paced the room. The problem seemed to revolve around her lack of choice in the matter of their marriage. Then, he must find a way to make her want to be married to him. How could he make her see he was not the callous rake he had been that night? Show her he wanted to care for her and protect her, cherish her magnificent spirit. Love her with body and soul.

Love her? The thought took him by surprise. That was absurd. He didn’t know the girl.

He winced as the truth in his heart became clear. Everything about her–her spirit, wit, her protective nature–made him love her. Even her skill with a sword endeared her to him because it attested to her strength of character to have mastered such a weapon. She was not just a beautiful face on a voluptuous body; she was Katarina, who had touched his soul.

That she abhorred him, in the face of his love for her, devastated him.

The closed door separated his room from hers, but he had not heard her lock it after he left her. That boded well. He could ask her to reconsider. Show her that he could be genuinely kind and gentle. Convince her that marrying him was not a sentence to the fires of hell.

He crept toward the doorway, held his breath then gripped the handle so tightly his fingers turned white. Gathering his courage, he slowly lifted the latch. The sound of muffled crying penetrated the oak door. He cocked his ear toward the soft noise. Low weeping, as if the sobs were trying to be restrained.

A scarcely controllable urge seized him to rush in, take her in his arms and comfort and soothe her. If he burst in on her, though, she would assume he had come to force her and would fight him tooth and claw. But why was she crying? Loneliness at being in an unfamiliar place? Exhaustion? Bitter regret at all that had transpired? He sighed.