No Man's Bride (17 page)

Lord, help her but she knew if she said it Valentine would do it. “He’s spreading her legs.”

“And what is she doing?”

Catherine glanced at Clare as Valentine’s hand exerted gentle pressure, widening her own legs, just as she’d hoped and feared. “She’s sitting on the bed, bare on top, her head thrown back.” Indeed, Clare’s chest was heaving, and she appeared to be mewing with pleasure, and then Catherine gasped.

“Now what?”

“He has—he has just—” But she could not finish, and Valentine looked past her, then leaned back and smiled.

“I would like to do that to you.” As he spoke,
he spread her legs farther and worked his fingers in ever-widening circles. Catherine could not stop herself from scooting just a bit farther down the seat. She needed him to touch her there.

Valentine was saying, “I would like to take you home, lay you on the bed, and spread your legs, as I am now. And then I would delve between them and kiss you here.” As he spoke, his fingers caressed her core, and she almost jumped from the pure pleasure in it.

She glanced through the curtain again and saw the boy’s head between Clare’s legs. She leaned back on her elbows, her breasts jutting out, her breaths coming in ragged moans. Catherine moaned herself as Valentine continued to caress her, his fingers moving assuredly over her sensitive skin. And then he entered her, softly at first, with just the tip of one finger, but she almost jumped off the chair.

“Easy,” he said, as though he were calming a skittish horse. “I feel how wet you are,” he whispered in her ear when she was still again. “My fingers are damp with your excitement.”

He stroked her again, allowing another finger to enter her. Catherine tried to remain still, but she could not stop her body from writhing subtly against his hand. She prayed no one would see them, she prayed he would cease, and she prayed he would never cease.

Her gaze flicked to the couple again, and she saw that Clare’s legs were shaking now, spread
far, and taut with effort. Her gasps of pleasure were far too loud, and Catherine feared the whole pub might hear. And then she realized that what she heard were her own gasps in her ears as Valentine’s fingers stroked her, bringing her higher and higher until she could not think, until she was so warm and the heat so intense that she was certain she would burn up.

And then she exploded. Her knee hit the underside of the table, but she did not feel any pain. All she felt were spirals of bone-numbing heat hurtling through her so that every muscle went limp and flaccid, and her entire body was heavy with pleasure.

And then she opened her eyes, and her gaze met Valentine’s.

One, two, three…

Oh, Lord, she did not know what to say, what to do. How could she have allowed this to happen? She was obviously a very wanton woman.

“I-I—” she trailed off, unsure what to say. Finally, she managed, “I didn’t know I could feel like that.”

“I spoke to you of pleasure,” Valentine said softly. “The marriage bed holds many pleasures.”

She met his gaze again, and he reached out and stroked a lock of her hair back. Under the table, he righted her skirts and slowly brought his hand into view again. She stared at it. It was an ordinary hand, and yet it had given her so much pleasure.

“You’re embarrassed,” he said, his eyes full of concern. “I’m sorry. I should not have done that here. I just wanted to show you—” His gaze moved to the curtain again, and she followed. The boy was now standing, and Clare was unfastening his bulging trousers.

“I think it best we go now,” Valentine said, taking her hand. He tossed the owner a pound as they exited and then led her quickly to where his curricle waited.

It was dark by the time they left the village. They rode back in silence, Catherine barely breathing for fear Valentine would hear and mistake the sound for an opening for conversation. She could not speak to him, not because she was angry or even embarrassed any further but because she wanted to keep what she felt close to her heart.

In the space of only a few days, everything she had thought she knew about men, and especially about Quint Childers, had been turned upside down. Men were not all violent brutes who sought to hurt women. They did not all drink to excess and then launch into tirades, terrifying their wives and children. Valentine had either spent his time quietly reading in his office or with her. He cared about reform and about the less fortunate.

He treated his servants and indeed all that he met well. He treated her well. He was understanding and authoritative but not a bully. He
hadn’t pounced on her, even when it was clear he wanted her. He treated her gently, with respect. When he took her riding, he had given her his best horse. He had made sure she would receive the best dresses.

And then when they had been in the pub and had seen Clare and her young man, he had not scolded her for looking or taunted, he had found it as arousing as she. He found her arousing, and had awakened a passion within her she did not know existed.

She had not known it could be this way between a man and a woman. She had not known men could give pleasure as well as pain. And now she was torn. She knew, even without the physical closeness developing between them, that she was beginning to have feelings for Valentine. He was a man above men, and she feared that he was too good to be true. What if she misjudged him? What if she gave herself to him, became his wife in all things, made this marriage true and real, and then it proved the wrong decision? What if Quint Childers was not the man she hoped?

She stared at the ring he’d given her.

And what if he was?

T
he next few days were painful for Quint. He felt as though he were constantly on edge, constantly aware of his wife, and constantly aroused by her.

He had not intended it to happen. At the start of this seduction, he had planned to remain emotionally detached. But every day he spent with her weakened his resolve.

They had gone riding every morning and for walks in the afternoon. They supped together and sat in his study after dinner, reading and talking. Over all that time, how could he not notice that she had a quick mind and a kind heart? Even worse, she seemed to grow lovelier each day. When the first two gowns had come from
Mrs. Punch’s, Quint had been amazed at the transformation that gowns designed for Catherine had made.

Catherine changed from a lovely young woman to a true beauty, her exotic complexion and those honey hazel eyes making her even more alluring. His desire for her reached heights he could not remember feeling for any other woman.

He watched her, even when she did not know he did, and he knew she watched him too. She was contemplating their marriage, considering— he hoped—coming to him, to his bed, becoming his wife in truth. He still slept on the chaise longue in their bedroom, and he had not pushed her to change this. He would not. He wanted her invitation, not her acquiescence.

That did not mean he did not take any liberties. She allowed him to hold her hand and to wrap an arm about her, and he kissed her as often as possible. She allowed the kisses and kissed him back, but she did not allow their embraces to go beyond a few fervent caresses. She did not allow what had happened in the village pub to happen again.

Despite his slow pace, Quint was not dissatisfied with his progress. He wanted her in his bed—rather, wanted to share his bed with her— but he wanted her as trusting, loving wife even more. She was becoming that woman every day, and he only wished he could speed the process along. The letters and documents he received
from Meeps each evening increased Quint’s hopes for attaining the Cabinet seat. But Meeps also reiterated the need for Valentine to be in London. Fairfax was beginning to mount his own campaign for the seat.

And Quint felt the pressure. Why had he married at such an inopportune time?

He knew why. Because he’d thought his wife would be an instant asset to his career, not force him into seclusion in the country. But if he returned to London now, what would happen to the burgeoning relationship between Catie and him? What would happen when she was thrust into his world and forced to stand on her own?

He would have liked to keep her here forever, sheltering her from the harshness of his life in London. He would have liked to keep her safe, but he knew that path would only lead to resentment. He needed a wife who could be his political counterpart. He needed a wife who made him happy at home and in the political arena. He could not love a woman who could not give him both—at least that’s what he told himself because the truth was that she had made a muddle of all his calculated plans. He wanted to keep his emotions out of this relationship, and yet each day he felt his heart opening to her.

He wanted to change his wife into the political savvy hostess he needed, and yet the better he knew Catie, the more he admired her for who she was.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. It was supposed to be purely physical, and here he was beginning to care for the bloody woman. He didn’t have time for emotions.

He had a career to think of.

That night, after dinner, they sat in his study as usual, and he pored over Meeps’s latest correspondence, while she sipped tea and read from a book. While she turned her pages placidly, he read line after line and became more agitated.

“What are you reading?” Catherine asked, looking up from her book. “You are frowning as though another war has broken out.”

He looked up at her, torn between telling her and putting all business aside and devoting the rest of the night to stealing kisses from her lovely mouth. She saw him looking at her, and her eyes darkened in a way he was coming to know well. She wanted him to steal kisses.

Instead, he exercised the small measure of restraint he still possessed, sat back, and said, “I think the country has been good for you. You seem happy and well.”

She smiled. “I’m both. I don’t know why I argued against coming.”

“Because you feared you would miss your friends. Do you?”

She set her book down and uncurled her legs from underneath her. “Yes, I suppose now that you mention it, I do miss my cousins, though I have had letters from them, and that helps. But it
is nice to be away from London, to have the quiet of the country and the solitude.”

Quint frowned. He was thinking of taking her back into an even noisier, more populated world than she had ever lived before.

“What is wrong?” she said again. “You seem displeased.”

In a short time, she’d become quite adept at reading his moods. Perhaps she was so intuitive because she’d had to live with a difficult and domineering father. Whatever the reason, she had read him well. “Displeased? No, not at all. I have been thinking.” About taking you back to London. Even more about taking you to bed.

She didn’t speak, merely waited with one arched brow for what he would say next. A week ago, she would have shrunk back, fearful of his conclusions, but now she knew him better, had learned to trust him.

“Would you like to return to London?” he asked. “Are you ready?”

She blinked, obviously not expecting his suggestion. “We have barely been at Ravensland a week. I thought we would stay longer.”

He shrugged. “We might.” The stack of correspondence on his desk mocked him at that. He could no more afford to stay in the country than he could afford to pay off the endless debts of the prince regent’s residence Carlton House. “Honestly, I need to get back to work. But I don’t want to rush you,” he said, allowing his gaze to lift
from the piles of paper on his desk and drift back to hers. “I want you to be happy.”

She smiled then, but her eyes were sad. “You’ve sacrificed so much for me.” She rose and came to him, walking with the graceful stride of a long-legged woman. At that moment, he didn’t feel as though he’d sacrificed at all. Politics seemed to fade into the background, and all he could think was how he yearned to see those legs, caress them, have them wrapped around him, clamped tight.

“I am very happy here in the country.” She came around his desk. “You make me happy.”

She stood before him and he reached out and cupped her waist in his hands, drawing her between his knees. She went without protest, allowing his touch and seeming comfortable with it.

The color was rising in her face, and he knew she felt the thrill of being this close to him, much as his own blood began to thrum in his veins when she was within reach.

And then she said something completely unexpected. “What can I do to please you?”

Quint did not answer for a long, long time, fearing he’d misheard her.

Finally, she said, “You’ve given me everything that I want and need. I want to give you something.”

“Allow me to come to your bed,” he murmured, his voice husky as the words all but caught in his throat. “Invite me to your bed tonight.”

She glanced away, looking at something he
could not see, and then she leaned down and gave him a kiss filled with promise. A moment later, she was gone. He could hear her steps on the stairs, and then all was silent.

Catherine stood in their room before the cheval mirror and tried to take deep, calming breaths. She had known this night would come. She had been anticipating it for days now, even wanting it to come. Since that day in the village, she had watched Valentine. No, not Valentine— Quint was his name, and she would use it. She had watched him partly out of self-protection. If he were not the man he seemed, he would do something to give himself away. But the more she watched, the more she grew to care for him. He was gentle with his horse. He was kind to the stable lads. He did not overtax his servants with labor. He was agreeable even when she knew something troubled his mind, as it did tonight.

He was more than the ambitious politician she had initially thought him to be. Certainly his career mattered to him, but perhaps it was not all. Perhaps he had learned to care for her enough that he could accept her limitations, and they could be happy as they had been this past week. She worried now that he wanted to return to London. Elizabeth would be there. Undoubtedly, her sister had used this time to formulate a plan to snatch Quint back. But Catherine wanted to trust him. She wanted to believe he would not be
tempted by Elizabeth. Catherine wanted to believe the desire in his eyes was for her alone.

And she desired him. He’d awakened something in her that night in the village pub. Now it seemed all she had to do was look at his hands, and her whole body was aware and alive. How she yearned for those hands to touch her again, stroke her, bring her pleasure. But she had not allowed it. She had kissed him and been held by him and stroked him as boldly as she dared, but she had not allowed his hands to wander where she truly wished.

Tonight was the end of the restraint. She had known what he would say when she’d asked how to please him. She had known what he wanted because she wanted it, too, and now, nervous as she was, she must submit.

She glanced in her mirror again and straightened the long, flimsy nightrail she wore. It was white, and she could see the outline of her body beneath the material. She pulled the matching robe closed, but it too was flimsy and did little to preserve her modesty.

She glanced behind her at the door to the hallway beyond. She wondered how many other skittish brides stared at doors tonight, preparing for their husbands to walk through. She wondered if they felt half the fear and exhilaration that she did. She prayed he would not hurt her—her body or her heart—and she prayed she would please him.

A moment later, she heard his soft tapping on their door. It would have been easy then to jump in bed and feign sleep. He would not be angry. Instead, she said, “Come.”

He’d obviously been anticipating this. He carried a bottle of wine and two glasses, which he set down on the bedside table. Then he blew out the lamps so that the room was lit only by candlelight. When he was finished, he poured the wine and held one of the glasses out to her.

“You look lovely,” he said, and she knew he meant it. His gaze traveled over her white silk nightgown and robe appreciatively, and Catherine made a mental note when she was next in the village to thank Mrs. Punch for sending it.

As Valentine did not immediately leap on her when he came into their room, she took another cautious step forward. He remained where he was, holding the wineglass out to her. “I’m not going to attack you, Catie,” he said finally, still holding both wineglasses. “You are in control.”

She frowned, relieved and annoyed at the same time. How was she supposed to be in control? She did not know what to do. She wanted him to take her and kiss her senseless so that she did not have to think about what she was doing. She wanted to step back and allow this thing to happen to her, not take responsibility for it. But he was obviously not going to allow her that luxury.

He was still holding the wineglasses and, needing fortification, she put aside her fear and went to him, taking one of the glasses in her hand.

Hands free, he now set about removing some of his clothing. With quick efficiency, he stripped off tailcoat, waistcoat, and cravat and opened his shirt at the throat. Her gaze trailed down the snowy white of his shirt to where it ended in the waistband of his charcoal trousers. The trousers were tight, molding to his legs in a way that made her catch her breath.

She’d all but drained the liquid before she heard his low chuckle. She glanced up, gaze meeting his.

“Nervous?” he said.

“No,” she answered immediately, and then swallowed the remaining contents of her glass. She looked at the empty vessel. “Perhaps a little. I-I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” Her cheeks went hot, and she wished she had a hood so that he would not see her blushing yet again.

But he only placed a finger under her chin and notched her gaze back up to his. “What do you want to do? Whatever you want will be right.”

She considered this, embarrassed that she had wants at all, really. Weren’t men supposed to be the sex with wants and desires? But she was here now, and she had to do something if she ever wanted this ordeal to be over. She tried to remember the way she’d felt in the pub, and when her legs grew weak at the memory, she said, “I want you to kiss me.”

Valentine—Quint, rather—smiled and lowered his head, obliging her. But the kiss was not what she wanted. It was quick and perfunctory. She wanted much more. He pulled back and then raised a brow. He made her insides melt when he did that.

“What’s wrong, sweetling? Not what you’d had in mind?”

She shook her head.

“Then you must tell me what you need me to do.” He took a sip of his wine, and then retrieved her glass and set both of them aside.

“I want you to kiss me,” she said again, but when he made to kiss her in much the same way, she stopped him with a hand on his chest. Oh, dear. His skin felt very nice under her fingertips.

“No, not like that,” she managed, though her voice was low and husky. “Kiss me”—she lowered her voice, mortified at the words that were about to escape her lips—“with your tongue.”

She saw those dark mahogany eyes grow even darker at her words, and he bent to do her will.

His tongue entered her lips, mating with hers. She could not stop her entire body from shaking at the sensation of his lips claiming hers.

Her hand, still on his chest, seemed to smolder and catch fire from the heat of him, but as his gentle plundering of her mouth grew more insistent, as he opened her lips and delved inside, she found her hand closing on the material of his shirt and pulling him closer.

And then, just when she had begun to feel so warm and her body had begun to ache so that she needed to rub against him to decrease the building pressure, he stepped back and broke the kiss. She gasped from shock and indignation, but he only lifted his wineglass and drank again.