No Man's Bride (23 page)

“Quint,” she said, her voice worried, “did you just tell that reporter you were ending your bid for the Cabinet?”

He ran a hand through his hair. “That doesn’t matter to me anymore. All that matters is that I’m here with you.” He leaned in to kiss her.

“But Quint,” she said, holding him off with one hand, “your career means everything to you. You have to go back out there and tell that reporter—”

“No, Catie,” he said, his finger brushing over her lips, “I meant what I said. As for going back out there, I’m perfectly happy exactly where I am right now.”

Quint wrapped a hand around his wife’s waist and tugged her against him. She was warm and supple in his arms, and he could not resist bending to taste the exposed skin of her neck.

“So sweet,” he murmured against her ear and felt her shudder. “I wonder if you know what I’m thinking at this moment.”

“Perhaps I am thinking the same thing,” she said, pressing herself against him.

“Oh, God, I hope so.”

He took her mouth with his, delving between her warm wet lips, tasting her hungrily. He tried to be gentle, but his need was too great. And she was having none of his tenderness tonight. Her hands tore at his coat, and then, when she could not remove it, her fingers tugged at his hair, bringing his mouth down on hers.

He removed his coat for her, and then her hands were inside his shirt, her touch heating his skin even further. His hands inched up her waist, cupping her breasts, and then fumbling with her gown and her stays to free her flesh for further exploration.

“My, but you did that rather easily,” she gasped, as his thumbs brushed over her erect nipples.

“I have a confession.” He dipped and laved a tongue over one pebbled nub. “I am rather eager to be inside you.” He closed his mouth over one breast and kneaded the other with his hand.

“I think…I feel…the same.” Her voice was breathless with need, and she arched against him, pulling his hair to keep his mouth where she desired.

When sampling her flesh with his lips was no longer enough, he reached under her skirts and stroked her thigh. Her skin was silky smooth under his fingertips. As he inched higher, she moaned in his ear. Her moans turned to gasps as his fingers penetrated the juncture of her thighs. She was already wet for him.

He plied her flesh with expert strokes until her breathing rasped against his temple, and then she tugged on his hair and he looked up at her.

The corridor was dark, but she had a mischievous smile on her face. “Let me show you what I am thinking,” she whispered, and with one hand she reached out and stroked his hard length through his trousers.

He threw back his head and closed his eyes, reveling in the pleasure of her touch. Her fingers were uncertain at first, slow and cautious, but then, with encouragement, her strokes grew bolder and longer. And then with a flick of her fingers, she freed him from his trousers, and her hand touched
his bare flesh. He stifled a growl in her neck, and pulled her hard against him.

Lifting her off the ground, he swung her toward the door, and pinned her against it. Her skirts were an encumbrance for only a moment, and then he felt her warmth against him.

“Wrap your legs around me, sweetling,” he murmured in the peach-scented curls at her ear. “I’ll hold you up.”

She did as he commanded, and with slow, cautious movements, he entered her. But once again, she thwarted his best attempts at gentleness. She moved against him so that he filled her far more quickly than he’d intended. And God help him, but he loved the feel of her around him.

He withdrew and thrust again, trying once again to keep his movements gentle, but she tugged at his hair. “Harder, Quint. Faster.”

He could not argue with that dictate, and he plunged into her, hearing the thunk as her body pushed against the door. And still she urged him on, her words frantic in his ear, her hands tugging at him, her body taking and demanding as eagerly as his own.

Her cries became louder, drowning out the thunk of the door and the orchestra music above that. She was riding the tide with him. He could feel it in the way her legs tensed, the way she threw her head back, the tiny ripples as she clenched and released around him.

“Quint. Quint,” she gasped. “Yes, yes.”

And then he was flying with her. He was part of her, and they fell down the waterfall together, tumbling over and over and over until he could barely catch his breath.

When he finally landed, her moans were a ragged echo in his ears. He held her as long as he could, his arms cupping her bottom, holding her close to him. She held him as well. Her hands clutched his back, her fingers digging into his shirt. Finally, he pulled back and began to set her down. But even when he released her, his arms did not stop shaking. He was trembling from the experience of being with her. He’d never given so much to a woman, never been with a woman who seemed to want him as much as he wanted her.

He glanced at her, and even in the dark he knew she looked debauched and disordered. And how was he to walk out of this door with her? They’d emerge in full view of all their guests, and what they’d been doing would be patently obvious.

“I suppose we must return to the ball,” he said, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.

She nodded. “I suppose we must, but I’d rather stay here with you. That was”—she paused, obviously looking for the right word—“amazing. I did not know that could happen when you were inside me.”

Quint frowned in puzzlement. “What could happen?” Then he remembered her contractions. “Oh,
that
. Yes. You might have known before if I was not always so eager with you.”

“But you were eager tonight.”

He pulled her close and hugged her. “I’m always eager with you. But I promise that from now on I will take more time. I want you to feel pleasure every time I’m inside you.” He whispered the last and felt her shudder.

He bent and kissed her nose. “I’d like nothing more than to stay here with you all night, but even if we’ve made a muddle of the event, we can’t desert our own ball. I’ll leave first. Then you follow in a few moments.”

He bent to retrieve his tailcoat, and she straightened her skirts. Then she helped him arrange his clothes and hair, and he righted hers as best he could.

“There.” She patted his chest. “You look quite presentable. How do I look?”

Her skirts were wrinkled, one shoulder of her gown kept falling off, and her hair had come loose and was trailing down her back in large sections. But Quint only saw her rosy cheeks and her bright eyes. “You look beautiful,” and he bent and kissed her swollen lips, taking the time to taste them. She was so sweet. Every time he kissed her, it was a different experience.

And every time he kissed her, she kissed him back, matching his mood—fervent, tender, exploratory. With more willpower than he thought he possessed, he drew away from her. “We take a risk if we continue that much longer. I cannot wait to get you home. Soon.” He kissed her again,
then quickly opened the door and reemerged in the ballroom.

The orchestra was playing a slow, stately piece, and the dancing went on as before. Catherine’s cousin Ashley was holding court with a bevy of admirers under one of the Corinthian columns and Catherine’s other cousin, Josephine, was dancing with Lord Westman. He didn’t see her cousin Lady Madeleine or her aunts and uncles, and he didn’t see Hudson.

Good. Quint hoped the man was in his dingy office writing his wretched story. And then Quint saw Catie emerge from their rendezvous place. She looked sweet and pretty, though still a bit disheveled, and he forgot about the reporter and the story and just enjoyed watching her.

Catherine felt as though everyone in the room had ceased what they were doing and were watching her walk through the servants’ door. It seemed the whole room was silent, and there was only the sound of her heartbeat, pounding incessantly in her ears. The beat echoed her thoughts:
they know, they know, they know
.

With a deep breath, she settled against the wall. There was nothing and no one to fear here. Elizabeth was gone. Quint had stood by her side. He had all but told her he loved her just now in the servant’s corridor. What was she afraid of?

She spotted Maddie coming toward her and
plastered a smile on her face. “Are you well? I heard what happened with Lizzy. I wish I’d been there.”

Catherine smiled at her cousin’s clenched fists and determined expression. “Lord Valentine was there. He stood by me.”

Maddie raised a brow. “Of course, he did.”

Catherine glanced across the room and met Quint’s gaze. He was always looking at her now, always watching her, his eyes full of promise. As she watched, he winked at her.

“Oh, Lord,” Maddie said, and Catherine drew her gaze away from her husband.

“What’s wrong?”

“Josie and Ashley were right. You do love him.”

Catherine took her cousin’s hand. “Yes, I do. I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can be a member of the Spinsters’ Club any longer.”

Maddie laughed. “Oh, that old promise. I’m happy for you. And now I suppose you’d better be off. Here he comes.”

Catherine looked toward Quint and saw that indeed he was coming for her. She went willingly into his arms.

“Let’s go home,” he murmured into her ear.

“Are you certain?” she asked. “We should not leave the ball so early.”

“I don’t care. I want to be alone with you. You’re all that matters.”

And then he swept her into his arms. She laughed at the surprise—her own as well as that
of the people standing near them. There was a round of applause, and then she was being carried through the ballroom, down the steps, and into the night. He ordered their carriage and set her down, pulling her into his arms and holding her tightly. She closed her eyes, hearing his heart beat against cheek. She felt safe and wanted.

“You’re a wonderful man, Quint,” she whispered. “I’ve never thought anything less of you. I want you to know how happy I am that you married me.”

He tilted her head up so that she looked into his clear brown eyes. “And I want you to know—”

“Isn’t this sweet?” The low, malice-filled voice filled the quiet night.

Catherine pulled back and let out a yelp when she saw her father standing in the shadows. Of course he was there. Catherine shook her head. Had she really thought she would escape without seeing him tonight? It just seemed so unfair. She’d survived the ball and her sister, only to be faced with her father. And Edmund Fullbright was drunk. She knew that right away. Drunk and mean.

“Mr. Fullbright,” Quint said, pushing Catherine behind him. “I don’t remember inviting you.”

“You didn’t,” her father said, swaying into the light. “And you made sure I couldn’t get in.” He lurched to the side, and Catherine noted that while he was dressed in evening clothes, his ap
pearance was slovenly. His cravat was loose, and his breeches were stained. “Now, is that any way to treat your family?” Her father slurred the words at her.

Quint clutched her hand, holding it tightly to reassure her. “I hardly think you are the man to speak on that subject.”

Catherine expected her father to boil over with rage, but he only gave Quint a thin, malevolent smile. “Perhaps not, but I am able to speak on any great number of other topics, including this dupe of a marriage.” He tapped a thoughtful finger on his chin. “I wonder what the prime minister would think if he read the true story of how you two lovebirds were married? I wonder if the citizens of our fine city”—he gestured clumsily at the buildings surrounding them—“would want a Cabinet officer who couldn’t even marry the right woman at his own wedding? What kind of official would that man be?”

Catherine felt Quint tense. “Your concern for the welfare of our fine government is touching, Mr. Fullbright,” Quint gritted out. “But I have already dealt with your friend, Mr. Hudson. Blackmail won’t work.”

“Blackmail always works, my dear son. May I call you ‘son’ now? I hope so, as I believe you and I will have a long and profitable relationship.”

Catherine lowered her head in defeat. It seemed that she would never emerge from the shadow of
her father. But, to her surprise, Quint laughed. Her head shot up, and she blinked at her foolhardy husband.

“Go home, Mr. Fullbright. You won’t get a shilling from me. Do you think that I would ever give a worthless bastard like you even a momentary glance? You’re no better than the horse manure I wipe off my boot.”

Her father’s eyes widened in shock and anger, and Catherine shrank back. She knew that look and what it meant. “Quint, be care—”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Catherine’s husband, and I’ll be damned if you hurt so much as her feelings ever again. Say good night, Catie.” He put an arm on her waist and made to usher her away, but her father stepped in their path.

“You worthless—” His fist came up fast and hard, and Catherine bit back a yelp of fear for Quint. But her husband easily sidestepped.

And then, before she could react, Quint’s own fist came up, and she heard the crack when it connected with her father’s face. Edmund Fullbright went down in a heap.

Quint stared at him, nudged him with a foot, and then, turning, held a hand out to Catherine. She took it, stepping over her father’s unconscious body. “Good-bye, Father,” she said.

“Your carriage, madam.” Quint gestured to the first carriage in line.

“But, sir,” the coachman, who had been staying out of the way, stepped forward. “This is the prime minister’s carriage.”

“I’ll apologize tomorrow.” Quint placed her inside and climbed in after her. “Well, that was fun,” he said, when the carriage was under way.

Catherine stared at him. “I dumped punch over my sister’s head, you gave up the Cabinet position, had a public brawl with my father, and now we’ve stolen the prime minister’s carriage. We’re doomed.”

“We’re having fun,” he corrected her.

“Fun? But your career—”

Quint pulled her onto his lap. “I don’t care. I wasn’t only wrong about your sister. I was wrong about my work. It’s important to me, but not as important as you.”

She stared at him. “It’s not?”