Dangerous to Hold (17 page)

“Oh, longer than that,” said David. “Your stepmother says fifteen years.”

“You’ve been to Wrotham?”

“Yes, before we came up to town. It was good to get to know the Lytton branch of the family again.” He laughed. “I took the opportunity to look over your horses, but couldn’t come to terms with Penn. Now that I have seen what Tattersall’s has to offer, I realize Penn was offering me a bargain.”

Marcus smiled. “Perhaps I shall offer you an even better bargain. You are, after all, my only cousin. What are your plans?”

David put a hand on Tristram’s shoulder. “Oh, this is mostly a business trip, and Tristram has been a great help to me. He knows all about horses, and he knows all the best breeders.”

“Yes, Tristram certainly knows about horses,” said Marcus dryly. “We’ll have to get together, a dinner perhaps, before Catherine and I go off to Wrotham.”

“I’d be delighted,” said David, and he inclined his head gravely. He then turned to Catherine and said something in Spanish.

“Tris, I expect to receive a visit from you tomorrow morning,” said Marcus.

“Beg pardon? Oh yes, of course. I’ll be there.”

“See that you are.”

When the gentlemen moved off, Marcus flicked the
reins and his team broke into a canter. Catherine looked away, thinking of Tristram and the projected interview with Marcus. She didn’t think it was her place to comment, so she said neutrally, “That’s a long time since you’ve seen your cousin.”

“David lives in Ireland.”

“Ireland’s not the end of the world.”

“We’re not a close family.”

“I see.”

“What did he say to you? I couldn’t follow his Spanish.”

Catherine gave him an arch look. “He said that I was the most beautiful woman he’d ever met, that I was charming, intelligent, and witty, and that you are a very lucky man.”

Marcus grinned. “Minx! He said no more than three words to you.”

“That’s the thing about Spanish. One can say a lot in a few words.”

Marcus glanced at her through half-lowered lashes. She was flirting with him. There was a sparkle in her eyes and her cheeks were delicately flushed. Her brown hair was covered by her bonnet, which was fine with him because he didn’t like her with brown hair. He missed the halo of flame. As he turned back to his horses, he fantasized that he was drawing the pins from her hair and spreading her glorious tresses across his pillow. Then he began to divest her of her garments.

He would go slowly with her, very slowly. He would do nothing to frighten her. Each caress would become more intimate than the last. Then, when she was ready for him, he would show her what all this flirting was leading to. He would bury himself inside her delectable body and give her her woman’s pleasure before taking his own release.

He glanced at her again. Their eyes met and held. He felt the rise and fall of her breasts, felt his own breathing become harsher. His loins tightened.

She said quickly, “He said, ‘Till we meet again.’” It took a moment for him to get his body under control, and another even greater effort to change his train of
thought. He said finally, “How wise of you to remember. I won’t always let you turn me away, Cat. One of these days, it’s not going to work.”

She looked away. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you? Do you think I don’t know what you’re feeling right now?” He paused as he carefully guided his team between two stationary vehicles. “Your breathing is difficult. Your skin feels hot. You want my hands on you.” His voice became hoarse. “I know, because that’s how I feel too.”

“I won’t listen to any more of this,” she cried.

“Cat—”

“Please, Marcus! Don’t!”

He flicked her a look and saw the fear-bright eyes and the pulse leaping at her throat. “Ah, damn!” he said.

They returned to the house in silence. He set her down at the front door, while he went off to stable the horses in the mews. Catherine shut her bedroom door, locked it, then sagged against it. She was trembling all over, aching, aching …

She shook her head. She was on a mission. Marcus was the prime suspect. Major Carruthers had warned her what to expect. He was a rake. He had a way with women.

Gradually, her breathing slowed.

They delayed their departure for Wrotham by one day because the gowns that Marcus had ordered for Catherine were not quite ready. These were garments that had been ordered when they’d taken up residence in Cavendish Square. Catherine had had no part in it really except to stand there and be measured. Marcus and the modiste had decided everything between them and Catherine had been happy to leave them to it.

He had already provided her with a wardrobe, but it was modest. Those were gowns that had been rejected by a sober society matron who was one of Madame’s best customers, gowns that Marcus had said would do in a pinch. Now, as Catherine fingered a blue and silver confection of froth, she felt her mouth begin to water. She
picked up another gown that still had pins in it. This one was of white silk with tiny white roses embroidered on the square-cut bodice and along the edge of the train. When the silk slipped through her fingers, she gave a sigh of pure pleasure.

Almost at once, as if on cue, she had an impression of Aunt Bea, lecturing her on the perils of the senses. It was a sin to want to look pretty and to covet pretty things, she’d said. That’s why Aunt Bea had always worn black. Catherine no longer accepted everything her aunt had told her, but she couldn’t suppress a certain misgiving when she deliberately flaunted her aunt’s rules.

It was absurd. She was a grown woman. She must make up her own mind about what was right and what was wrong.

Marcus had observed her eager expression turn pensive and now faintly defiant, and he wondered what she was thinking. “Why don’t you try it on?” he said.

She looked up at him. They had not been on the best of terms since the last time he’d taken her out in his curricle. They didn’t quarrel; they just circled each other like two wary dogs. As she looked at him now, she sensed that he was over his ill humor, and her own lips turned up in a smile.

“Why not?” she said, and allowed Madame to lead her to the changing room.

When she returned, Marcus was sitting in an upholstered gilt chair on the far side of the room. She was quite dazed at the change in her appearance and waited expectantly for Marcus to say something complimentary. Behind her, Madame clapped her hands and exclaimed her approval.

Marcus said, “Well, don’t just stand there, Cat. Walk toward me. Let’s see how you move.”

She’d never had a dress with a train before, and though it was awkward, she managed quite well by taking small, mincing steps. Her brows lowered when she saw that Marcus was hiding his mouth behind his hand.

“Madame,” said Marcus, “would you mind leaving us for a few moments? There is something I wish to say to my wife.”

“What?” asked Catherine when the modiste had closed the door on them.

“Cat, you are supposed to be a Spanish girl, not some terrified English maiden who has been made to walk the plank.” He made no attempt to hide his amusement. “Think yourself into the part. You’re Catalina. Spanish girls move with feline grace. They do it deliberately, to attract the notice of men. Catalina most of all.”

Now this was an insult that was almost past bearing, not to Catherine, but to Catalina. She longed to put him right, but of course, this was impossible.

She smiled through her teeth. “I don’t think I follow you. Perhaps you’d care to demonstrate?”

His mischievous eyes glinted up at her. “Ah no. I’d never get it right. This is something that only a woman could do. I don’t have the hips for it.”

“What have hips got to do with it?”

“A Spanish girl sways her hips as she walks. Try it, Cat.”

Catalina had never swayed her hips in her life. Catalina had worn divided skirts. Catherine picked up her train and strode down the length of the room just as the real Catalina would have done.

Marcus shook his head. “You look gauche. Try again.”

Jaws clamped together, she rolled her hips in the manner of Juanita, a prostitute in whose house she and
El Grande
had once taken refuge when the French were searching for them.

“Not bad,” said Marcus. “I think you’re getting the hang of it. It’s too bad that you’re so skinny. Catalina’s curves were more generous.”

“Carolina’s curves—!” She stopped herself just in time.

He was obviously enjoying himself enormously. “And she had a way of looking at a man, from the side of her eyes, that could stop him dead in his tracks.”

She was hanging on to her temper by the skin of her teeth. “Marcus, I’ve been around Spanish girls. They’re shy. That’s all it is.”

He gave her an amused look. “Cat, take my word for it, they’re not shy.”

“You must have been acquainted with Juanita,” she said.

“Who?”

In answer, she circled around him, swaying her hips and batting her eyelashes.

Marcus eyed her speculatively. “There’s something missing. It’s more than just the way you move. Catalina oozed—”

“What?” she demanded when he hesitated.

Marcus shrugged. “Whatever it was, it’s obviously something that can’t be learned. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine, Cat.”

She knew that he was teasing her, but she couldn’t help being annoyed. He might have said something nice about her appearance.

With her head held high, she marched toward the changing room calling for Madame. Then a cold gust of air swept through the front door and Catherine turned to see who had arrived. On the threshold stood a beautiful and fashionable young woman wearing a blue pelisse. She was smiling brilliantly at Marcus.

Madame Demeurs, who had come running, stared at the newcomer in open dismay.

“Mrs. Bryce,” said Madame faintly.

“Julia,” said Marcus. “What the devil are you doing here?”

Julia Bryce let out a silvery laugh and quickly went to Marcus. She’d heard about Marcus’s bride and what she’d heard had resurrected her hopes.

Her friend Harriet Harding had been watching the Wrothams’ arrival in town and considered the Spanish girl about as exciting as curds and whey. It was only a question of time before the earl set up a new mistress. Julia had made up her mind not to give him up without a fight. She did not see Catherine watching from inside the changing room.

Julia did a little pirouette. “Oh, Marcus,” she said rapturously, “how can I ever thank you? And Madame, also? This is the most beautiful outfit I’ve ever had.”
Then she flung herself into his arms and fastened her mouth on his.

Catherine’s eyes flicked from Julia to Marcus. Though she could tell that the passion was largely on the lady’s part, Marcus wasn’t putting up much resistance. In fact, he wasn’t putting up any resistance at all.

Madame was wringing her hands, protesting that Mrs. Bryce had not made an appointment.

Marcus untangled himself from Julia. “This
is
a surprise,” he said.

A quick glance over his shoulder told him that Catherine had seen everything and had correctly added two and two. He quickly crossed to her and said with a sheepish grin, “Wait for me. I won’t be gone long.”

His sheepish grin was met by a stony stare. Cursing under his breath, he returned to Julia, offered her his arm, and swept her out of the house.

Marcus’s carriage was stationed outside the door. He told his coachman that he would be back soon, then he walked Julia toward Baker Street and hailed a hackney. “How did you know where to find me?”

She resisted as he tried to usher her into the cab of the hackney. “I saw you from across the street, from Harriet Harding’s house. Marcus, what is it? Where are you taking me?”

“What I have to say to you is best said in the privacy of the cab.”

She sensed a rebuff coming, and she wasn’t going to let that happen again, not after what she’d heard about his wife. Marcus was a demanding lover, violent in his passions. If his wife knew what he was really like, she’d run home screaming to her duenna.

As soon as they were seated, she said, “Don’t try to tell me you don’t want me, because I won’t believe it. When I kissed you back then, you went as hard as a rock.”

The graphic words had his blood pounding, and his body hardening. She laughed softly, knowingly, and placed a hand on his thigh. “Do you remember what happened the last time we were alone in a carriage, Marcus? You took me right here, on the banquette.” When she saw the heat in his eyes, she tossed her head. “You won’t get what I can give you from another woman, least of all a dutiful little wife. Admit it, Marcus, your wife doesn’t hold a candle to me.”

The heat in his eyes rapidly cooled. He looked at her, really looked at her, and he felt repelled. She was so utterly different from Cat. Julia knew how to ensnare men,
but every smile and gesture was calculated. He doubted that even the passion was genuine. He’d always known it, and that made him no better than she.

With a violent oath, he brushed her hand from his thigh. “I don’t discuss my wife with anyone. But I will say this: Catherine never bores me.”