A Brooding Beauty (5 page)

“No I am not,” she said stiffly. “For you should have fetched my things this evening past so I did not have to go to bed in damp clothes. No doubt I shall catch pneumonia or some other dreadful disease, all because of your inherent laziness.”

“My inherent laziness, hmm?” he echoed and this time there was no mistaking the grin that curved his lips and lifted the corners of his eyes. “I suppose it was my, ah, ‘inherent laziness’ that had you screaming out my name last night?”

“Marcus!” Her cheeks flushed a dull pink.

“What?” he asked innocently.

“You s-shouldn’t speak like that,” she stammered. Thrown off guard by his unusually playful demeanor she crossed the small kitchen and gazed out the window. The glass was dingy and in desperate need of a good cleaning, but she could still see the sky was bright blue with nary a cloud in sight. Fields filled with wild flowers tumbled off in every direction, making the view pretty as a picture. She had forgotten how beautiful it was here, so far secluded from the hustle and bustle of
London
. Absently toying with a stray lock of hair that had come loose from the silk
ribbon,
she wondered what her three best friends were doing without her. She bit her lip to contain a smile.
Sinful things, no doubt.

It was a running joke amongst the four of them that Catherine, despite her promiscuous reputation, was the most saintly of them all. Only Margaret, Grace, and Josephine knew she had always been faithful to Marcus. It made it easier to bear knowing her friends understood the depths of her faithfulness, even if her husband did not. They had all urged her on more than one occasion to tell him the truth, but her stubbornness was too great a burden to overcome. If Marcus ever asked her if she was guilty of adultery she would reply honestly, but he never had. Instead he continued to believe rumor and speculation over his own wife and for that – even more than his abandonment of her – Catherine could never forgive him.

“I like your hair like that,” Marcus whispered suddenly in her ear and she jerked, not having heard him get up from the table. His wide hands encircled her slim waist and pulled her back until her bottom bumped softly against his groin. Through her skirt she felt the hardness of his arousal and she steeled herself against him with
all
 
of
her strength even as her traitorous heart beat faster.

“With your hair loose and flowing, like you used to wear it,” he continued, his lips brushing the curve of her ear before sliding lower to nuzzle at her jaw.

She closed her eyes and braced her fingers against the windowsill. “Marcus, please do not do this.”

“Do what?” His clever hands slowly made their way up from her waist to cup her breasts, rubbing small circles against the yellow fabric until her nipples hardened and ached. “You smell like violets and sunshine,” he whispered.  

She bit her lip to keep from gasping in helpless surrender and held herself stiff, so stiff she feared she might break, but it would be better to break into a thousand pieces than have him see the unrequited love shining in her eyes.

“If you wish to amuse yourself go find a whore, Marcus,” she snapped. “One who will enjoy your touch, for I cannot stand
it!
I have agreed to share your bed, but I do not have to put up with being… being
groped
in the kitchen!”

He spun her around so fast her teeth clicked painfully together. His eyes flashed and for the first time she felt a true quivering of fear lick low in her belly. “Marcus, I –”

“Why would I need to find a whore when there is one right in front of me?” he asked silkily, shifting his weight forward until she was trapped between his hard body and the window. His hands were the opposite of passionate now as they swept up her slender ribcage and she cried out when they closed painfully around her breasts.

“Stop it! Marcus, what has gotten into you? Let me go this instant!”

“Why? You let other men touch you. Isn’t this what you like, being treated like the whore you are?” he growled before he lowered his head and ravished her mouth in a kiss intended to plunder and punish. Keeping her pinned against the window with his body, he dropped one hand to cup her sex through her gown and grinded his palm against her in a grotesque exaggeration of how he had pleasured her last night. Now his fingers brought only pain, not pleasure, and when she tried to twist free he tangled one hand in her long hair, tearing it free from the silk ribbon.

Tears born of pain and panic stung her eyes. A mewling whimper forced its way past her lips. With no other way to defend herself, she bit down on Marcus’ invading tongue as hard as she could.   

On a savage oath Marcus abruptly released her and staggered back, his eyes so dark in his pale face they looked black. His
adams
apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Catherine… Cat…. I never… I am so sorry… I don’t know what came over me… Please, I…” He reached for her but she darted around him and stumbled to the front door, her breath coming out in wheezing gasps and stutters.

“You’re a monster. A monster! And I h-hate you!” she cried in anguish. Flinging the front door open so hard it slammed into the opposing wall, she fled the cottage as if the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels.

Marcus drew in a deep, trembling breath as the front door slammed shut. He wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve, dully noting the spots of blood that stained the white cotton. Blindly he stumbled into the living room and slammed his hands down on the bar, making the bottles and tumblers jump. He stared down at his hands, regarding them as if they belonged to another, for surely it had not been
his
hands that had touched his wife in cruelness and anger. Not
his
hands that had pinched and groped and bruised her delicate skin. Not
his
hands that had filled her sapphire eyes with fear and loathing. 

He clenched his hands into fists. Catherine was right. He was a monster.

The bottle of scotch was where he had left it the night before. He downed the first shot without blinking, and poured himself a second. The alcohol mocked him as he held it aloft and on a muttered curse Marcus flung the glass against the wall where it shattered upon impact. His legs shook from the weight of his guilt and he collapsed into a leather chair to bury his face in his hands.

Where had it all gone wrong? They had been so bloody happy.
So certain of their love for each other.
He had never imagined he would ever find someone like Catherine.
Someone so sweet and loving.
Gentle and kind.
But he had found her, and then he had left her. Left her when she begged him to stay, only to return and promptly leave her again.
He
had driven her into the arms of other men. She had been young and naïve, an innocent bride of eight and ten. He abandoned her to the wolves to pursue his bloody fortune, and what had that gotten him? How did his cursed riches serve him now? His money did not keep him warm at night. It did not kiss him good morning. It did not put a child in the nursery. He was a fool.
A selfish, arrogant fool.

Abruptly Marcus stood. This was his chance, he realized with a sharp intake of breath.
His chance to make things better.
To repair the damage he had caused. He needed Catherine in his life. Even with her temper and her flair for the dramatic and her silly moods she made his life better. Hell, she made
him
better.

He wanted to see her nose crinkle again when she laughed.
To catch her against him and kiss her senseless in the middle of the day for no reason.
To carry her upstairs when she fell asleep reading in front of the fireplace and use only his tongue to wake her.
He wanted his wife back… and come hell or high
water,
he was going to get her.

Chapter Five

It was well past noon by the time Marcus found Catherine behind the cottage curled in the shade of a large oak tree. He had searched everywhere else he could think of first: the stables, the small apple orchard she used to spend hours trying to paint – unsuccessfully, he had recalled with a rueful smile; Catherine was many brilliant things, but an artist was not among them – and he had even started down the road thinking she may have left Woodsgate all together, but had turned around when he remembered the towering oak in the wildflower meadow she had often napped beneath during their honeymoon.

He thought she was sleeping now as he approached, until her head lifted with the alertness of a skittish deer. Quickly she climbed to her feet and brushed a few errant pieces of grass from her long skirts. When she finally lifted her chin the accusation in her cool blue eyes was like a slap to the face. Marcus reeled back as a cold, clammy sweat broke out across his temple. Suddenly winning his wife’s affections back did not seem like such a simple task.

“Cat, I am so sorry –” he began hoarsely, but she cut him off with one raised finger.

“Do not waste your breath in an apology, Lord Kensington. If anything, I should be the one to apologize. I never should have come here. I have sent word to the nearest town that I shall require a carriage to take me to Kensington. From there I will pack my things and return to
London
with all post haste.” Her voice was level, her expression serene. She might have been telling him about the weather, and Marcus was taken aback by her calmness.

He had expected her to rage at him. To yell and throw things as she always did when she was in the midst of one of her tempers. Or at the very least give him the silent treatment, which she had deemed necessary only once before when he had inadvertently forgotten her birthday. He deserved those things and more for what he done to her, but this… He didn’t know how to react to
this
.

“What about the divorce?”
Bloody hell.
Infuriated with himself, Marcus swept a hand through his dark hair and cupped the back of his neck, pinching the muscles that ran taut beneath the skin. He had not intended to mention the damned divorce. Nothing was going as he had pictured it in his mind. Catherine was supposed to be weeping and he was supposed to take her in his arms and beg for her forgiveness before confessing his undying love. Instead she stood before him perfectly composed without a shimmer of a tear on her beautiful face, and
he
was the one acting like a hysterical female.

“I no longer require a divorce, Marcus,” she said. A half smile tipped her mouth to the side, making her appear faintly sheepish. “It was childish of me to ask for one in the first place and for that I do apologize. Our marriage is convenient for both of us. It was selfish of me to try to change that.”

Something tightened in his chest. “You wish to remain married then?” The question came out in a rush. He held his breath, knowing his life rested on her response.
His dear, sweet Catherine.
Love for her surged through him like a wave and it took all of his self control not to close the distance between them in one mighty stride and gather her in his arms. They had years of lost time to make up for. A second honeymoon was in order, of course. They could even spend it here, at Woodsgate. Explore the fields and forests by day, make passionate love by night. It would be like it was before, when they first fell in love and he had the entire world at his fingertips. He imagined her heavy with his child, and –

“Yes, of course I wish to remain married.” Catherine looked at him oddly, and too late Marcus realized his expression must have revealed some of the longing he was desperately trying to contain.

Her winged eyebrows drew together over the bridge of her nose, and a frown captured her mouth. “But it will be as it has been, Marcus. I shall maintain my residence in the city during the Season, while you conduct your business from Kensington. Surely you did not think we would live together?” The musical sound of her laughter sliced through him like a knife.

“Do not be foolish,” he scoffed, even as he wondered if this is how it felt to die from the inside out. “I simply wanted to make certain my wife would not be underfoot should I choose to entertain someone of the… female persuasion.”

For the first time her veneer of aloofness cracked. He waited for her to do something, to say something that would give him reason to hope she still felt for him as he did for her, but she drew in a deep breath and the anger that had temporarily brightened her eyes dimmed into acceptance.

“No, we wouldn’t want that,” she said softly, dropping her gaze to the wildflowers that bloomed at her feet. Bending down she picked a large daisy and started to systematically pluck the white petals off one by one. They began to spiral towards the ground in slow, lazy circles. “As I said, I will only be at Kensington for as long as it takes Hannah to pack my things. When I am gone you may entertain your…
guests
as often as you like.”

“Just make certain you hurry,” he said. He wanted to hurt her, hurt her as badly as she had him, and a dark sense of satisfaction settled over his shoulders when he saw her flinch from his cruel barb.

Still keeping her eyes averted, she shrugged. “Yes, well, I will do my best. Now if you will excuse me I must return to the cottage to change into a dress more suitable for traveling. The carriage should be here soon.” She dropped the flower and brushed her palms against the sides of her skirt.