No Man's Bride (16 page)

Catherine raised her brows. Noble lady! Ha! If only this seamstress had seen her scrubbing floors last week, she wouldn’t think her so noble.

“That family has always been good to me and mine,” Clare went on, while Mrs. Punch held up various colors and materials against Catherine’s skin to judge their effect. “My mother hasn’t been well for years, since my papa died when I was just a babe, but Lord Valentine makes sure that we have something to eat. He even gave my brother John a position as a footman at his estate.”

She would have expressed her surprise, but Mrs. Punch suddenly threw a mass of blue silk over Catherine’s head and shoulders. She had never thought Valentine particularly chivalrous. In fact, he appeared more single-minded. After all, hadn’t he plainly told her that he wanted a
wife not for love or companionship but to advance his own interests?

And still, as the fitting continued, neither Mrs. Punch nor Clare had a bad word to say about Valentine. They sang his praises, so that by the time the styles and gowns had been decided on, Catherine felt that her husband was all but a stranger. If Mrs. Punch and her assistant had the right of it, Catherine was married to the most handsome, most intelligent, most successful, kindest, and best man in all of England.

Clare left to make a note of their selections and write up the bill, and then the shop bell rang and Mrs. Punch disappeared for a moment as well. Catherine was left alone in the dressing room in her shift and bare feet. She looked about for her shoes and stays, lifted chairs and bolts of material, but she could not find either. Finally, she stood and, turning, caught sight of herself in the mirror.

What had Valentine asked her to do today? See herself as he did? He’d said she was beautiful and irresistible. Now she stared at her reflection in the mirror and tried to see that girl. She supposed that her face was not bad. Her skin was too dark, but it was smooth and clear, and her eyes were pretty. She liked their honey hazel color and their almond shape. And she liked her nose. It was straight and not too big. And her mouth was wide and she had even teeth. She
smiled and admired the way her eyes lit when she was happy.

Lifting her hands, she extracted the pins from her simple hairstyle and let the mass of dark hair fall about her shoulders and back. Her hair was straight and soft but thick. She liked the way it felt when it swished against the bare skin of her arms.

To her surprise, she liked the way she looked. She was by no means the temptress Valentine described, but she was pretty.

How had she never noticed that before? Was it because she was always comparing herself to Elizabeth’s petite blond beauty that she had never admired her own assets?

Clare was another blond beauty, but she was not petite. She had large breasts and hips that were barely contained by her work-worn clothing. Perhaps men like Valentine preferred women who were not so small and slim but were robust with rounded bodies.

Catherine lifted her hand to her neck and brushed the hair back over her shoulders. Her skin tingled at the sensation, and she closed her eyes and ran her hand down to her collarbone and then the drawstring of her shift. She opened her eyes, and peered about her. She could still hear Mrs. Punch speaking in the other room, and Clare did not seem to be hurrying back. With a quick motion of her hands, Catherine loosened
the strings and allowed the cotton to fall down about her elbows.

In the mirror she stared at her breasts. They were the olive color of the rest of her skin, but the nipples were dark and jutted upward. In fact, now that they were free and exposed to the cool air, they hardened in much the same way they had when Valentine had kissed her this morning. She remembered the ache she’d felt and lifted a hand to cup one breast. It was heavy in her hand but also soft and full. With one finger, she flicked the hard nipple and felt a surge of pleasure rush through her. Her thighs tingled, and the skin became damp.

She took the other breast in her hand, holding them both, molding them, and then she closed her eyes and thought of Valentine doing this to her. The heat between her legs flared and burned, and she had to catch her breath.

It was a good thing she had, too, because she heard the bell outside tinkle again and the sound of Mrs. Punch’s footsteps. Quickly she righted her underclothing and was just securing her drawstring again, when the older woman entered. Catherine flushed, certain her face would betray what she had been doing and thinking, but the old woman seemed not to notice.

“Oh, my! Ye look as cold as an icicle! Where are your clothes?” And she hobbled after Clare, returning with Catherine’s clothing and shoes, which had been mixed in with the new materials.

She helped Catherine dress, and when Catherine looked in the mirror again, she expected to feel like her old self. But the woman in the mirror was not the Catherine she was used to. Even as she pinned up her hair and righted her clothing, she now noticed her breasts pushing against the material. She noticed the curve of her jaw and the slant of her eyes. She noticed the high color in her cheeks, and for the first time, she did feel beautiful. For the first time, she saw what a man like Valentine might see in her.

That was, if he had not forgotten her. She checked the clock and saw that it was past the hour he’d promised to claim her. She tried not to look hurt as she watched as Clare and Mrs. Punch right the store and make ready to close. As casually as possible, Catherine inched her way toward the shop’s front window, peering out in search of her errant husband.

“I bet I know where Master Quint is,” Mrs. Punch said. Catherine frowned. Apparently, she’d not been as surreptitious as she’d thought. “Clare, take Lady Valentine to Myrna.”

Clare smiled. “Do I have to come back?”

Mrs. Punch laughed and shook her head. “No, be off with ye. Take Lady Valentine, and then yer free to gallivant about with that man of yourn. But remember what I told you. Get the ring on yer finger before ye open yer legs.”

She winked at Catherine, and Catherine, supposing that she was a married woman now
and supposed to find such humor amusing, tried to smile.

A few minutes later, Catherine was following Clare across the main street and down an alley to where she supposed Myrna lived. Catherine was not certain what her husband would be doing there, but she was prepared for anything. Like the rest of the village, the alley was clean and the houses small and well kept, but there were fewer shops now, and Catherine saw more children and dogs in the street. They continued walking until they finally reached the end of the alley, and this section was dark and shadowed.

Catherine felt a shiver of fear as she watched Clare point to an old wooden house with sagging windows and roof. The face of the house seemed sinister, the door a yawning cavern ready to swallow her. It reminded her of home. But she took a deep breath and followed Clare inside.

C
atherine ducked under the low opening to the house and squinted in at the darkness. Her nose twitched at the greasy smells of old food and the musty smell of sickness. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she was able to take in the small room with its hearth, rough dining table, and several children seated splayed-legged on the hard floor. Clare greeted the children by name and explained that they were her siblings and cousins.

Catherine gave them each a smile and watched as they smiled back and then returned eagerly to the porridge in their bowls. How she wished she had brought something for them. They were obviously not starving, but she knew what it was to
go hungry, even if just for a few days. She would not have anyone suffer the pang of emptiness she remembered often feeling in her belly as a child.

Then Clare motioned her toward another area of the house, where a curtain had been strung to give the occupant a bit of privacy. As Catherine watched, the curtain parted and a familiar face looked out at her.

“Lord Valentine,” she said in surprise.

He looked just as surprised to see her. “Catie, what are you—?” He seemed to fumble for something, and she realized he was looking at his pocket watch. “Damn, I didn’t realize the time.”

And then Catherine heard another voice, a female voice, though weak and frail, say, “I’ve kept you too long again, Master Quint. I’m sorry.”

Quint turned back to the woman, whom Catherine could barely make out in the darkness behind him. “Don’t talk rubbish, Myrna. It’s not every day I get to see you. Besides, now you can meet my new bride.” He gestured to Catherine, and she stepped closer, brushing by the coarse curtain as she ducked into the alcove where the woman lay. She was Catherine’s mother’s age, but shrunken by illness and confinement.

The woman reached up and grasped Catherine’s hand, and she knelt beside her. “She is just as pretty as you described,” the woman said to Valentine. “And what a sweet face.”

Catherine smiled. “Thank you. I hope I have not disturbed you.”

“Ha! I am glad to meet you. Your new husband here can talk of nothing else. I see you brought my daughter with you.”

Clare stepped forward, and the woman gestured to her. “Going out again, are you?”

“Not if you need me here, Mother.”

“No, go out and have a good time. All of you. I’m tired now and will sleep.”

Catherine nodded, rose, and backed out of the small alcove. It was then that she noticed a large basket filled with food in the corner of the room. The basket looked familiar.

Her husband said his good-byes, swinging the children into his arms and around in a dizzying dance, before escorting Catherine from the house. When they were in the alley again, she turned to him, “That basket of food in the corner. You brought that from Ravensland. I remember seeing it in the curricle.”

He looked down at her. “I did. Myrna is an old friend. She’d been sick for many years, and I promised my mother I would care for her. I send food and pay her rent, and I visit whenever I am in the village.”

He took Catherine’s arm and led her back toward the main street.

“You are very kind,” she murmured. “You buy me dresses, you visit sick women. What other secrets do you hold?”

“You’ll have to wait and see,” he said with a smile, as they reached the main street. Taking her
elbow, he directed her along the buildings until they reached a cheery pub with men and women from the village streaming in and out. The owner’s wife greeted them warmly, saying, “Milord, it is so good of you to come and sup with us. It’s a bit busy today. Would you like me to sit you somewhere quiet?”

Valentine nodded. “Please. Then bring us two glasses of wine and some of the crusty bread you make so well.”

The woman smiled with pleasure at the compliment, seated them at a table in the back, and, having delivered them two glasses of wine, scurried away to see to the bread and a bowl of her best stew. Valentine sipped his wine and sat back. Catherine marveled that he looked as comfortable here as he did on the back of a horse or in his well-appointed office.

She looked about the pub and noticed that while the locals were interested in them, they did not stare or ogle. They weren’t about their business, only tipping their hats or nodding politely when she caught their eye.

The pub itself was large and cozy, with rows of tables and benches and several smaller tables and chairs in the back, where she was seated. The ceilings were high and the walls filled with paintings. Catherine looked at the walls beside her and saw that they were actually seated beside a curtain leading to another room. The curtain was
parted slightly, and she could see a bed and a chair on the other side.

“They rent that room out for the night,” Valentine told her. “I don’t imagine the occupants get very much sleep, but it’s better than nothing when you can’t afford one of the rooms upstairs.”

Catherine looked away from the curtain and went back to sipping her wine.

“Did you have a good afternoon?” he asked, after they sat in silence for some time. “Were the gowns Mrs. Punch selected to your liking?”

“Yes.” She nodded to the woman as their bowls of stew and warm crusty bread arrived. “Mrs. Punch has a very good eye, as does her assistant. I believe she said the first gown will arrive in a matter of days.”

Valentine scooped up stew onto his bread and took a large bite. “Of course, you’ll have gowns made in London as well. But Mrs. Punch knows the latest styles. She will do a good enough job for the present.”

Catherine watched as the pub door opened again, and Clare entered. She had changed out of her work clothes, and now wore a brightly colored dress with a low bodice that emphasized her assets. Most of the men gave her appreciative looks when she entered, and Catherine looked at Valentine to see if he had noticed; but he was tearing at another chunk of the bread.

Clare moved easily among the other locals,
speaking to some and passing among them, but she seemed to be looking for someone. And Catherine knew when she had found him by the way the girl’s mouth erupted in a smile. It was a boy of seventeen or eighteen with long brown hair hanging in his face. He’d been in and out of the pub, alternately serving, cleaning the tables, and delivering tankards of ale.

And when the boy spotted her, his face went from pale and haggard to handsome and robust. Catherine smiled. The two were obviously in love.

“And what has you smiling?” Valentine said. He followed her gaze to Clare and her young man and then looked back at Catherine. “Young lovers. I should have known.”

“They seem very happy,” Catherine said, tasting her stew and then, taking a cue from Valentine, breaking off a piece of the bread and swabbing it through the thick chunks of meat and vegetables.

“Yes, they do. I’d like to see you that happy.”

Catherine looked up. “Wooing me again, my lord?”

“I try my best. And what of you? Did you do as I suggested today? When you were bedecked in silks and laces, did you try and see yourself as I do?”

Catherine blushed, embarrassed to have her thoughts returned to her wanton behavior in Mrs. Punch’s shop. “I tried,” she said finally.

Behind them, the curtain swayed slightly and they heard the muted sound of voices. Catherine turned her head and saw that Clare and her young man had entered the room by a back door and were standing, talking at the far end. She could not hear their words, but the sound of their low, confidential voices was audible.

“And did you succeed?” Valentine was saying. “Did you see anything of the temptress that I see?” His voice was as low as those of the two lovers on the other side of the curtain, and it sent a shiver up her spine. Then, as she watched, the boy took Clare in his arms and bent his head to kiss her.

“I beg your pardon,” she said when she saw Valentine watching her, waiting for a response.

He began to speak again, but as he did, Catherine caught sight of the couple through the crack in the curtain again. She really did mean to attend to Valentine, but she could see the lovers almost without any effort, and now the man had reached down and cupped Clare’s bottom, sliding his hands over her rounded rump as the girl pressed her body against him.

Catherine’s own body tingled in response, and she jumped when Valentine put a hand on her arm. “Are you well? You look a bit flushed.”

“I-I’m fine,” she said, and took a large gulp of her wine. Valentine frowned at her, but she gave him a weak smile, and he went back to his stew.

Catherine tried to do the same, but she found
her eyes drawn again to the lovers. She had only to move a fraction of an inch to see them. Now the boy was no longer kissing Clare’s lips, but he’d moved to her neck, and his hands were loosening the low-bodiced gown she wore. As Catherine watched, he freed Clare’s breasts and took each rosy nipple in his mouth. Clare threw her head back, giving him full access, and Catherine caught her breath at the quick rush of sensation she felt between her own thighs.

“She seems to be enjoying that.” Valentine’s voice was low, a murmur in her ear.

Catherine stiffened, and her eyes met his. He’d angled his chair so that he could see through the crack in the curtain as well, and he’d moved closer to her. Catherine had been so absorbed, she had not noticed.

“I-I was not watching,” she said. Her cheeks flamed and she stared hard at the remnants of her stew.

Valentine chuckled. “You weren’t watching? Is that why you didn’t hear a word I said these past five minutes?”

“Perhaps we should ask for another table,” Catherine said, still staring at her stew and acutely aware of Valentine beside her, his gaze on the entwined couple on the other side of the curtain. Catherine heard a low, female moan, and had to exercise great restraint to keep from lifting her head and looking.

“We probably should ask for another table,” Valentine said, “but I rather like this one. Oh, now that looks like fun.”

She snapped her head up and stared at him. “Sir, you should not be looking. It is obscene.”

His eyes met hers. “Obscene? How?”

She shook her head, unable to explain, and not wanting to. But he kept his gaze on her face and waited. Finally, she was able to stammer, “Wh-what they are doing. It is not right.”

“Not right? If it is not right, then you and I and all of these people in this room are wrong. How do you think you came to be, Catie?”

She shook her head and looked away from him, inadvertently catching sight of the couple again. Now Clare’s breasts were completely exposed, and the boy had her seated on the bed. He was kneeling before her, ruching up her skirt, while she kneaded his hard member through his pants.

Catherine looked away. “I understand how children come about, sir. But that is not their intention. They are doing this solely for—”

“For what?” he said, his gaze flicking past her. Her heart sped up when she imagined what he saw. “For pleasure?”

She nodded. “Yes, and that is obscene.”

He took her chin between two fingers and brought her gaze to his face. “Are you telling me that feeling pleasure is obscene? That the physical
expression of love between two people is obscene?”

She had not thought of it that way, and she had no ready answer.

“Look again through that curtain, Catie,” he said, releasing her chin. “Now you tell me if what you see is obscene.”

The couple was close together again, she still sitting on the bed, he kneeling on the floor before her. His hands were under her skirts, but he’d risen up and was kissing her passionately. Clare returned the kiss with equal fervor.

Valentine whispered in Catherine’s ear. “What is obscene about that? Was it obscene when I kissed you this morning? When I touched you?”

“No.” She watched Clare move against the boy and remembered her own urge to move closer to Valentine. “No, but you did not touch me like that.”

He chuckled softly, his breath tickling her ear. “Oh, but I want to. Look how the lad has lowered her gown, how her breasts spill forth. If that were you, I would bury my face in your flesh, kissing your nipples until they were hard pebbles against my tongue.”

“Sir!” Catherine shifted uncomfortably in her chair as warm wetness dampened her thighs. Her own breasts tingled in response to his words, her nipples growing hard once again. “You should not say such things.”

“Would you rather I do them?” And then she felt his hand, solid and light, on her knee.

“No, you mustn’t,” she hissed.

“Look through the curtain,” he said. “Do you see where his hands are?”

Lord help her, but she could not stop herself from looking.

“Tell me what you see,” Valentine prodded, even as she felt him lift her skirts under the table. She glanced about the room, praying no one could see what he was doing. But no one was looking at them, and Valentine’s body blocked hers from view.

“Tell me what he is doing, Catie.”

She glanced behind the curtain again and cleared her throat. “He is touching her.”

“How?” Valentine murmured, his hand sliding under her skirts to touch the bare skin of her knee. “Where?”

Catherine could barely find her voice. She could not believe she was answering Valentine’s questions, allowing him to touch her thus. But his warm hand felt so good on her, that she could not seem to stop her words from tumbling out. “He’s sliding his hand up her thigh.”

Valentine’s own hand slid up her thigh. She shivered.

“And then he slides it back down again.”

Valentine complied and then repeated the gesture. As Catherine watched, the boy did the same
to Clare, but his hands were not on the top of Clare’s thighs, as Valentine’s were.

Catherine tried to speak and had to clear her throat again. “His hands slide up the inside of her thigh.”

Valentine paused for just a moment, and Catherine almost turned to look at him, but she dared not meet his gaze. She would feel too much shame at what she was doing then. Valentine’s hand slid up her inner thigh and back down again, and Catherine gasped.

“You like that,” Valentine said, his hand stroking her flesh again, this time his fingers reaching even higher so that Catherine had to restrain herself from moving to meet him. “Now what is the lad doing?”