No Man's Bride (18 page)

“What’s wrong?” he said, watching her over the rim of the glass, the liquid red and fiery in his hands. “Was the kiss not to your liking?”

She wet her lips, wanting to speak but feeling the bands of propriety choking her voice. “May I have another?” She indicated her empty glass, and he nodded and went to refill it. She watched him walk across the room, stunned to find herself admiring the way the trousers fit his backside. She remembered how his bottom had looked without those trousers. She licked her lips again.

He turned back and, caught staring, she quickly averted her gaze. He handed her the refilled glass and then took a seat on the bed. She swallowed a good deal more of the red wine than she’d intended before she had the nerve to say, “Will you kiss me again?”

“Is that what you want?” he asked, and she felt like hitting him. Of course it was what she wanted—that and a great deal more. Why did the obstinate man insist on playing games?

“Yes. I want you to kiss me again. Like the last time. Only…more.”

He grinned. “More?” Reaching toward her, his
hand looped in the sash of her robe, and he pulled her closer. “I want more as well. May I see more?”

She nodded, her throat so dry and parched, she could not speak. She watched as his hands worked the knot she’d made in front of the mirror. With patience and skill, he loosed the knot and parted her robe. Her body grew warm and liquid as his gaze devoured every inch of her. Slowly, he slipped the robe down her arms. The feel of the silk sliding off her shoulders was so delicious and the cool air such a contrast to his hot gaze that she closed her eyes to savor it.

When she opened them again, he patted the space on the bed beside him. “Come and sit here.”

Her heart sped up as she stared at their bed. She had slept in it for a week. It was large, far too large for only her, and it was covered with a plush velvet blue counterpane. When she had slept in the bed alone, she had no trouble imagining that it would sleep three or four people easily. But now that he sat perched on it, the bed looked tiny. Anywhere she sat on it would be too close to him to calm the pounding of her heart. And yet she wanted to be this close to him.

He lifted a hand and caressed her cheek, then ran his fingers through her loosened hair until his fingers kneaded her tense neck muscles. She began to relax, to close her eyes and lean into his ministrations, when he pulled her to him.

With more slow, tantalizing skill, he kissed her
again. And again, the kiss was over far too quickly. This time when he pulled back to grasp his wineglass, she caught his hand in hers, stopping the glass’s progress.

She guided his hand and the glass to her own mouth, took a small sip, but held the liquid inside her mouth. And then she kissed him, giving him the wine when he parted her lips. He groaned quietly, and she felt the low primal sound deep in her belly. She put her hand on his neck, then in his hair, wrapping her fingers in it and pulling his mouth to hers. She kissed him. Or more accurately, she devoured him, at least that was how she felt. But she needed him at that moment. She needed much more than the stingy kisses he’d given, and he seemed to sense this and abandon all games and kissed her fully back.

At some point her hands moved from his head to his open shirt. She fumbled with the fabric, parting it further, then bending to kiss the exposed skin of his neck. His pulse beat rapidly there, and his scent was heavy. The scents she always associated with him—spring, leather saddles, and pine were there—but she smelled something else as well. Something dark and musky and undeniably him. It made her heady and drew her mouth again and again to kiss and nip and take him there, and she began to think of the scent as the smell of arousal.

She was nipping along his throat, small quick bites with her teeth, when she heard him drop
his glass. And then his hands were on her, and he lifted her into his lap. He cradled her bottom before setting her down, and then she felt the hard bulge of his manhood.

She pulled away, suddenly afraid, but he held her with one hand just above her waist. He was out of breath, and for some reason that pleased her. “What do you want now, Catie?” He gasped out. “Remember, I am in your control.”

She certainly didn’t feel in control. Her head was spinning, and she could hardly get her bearings. But when she looked in his eyes she felt everything lock into place. “Kiss me again,” she said and leaned forward, ready to assist him from her new position, but he stopped her by leaning back slightly.

“Is that all you want? Just a kiss?”

“Yes, of course—” But then the image of Clare in the pub flitted across her brain, and she glanced down at her own nightrail. “Kiss me here,” she said, lifting a hand and caressing her neck from her chin to the hollow at the base of her throat.

His hands were still about her waist, and he pulled her close so that her breasts brushed against him. And then she felt his firm, warm lips on her throat. They teased and traced and tantalized her until she let out a low moan and felt herself arch for him. His tongue darted out, and he ran it down the column of her neck, making her shiver with desire at the wet trail that cooled as his mouth moved.

Then he pulled away and looked up at her, awaiting further instructions. They were difficult for her to give. She had never given a man orders as long as she had lived. She had feared men and their directives and feared the possibility that she would ever be in the position for a man to order her into his bed.

But with Valentine it was different. Tonight he took orders, did not give them. He waited for her, his gaze patient and filled with desire for her. He wanted her, but she also knew with absolute certainty that if she were to stand and walk away from him, he would allow her to go.

“What are you thinking?” he said suddenly. “I can see something going on behind those beautiful honey eyes.”

She glanced down. “I was thinking that if I wanted to stop now, if I wanted to go, you would allow it.”

He tensed—her only indication her words displeased him—then he relaxed his hold on her waist so that he would catch her if she lost her balance, but he did not restrain her.

“If you want to stop,” he said, tilting his head so that he met her gaze, “that is your choice. You are in control. I mean that.”

She nodded, seeing the truth in his face. “What are you thinking?” she asked, her heart speeding up when the words left her mouth.

He raised a brow. “Provocative question, Lady Valentine. Are you sure you want to know?” His
hands tightened on her waist again, caressing her through the nightgown until they molded to her hips and adjusted her so that she was pressing directly against his erection.

“Yes,” she said on a breathless sigh. “I want to know.”

“I am thinking”—he leaned into her and kissed her neck again—“that you are the most beautiful woman in the world.”

She shivered as his lips trailed over her skin, warming it as he traced the curve of her jaw. “That’s not true. There are many women—”

“To me, you are the most beautiful.” His teeth nipped her earlobe and she let out a small moan. “Do you want to know what else I am thinking?”

“Tell me,” she ordered, wiggling just a bit from the tickle of his breath in her ear.

“I am thinking how much I love your scent. You smell like peaches. And I wonder if you taste of them, too. If the skin of your breasts and your stomach”—he touched her lightly in the places he spoke of as he talked—“and your thighs taste as sweet and succulent.”

She swayed as his hands grazed her thighs and then rested on her hips again, holding her up. “What else are you thinking?” she whispered, eager for more of his words, his seduction.

“I am thinking how much I want you. How I want to lay you down beneath me and drive into you until you are writhing from pleasure.”

She had a brief flash of her father’s angry face
and remembered her mother’s screams. Fear sparked inside her, and she drew back, but Valentine caught her. “What is it?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. Something you said reminded me—” Tears pricked her eyes, and he put a finger over her lips.

“Shh. Don’t think of that tonight. Let me change the look in your haunted eyes. Let me show you that my touch can pleasure you. Will you let me prove to you that I would not harm you for anything?”

“Show me,” she said. “I’m so tired of being afraid.” He kissed her again, a soothing kiss full of sweetness and care, and then he drew back and buried his face in her hair. With trembling fingers, she lifted her hands and let them find their own way to the knotted strings of her nightgown. As he pulled back, she loosened the strings and let the gown fall down her arms and about her waist.

He stared at her, then met her gaze.

“Kiss me here,” she said, letting a finger trail over one erect nipple. “And kiss me here.” Her hand went to the other breast, and then she cupped both and offered herself to him.

He did not pause, and she felt his hot breath on her flesh as he loved her with her mouth, sucking and licking and laving her until she was arched back and breathing heavily. The more he touched her, the more she wanted his touch. She needed him, the ache in her heart and between her legs growing to almost unbearable heights. She
ground against him, ignoring her wanton behavior, only seeking to assuage the twinge between her thighs.

And then she was beneath him. His weight was more of a comfort than a prison, and he was stripping off her nightgown and kissing her everywhere, loving her flesh with his hands and his mouth and his eyes.

He sat back and looked at her, then lifted his own shirt over his head, revealing his muscled chest. He was a politician but no stranger to hard work and exercise, and when she ran her hands over his abdomen, she admired the hard ridges of his muscles. He had a light sprinkling of golden brown hair on his chest, which tapered to a line below his belly button and disappeared beneath his trousers. Catherine followed the line of that hair down with one fingertip, but Quint stopped her before she could touch the part of him that made her truly curious.

“Let’s take this slow,” he said, his voice almost a groan. “Let me love you first. If you’re ready, there’s less chance I’ll give you any pain.”

She nodded, and he began to slip off the bed. “Where are you going?” she asked, propping herself on her elbows. She was embarrassed by her nakedness at first, but the longer he looked at her, the less self-conscious she felt. There was only desire in his eyes, only pleasure at what he saw, and Catherine reveled in it. She wanted him to look at her, wanted him to desire her.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “But I need you to come closer.” Then grasping her about the hips, he pulled her to the edge of the bed and parted her knees, standing between them.

She gasped, feeling vulnerable and excited at her new position. He leaned over her, planting his hands at her sides. “Do you remember that night in the village pub?”

She nodded. The memory was all too clear to her. She wanted Quint to make her feel that way again.

“Do you remember what that young man was doing to that girl?”

“Clare? Yes,” she whispered.

“I want to do that to you. But I have to have your permission.”

She nodded, her legs feeling numb and tingly at the thought of his mouth between them.

“So I have your permission to part your legs like this?” He nudged her knees apart until she was open to him. He kept his gaze on her face until she gave her consent, and then he looked down, wetting his lips at the sight of her.

Catherine’s heart pounded so hard she feared it would burst, and the burst of heat between her legs at the intensity of his stare made her cry out. She emitted a low moan as he reached toward her. “Touch me,” she pleaded, watching his hand move far too slowly. “Touch me there.”

His fingers brushed against her lightly, and she threw back her head and moaned again. This was
what she had wanted. This was the feeling that had given her dreams, that wakened her sweaty and full of need.

“Catie,” he murmured, fingers still caressing her. “I want more. With your permission, I’m going to get on my knees.”

She made a sound that was incomprehensible even to her, but she felt him lower himself.

“And now I’m going to kiss you. Here.” His fingers pressed her sensitive flesh again, and then they withdrew. “May I kiss you here?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Please.”

At first she felt nothing but the warmth of his body between her legs, the rasp of his stubble on her inner thigh, and the gentle pressure of his mouth against the juncture between her legs. And then she felt his tongue—at least she thought it was his tongue.

His touch was light and delicious, darting against her sensitive skin. The contrast between the whisper of his mouth and the intense, rapturous sensation overwhelmed her.

She couldn’t think at all. There was nothing but sensation. Nothing but white heat and pulsing pleasure. Nothing but the zing of blood in her veins and the spiral of pleasure spinning through her body until she rose with it, lifting herself up and screaming her release.

Q
uint stepped out of his boots, freed his erection from his trousers, and stripped off the last of his clothing. Naked, he stretched out beside Catie and allowed one hand to rest on the curve of her olive-skinned hip. Her back was to him, but he could hear her all but purring with the pleasure of her climax. The sound of her contentment gave him immense satisfaction. He didn’t think he’d ever like anything better than giving Catie fulfillment.

Gradually, Catie turned toward him. Her eyes were heavy-lidded as she looked at him, and he couldn’t stop what he knew must be a cocky smile. “Feeling better now?”

“Umm-hmm.” She closed her eyes and
stretched. He took the opportunity to allow his gaze to travel the length of her naked body. Her legs were as long as he’d anticipated, her thighs slim and muscled like a good Thoroughbred’s. He could picture those legs wrapped around him, her rounded hips rising to meet his every thrust.

When he looked back into her face, she was watching him. “Thank you,” she said, her hand reaching out to trail a finger lazily over his mouth. He closed his eyes and soaked in the moment of tenderness. He had not had many such moments in the last ten years.

She ran her finger over his lips and then across his cheek and over his eyes. Her touch was light and exploratory, as though she wanted to memorize every inch of his face. Then her hand strayed to his neck and his shoulder. She pushed lightly, indicating she wanted him on his back, and he obliged her, knowing what she would see when he moved to allow her more access.

Her hand trailed down his chest and then stopped. He felt her tense beside him and opened his eyes to find her looking down. His erection hardened and throbbed the longer she stared. “I still want you,” he said quietly, and her eyes jerked up to his. “But the decision is yours. We can stop now, if you like.”

She blinked. “That hardly seems fair.”

“Fairness is subjective, and the sole property of those who make the rules. Tonight you make the rules. What do you think is fair?”

She chewed her lip and looked down at him again. “I think it only fair you feel the same pleasure I did.”

He nodded. “There are many ways to accomplish that, but only one that will truly make you my wife.”

“Is that what you want?” she said.

“More than anything.”

“Then I want that, too. What do I have to do?”

“I’m afraid I will hurt you this first time.” He leaned over her, pushing her back against his bed gently and stroking a lock of her hair back from her face. “Will you tell me if it hurts too much?”

She nodded, and he could see the fear creep back into her eyes. He couldn’t resist propping himself up on one elbow and kissing her. And then he could not resist touching her, running his hands over her body in much the same way she had touched him only a few moments before. He learned the texture of her skin, the dips and the rises of her body, the weight of her breasts and the swell of her hip.

It was not long before her fear subsided, and he heard her breathing catch and then come in shorter bursts once again. She was wonderfully responsive, this bride who was to be his wife. She was a confusing mixture of temerity and confidence, trust and wariness. She was a work in progress—an early draft that was awkward but so genuine that he could not help but feel tenderness for her. And she gave it in return.

How he needed something tender and genuine in his life. The rhetoric, the political shouldering and selling—he’d mastered and thrived on them. He could be a bully when he need be. He could wheedle and he could demand and he could compromise.

But here, at home, he just wanted to be Quint. He wanted tenderness and pleasure and his wife’s contented sighs. She moaned beneath him, and he nudged her legs apart, this time settling himself between them. He was gentle and careful not to crush her with his weight. Her eyes fluttered open at this new feeling, but he kissed her again, and after a few minutes she relaxed and began to respond.

She was soft and pliant under him. She also felt small and vulnerable, and he ached to protect her and to bring her pleasure as well. He worried that between her fear and his complete lack of experience with virgins, this first time would not bring her much pleasure. He tried to think of the many nights to come.

It was not difficult to think of her on other nights and in other positions. He imagined her on top of him, her breasts jutting out as she arched back and took him inside her. He imagined her looking over her shoulder at him as he entered her from behind. And he thought of her in his arms, both of them lying sated after a night of lovemaking.

He could imagine her heavy with his child;
then smiling at him with a baby in her arms; then coming to greet him, leading their children by tiny, unsteady hands. He wanted all of this from her, and it began tonight.

He’d been stroking her breasts and her stomach, but now he reached between them and stroked the moist slit between her legs. She was warm and wet, and he knew she was ready for him—her body, if not her mind.

“Sweetling,” he whispered, and her eyes fluttered. She moaned as his fingers found the hard nub between her folds. “I’m going to enter you now.”

It was the closest he could come to asking her permission. It was already taking most of his willpower to keep from plunging into her.

“Yes,” she moaned, pressing against him. “Yes, I want you inside me.”

He rose up and inserted the tip of his manhood. She moaned again, and he paused, knowing that her pleasure might soon end. “I’ll try to be gentle,” he murmured, entering her more fully and feeling his own pleasure build just as he encountered her barrier.

She was still moving against him, moaning and asking him for more. Her pleas and the feel of her tightening around him were driving him to madness. He pulsed and throbbed inside her, wanting to thrust hard and deep, but holding himself back. And then he felt the prick of her fingernails dent the flesh of his back, and he
could hold off no longer. As slowly and gently as he could, he broke her barrier, opening her up, and entering her fully.

He bit his lip to stop the cry of ecstasy. She was so hot and tight. God, she felt so good. He moved within her and almost came. The only thing that stopped him was the small prick of pain in his back.

He opened his eyes and looked into her frightened face.

“I’m hurting you,” he said, seeing the pain now and the tears escaping onto her cheeks.

She nodded. “You-you’re too big. You don’t fit.”

“It’s only this first time,” he murmured, lowering his mouth to kiss her gently. “I’m fitting you to me, sweetling. After this time, I promise our joining will bring you nothing but pleasure.”

He moved within her again, and her nails dug deeper.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked. God, he prayed she would not ask him to stop, but he mentally girded himself for the possibility. He could still cease, but if he did not pull out soon, he would not be able to control himself. Already, instinct began overriding reason. Unable to resist, he moved within her, sliding against her sleek folds. He bit back a groan.

“Sweetling,” he said between clenched teeth, “if you want me to stop, you have to say so now. I can’t”—he moved inside her again, thrusting
deeper into her warmth—“hold on much longer.”

And then he felt her legs wrap around him, and her body relax enough so that she seemed to accommodate him. “You are my husband now in truth,” she said, and kissed him with passion. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He was gentle and cautious, holding back as much as he could until the urge to plunge into her a final time overtook him. He was aware that her fingernails dug into his bunched shoulders, that she smelled like peaches and him, and that he had never known he could feel so much pleasure. And then he could hold back no longer, and he didn’t want to. He went over the edge and plunged into her with body and soul.

When they finally parted, he pulled her close and fit his body around her, cradling her in his arms. “Next time,” he whispered into her hair, “I promise I’ll give you only pleasure.”

“Yes,” she murmured, her breath tickling the skin of his shoulder.

He held her like that, staying awake and vigilant until she slept. And even then he did not doze. He lay beside her, listening to her quiet breathing, feeling the rise and fall of her chest, and losing himself in the heat her woman’s body generated in slumber.

She was gone when he awoke the next morning. He was disappointed at not finding her beside him, but admittedly he’d overslept. He
dressed quickly, hoping to catch her before her morning ride and perhaps join her, but as he strode down the steps of his house his butler announced that Meeps was waiting for him in the study.

Not the person Quint wanted to see just then, but business would have to win over pleasure today. Meeps was sitting in one of the armchairs, reading the
Times
and sipping tea when Quint strode in. The assistant stood, bowed, then gestured to a lone sheet of paper on Quint’s desk. Quint went to it immediately. As he read, he had to sit down.

It took a moment for Quint to find his voice, and then he said, “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

“My lord, I told you others were in competition for the Cabinet seat.”

“Others, yes. You said Fairfax had not been given a nod.”

Meeps inclined his head. “It was a foregone conclusion, especially once your name was thrown into the ring.”

Quint swore. Fairfax and he had been contemporaries at Oxford, always in competition with one another. They were not enemies, not even on opposite sides of the political fence. Their careers had been on a parallel course until last spring when Fairfax married Lady Honoria, daughter of the Duke of Astly.

Quint had watched as Fairfax’s popularity
soared. Lady Honoria was polished and beautiful. She was schooled in the social graces by those who made the rules of etiquette, and the political salons and soirees she hosted for Fairfax were immensely popular among the secretaries and Cabinet ministers.

Lady Honoria had been one reason Quint decided it was time he seek a wife. He could not hope to keep up with men like Fairfax without some ammunition.

And now he had his ammunition—the niece of an earl—nothing to scoff at. Except he had not married the charming Elizabeth Fullbright, but her shy, socially awkward sister.

“Fairfax. Goddamn it,” Quint grumbled now.

“I advised you to stay in London.”

Quint glared at Meeps, and his assistant shrank back in his chair a bit. “Since you seem so adept at advising me,” Quint said in his most scathing tone, “why don’t you advise me what to do now? Fairfax is the undisputed favorite for the Cabinet seat. How do I change that?”

“You must return to London. Posthaste.”

“Damn it, but I
knew
you were going to say that.”

“And then you must launch a three-pronged attack.”

Quint sat forward, leaning his elbows on the desk. He liked organized strategies. “Go on.”

“Your first line of attack will be Parliament. You must quickly attach yourself to the new act
sponsored by Lord Graves. It’s bound to be controversial.”

Quint shuffled through the stack of papers Meeps had moved aside until he found the documents he sought. “Ha! Graves wants to lower taxes on”—he flipped several pages—“hell, on a whole host of items.”

“Fairfax opposes the bill.”

“What a surprise. It’s not going to be popular.”

“Except with the people. Pass that bill, gain the people’s support, and the prime minister cannot afford to overlook you.”

Quint nodded. “The second prong of attack?”

“You have to attend every rally, every plebeian meeting, every reform society gathering. You’ll give rousing speeches, and your name will be all over the
Times
.”

Quint began taking notes. “I’ve already received several invitations to speak. I’ll have you accept for me. Hire Black and Clarion to write my speeches.”

“Black is working for Fairfax now.”

Quint looked up. “Get him back. Pay him whatever he asks. No one turns a phrase like Black.” He went back to his notes, his hand writing furiously but not as quickly as the rapid-fire ideas in his mind. He loved this feeling at the beginning of a political campaign. He felt like a general, eager to rally his troops and yell, “Charge!”

“I’ll need you to return to London today,” Quint told Meeps in between shuffling through
papers and scratching notes. “I want you to talk to Graves, prepare the way for me—”

“My lord, you know I will be happy to, but we still have one more avenue of attack to discuss. Perhaps the most important one.”

Quint stopped writing, but he did not look up. “I know. My wife.”

“She must host the party to end all parties. Fairfax has proven himself. Invitations to his affairs are some of the most highly sought. There is not an MP in Parliament who doesn’t seek his favor the week before one of his wife’s soirees. You must do the same.”

Quint sat back slowly and his attention drifted to the window overlooking Ravensland’s lawns. Catherine, in one of her new pale muslin gowns, was a cloud of yellow and white among the green landscape as she meandered closer. Her dress was simple and pretty, her dark hair caught up in a knot on top of her head. Her face was peaceful, with a slight smile that hinted she knew a secret. He knew some of her secrets, too. He’d shared them with her last night.

She was beautiful and innocent, and no match for Lady Honoria and Fairfax. He’d seen her all but wilt when she was surrounded by people and noise. How would she ever host an affair?

“Is that your wife?” Meeps said, peering out the window closest to his chair.

“Yes. I’ll speak to her about the party. She can begin to plan it as soon as we return to London.”

But Meeps was still staring out the window. “She’s lovely. I don’t remember her seeming so lovely before.”

Quint steepled his hands. “When we return to London, we’ll make sure she is the admiration of the
ton
. No one will forget how lovely she is.”

Meeps looked at him. “And you think that’s possible?”