No Man's Bride (8 page)

That was it. Quint was a reasonable man, but he had his limits. The moment she was on his opposite side, he leaned down, caught her by the arm, and swept her over the horse on her belly in front of him.

As he expected, she did not go willingly, she fought him, losing a good portion of the bedclothes in the process, but he was able to throw one sheet over her. Then it was just a matter of holding her down and starting for home.

The horse he rode was a gentle mare, and Quint thanked God for that blessing. He could not have controlled a nervous horse and held on to Catherine. He had one arm clamped firmly on her bottom, which stuck up on one side. Her head hung down on the other, her long black hair trailing on the ground.

“Let go of me!” She squirmed and swiped at him before grabbing on to his leg again for fear of falling.

“Hold on, you silly chit. We’re almost there.”

That statement only elicited another round of squirming and fighting until he finally grabbed her around the waist and yelled, “Unless you want me to lift this sheet, and swat your bare bottom right here, sit still!”

Fortunately, that did the trick. She stopped fighting and lay stiffly on the horse’s back. Unfortunately, he’d yelled the threat at the top of his voice, and people on the street were now staring at him. Not that they hadn’t been before, but somehow he’d attracted a crowd following him, and as soon as he turned up to his town house, the whole city would have his name on its lips.

Quint decided there were two ways to deal with the situation. One, he could cringe, run, and hide inside the house.

Two, he could make the best of it. People would talk no matter what, but his actions might influence what they said.

At his front walk, he slowed his horse and tossed the reins to one of his footmen. Then, with a wave to the crowd, he gathered Catherine and her sheet up. He pulled her off the horse, tossed her over his shoulder, and, smiling, marched into the house.

C
atherine closed her eyes. All the blood was rushing to her head, and she felt so dizzy she could not have protested had she wanted to. The horrible
politician
bounced her into the house and up the stairs. Catherine was almost glad she had not eaten anything in two days. If she had, she would surely have lost it.

Finally, he ceased jouncing her up flights of stairs, and she opened one eye to see the red carpets of the second-floor hallway. He was taking her back to the bedroom. This was it. Now, he would beat her and rape her. After the way she’d acted, she knew she had it coming.

But instead of opening the last door of the hallway, the one she knew led to his room, he stopped
short and walked into another room. This one was done in pastels, all muted blues and lavenders. At least she thought it was before her world spun violently, and she was dropped unceremoniously on a bed.

Immediately, she curled into a protective ball, covering her face and head. But she also fisted her hands. He might get in the first blow, but he wouldn’t have the chance at another.

Nothing happened. Catherine cracked one eye open.

Valentine was standing over her, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. “Sorry I had to do that.”

Catherine frowned and opened both eyes. He was
apologizing
?

“I warned you not to act rash—”

“Bastard!” she spat the word, hoping it would goad him to action. Why did he not just hit her and get it over with? She was ready to fight now.

“Ah, good. You’re feeling better already. Splendid.”

Catherine uncoiled and sat up. What was wrong with this man? She insulted him, and his retort was “splendid”?

He was backing toward the door now. “I’m going to have to lock the door, but I promise to send a tray of food.”

Catherine’s indignation shot her to her knees. “Don’t you dare lock me in, Valentine. I’m not staying here.”

He was already at the door. She scrambled off the bed, barely managing to preserve her modesty with the sheet.

“It’s only until you calm down, and we can talk rationally.”

“I don’t want to talk rationally!” she said. “I want out of this marriage.”

“So do I!” And he closed the door, locking it, just as she reached it and began pounding. But it was no use. The door was locked, and she was imprisoned. She went back to the bed and tried to comprehend what had just happened. She had awakened beside him, naked. They had obviously been sleeping together for some time, and yet, he had not raped her. She would have known if he had forced himself on her. Perhaps the opium had incapacitated him so much that he had not been able to take her? More likely, he found her so repulsive that he did not want her.

And then she had argued with him, fought with him, and stormed out of his house. He must have been furious. He’d gone after her, and yet, when he had her back, he didn’t beat her. Not even when she insulted him further.

She didn’t understand this man. He was not acting at all like her father would have.

Suddenly, her door was hastily opened, a covered tray shoved inside, then it was closed and locked again.

Perfect beginning. Now the servants were afraid of her.

She wandered over to the tray, lifted the linen napkin, and stared. Wonder of wonders, Valentine had kept his word and sent the food. What was wrong with this man? Why was he being so nice? Did he not realize that she didn’t deserve the food? She had been defiant and rude. Shouldn’t she be punished?

She peered at the food again. Perhaps there was some punishment in it. Perhaps it was poisoned and would make her violently ill.

She ate a piece of cheese and some bread, drank a half glass of wine, waited, but nothing happened. Catherine sat back on the bed and slowly the thought occurred to her that Valentine was not punishing her at all. In fact, he was not going to punish her.

Was it possible Valentine was a man like her uncle William, kind and even-tempered?

No, she would not let her guard down yet. It might be a trick, a ploy to lull her into complacency.

Catherine finished her meal and lay back on the bed, surveying her surroundings. If she had to be imprisoned, this was a nice enough jail. The room was small but the space well used. There were two windows, both draped with a lightweight lilac material. They seemed to overlook a small badly tended garden in the rear of the house.

The furniture was heavy but not overbearing. She allowed her gaze to rove over the tall
kingwood-and-tulipwood armoire in one corner. It was a beautiful piece, decorated with parquetry and ormolu mounts. Across from the brass bed where she lay, sat a beautiful combination writing desk and dressing table, also in tulipwood and also with extensive ormolu. The last piece was a washstand with a tile-paneled splash-back. She stood and went to washstand, pleased to find the pitcher was full of cool water. She poured about half into the washbowl and rinsed her face, then crossed to the lovely armoire, hoping inside there might be some article of clothing she could wear.

But the three inner shelves were empty except for extra linens and a stack of lace handkerchiefs. They were embroidered, and Catherine lifted one and stared at it. In the corner, the initials EV were embroidered in script.

Catherine dropped the handkerchief. Elizabeth Valentine. This room, these handkerchiefs, were meant to be Elizabeth’s. Catherine put her face in her hands.

She was doomed. She knew that now. She was married, and no matter how much she wanted Valentine to find a way out of the union, she knew in her heart it was nigh impossible. He’d talked of scandal, and he was right. The scandal would ruin her reputation and his career.

She cared little for herself, but she knew he would protect his career above all else.

So what now? He didn’t like her; he didn’t even
trust her. He thought she’d planned this bride swap. He certainly didn’t love her. It seemed to her that a marriage without love was the worst sort of prison, especially when one partner loved another. Valentine had called her Elizabeth. He obviously loved her sister. And Lord knew Catherine was nothing like her sister.

How fitting that Catherine should be forced into marriage with a man who would spend all his days pining for her horrible, spoiled sister. Elizabeth didn’t begin to deserve this man. Not that Catherine did. If he was really as kind as he seemed—and that was just preposterous; it had to be a ruse—then Catherine knew she could never deserve him.

If she ever got out of here, she would find a way to make her father pay for this. How could anyone treat others’ lives so carelessly? How could he trick a man into marriage and condemn his own daughter to a lifetime of misery?

And what of her sister? Catherine was under no illusion that Elizabeth loved Valentine. The girl loved no one but herself. But to have the man you were betrothed to taken away, capriciously given to another, and be made a fool of before all Society.

Did her father realize what he’d done? Did he even care?

And how could he possibly get away with this? Valentine had said her name was on the license and she’d said the vows, but what of the banns,
the engagement announcement, and the betrothal ball? Surely Society would notice that one sister had been substituted for the other. Valentine was so worried about sullying his reputation, but Catherine could not but believe they were already the favorite topic of the
ton
.

Not that she cared one jot for the
ton
. She had more important concerns. Her face flamed when she thought of her behavior this morning. What had she been thinking, marching through the streets in nothing but a sheet?

She could never have imagined doing anything so reckless in all her life, but something inside her had snapped when Valentine had threatened to send her home. Terror had overridden reason, and she had indeed behaved rashly, as Valentine suggested. But what did he know of rationality? Valentine had not been pulled out of a sound sleep and sold to a leering thug for less than the cost of employing a housekeeper.

She would not go home, and the more she thought about it, the more she realized that she could not allow Valentine to end the marriage. If he did so, she would have no choice but to live on the street. That, or run to her uncle William’s. She wiped a trickle of wetness from her cheek. Oh, what did it matter? She’d run before, and her father always found her. He always got her back. If she left Valentine, her father would get to her. He would sell her again or worse…

Valentine, with his excessive worry about
scandal and his reputation, was nothing compared to her father. Why, the earl had not even struck her after her behavior this morning. She’d been impudent and insulting, and the man had done nothing but apologize. He hadn’t laid a hand on her. Yet.

She did not want to be married. She did not want to be some man’s wife—subject to his whims and his fists and his anger. But what if her marriage had actually relieved her of that life? What if this marriage to Valentine had saved her from the whims of another man, even worse than the man she called husband?

She stared at the shadows on the ceiling and considered. She might be wrong about Valentine. After all, hadn’t she always said that the devil you knew was better than the devil you didn’t? But what if Valentine was her one escape from her father?

But even this revelation did not relieve the trapped feeling in her chest. What would Valentine do with her now that she was his? What if she had misjudged him and, given time, he was no better than her father?

One thing was clear to her. She might be his wife in name, but she would not be his wife in truth. She would not share his bed or his life. As long as she was here in London, she still had her cousins, her only friends. She could run to them for protection, if only temporarily.

Sometime later there was a knock on the bed
room door. Catherine had fashioned a sort of toga from the sheets, and now she checked that it was secure.

“Miss Fullbright?”

It was Valentine. She pulled the knot at one shoulder tighter. “What do you want?” Now, he would beat her.

“May I come in?”

He was asking permission? What kind of trickery was this? She tried to forestall him. “Do you have my clothes?”

“I’m not going to stand in the hallway and yell through the door. I’m coming in.”

She heard the sound of the lock turning, and Valentine poked his head in. He peered about the room, obviously worried she’d gone on a rampage and destroyed it, then he peered at her. Catherine crossed her arms over her chest and felt her cheeks explode with heat. Now that she saw him again, her earlier escape seemed even more childish. Had she actually thought that stomping into the street wearing nothing but this sheet would solve anything?

And then he stepped into the room, and she had the impulse to run away again. Not just because she was afraid he would hurt her. The sight of him, even now that he was fully clothed, reminded her of his nakedness this morning. She hadn’t meant to reveal anything when she’d pulled the bedclothes off him. She had not meant to see the expanse of his chest, lightly furred with
dark hair. She had not meant to see his bronze arms, hard and muscular. She had not meant to see those long, lean legs or to look when he’d risen to catch a glimpse of his small, tight bottom. And she had especially not meant to see that part of him that made him unquestionably male. Had he been sleeping beside her all night with it hard and ready for battle?

She shrank back from him. Was it hard now? Was he ready to use it on her?

“I’ve come with gifts,” he said.

Catherine paused and blinked. Gifts? Had she heard him correctly? Why was he bringing her gifts?

He held out a piece of cloth to her, and when she did not take it, he shook the robe open. “I can have clothes ordered, but perhaps this will do until that’s been accomplished.”

Catherine stared at the robe. She didn’t understand this man. She understood his words, but not the reasons behind them. Why was he being so kind? Where was the trap in this?

“This is very kind of you,” she said finally, taking the robe. She would have to wait until he left to put it on, and without stays or a shift, she would still be far from proper, but it was better than the thin sheet. She wondered how far his kindness extended. “Am I still a prisoner?”

“That depends on you.” Valentine eyed her directly, his gaze assessing. “Have you given up your rash ideas and begun to see logic?”

Catherine crossed her arms. Why did men always think they were the only sex capable of rational thought? “If you mean am I going to attempt to escape in only my sheet again, the answer is no. But I will not go home. I know you wish to be rid of me, but I would go to the Americas before I return to my family.”

“I understand.”

She raised her brows. She did not think he could possibly understand all her father was capable of, nor did she think he understood what she was telling him. She was now, for better or worse, his wife.

“Would you feel better if I said that I have written several letters, discreet inquiries to my friends, asking their advice on the situation?”

That did not make her feel better, not at all. What could other men know of her situation? Mightn’t they all simply tell Valentine to send her home? If that were to happen, she would need to prepare to escape first, so she said cautiously, “And you will share their replies when they arrive?”

She could tell by his scowl that he didn’t like that request. How like a man to use knowledge to make himself feel powerful. But to her surprise, Valentine nodded. “I will share them. For now, will you do me the honor of dining with me for dinner?”

“Do you the honor—? A few hours ago, you called me a liar and looked as though you could
have cheerfully strangled me. Now you want to dine with me?”

He cleared his throat. “I am not happy with our circumstances. I am not happy about what you did—”

“I told you, it was my—”

He held up a hand. “Nevertheless, I am trying to be reasonable. There are several matters I wish to discuss with you—matters I think better dealt with now than later.”