“Yes,” she hissed, tossing her head back. “I will. If this is the only way I can be free of you than I shall do it, but I will take no pleasure from the act.”
“That is fine. I shall take enough for the both of us,” he said crudely.
Her fingers balled into tiny fists of anger. Fighting to school the flurry of emotions that struggled to run rampant across her face, she took a deep breath. “But I have one condition. If after two months I have no conceived, you will agree to a divorce.”
“That is not the agreement I offered.”
“No, but it is the only one I shall give.” Catherine drew herself to her full height and stared at him without blinking, drawing strength from the idea that in two months she would be free from Marcus forever. She was not concerned an actual child would come of their intimacy; if she had not conceived before she would hardly do so now. Why, one of her closest friends had been trying for a child for years without success. It was not an ideal situation, being forced to lie beneath her husband again, but it was something she would gladly suffer through if it meant being granted her independence.
“One year,” said Marcus.
“Two months,” Catherine countered swiftly.
“Six months.”
“One.”
“Fine,” he grumbled. “Two it is.”
She hid her smile behind a cupped hand.
Marcus scowled. “Go clean yourself up and change out of that filthy dress,” he said. “I do not want mud on my sheets.”
Catherine’s smile vanished. “Y-you want to sleep together t-tonight?” she stuttered. She felt the blood drain from her cheeks, along with her carefully constructed layers of control.
Marcus gave a negligent shrug. “Why not? If I only have two months, there is no point in wasting time.”
“N-no, I suppose not,” she murmured. It had been over three years since she had been to Woodsgate, but she remembered the way to the master bedroom as if their honeymoon had been yesterday. Holding her spine so stiff she feared it might crack, she gathered up her damp skirts, turned on her heel, and ascended the stairs without looking back.
Chapter Four
Marcus watched Catherine’s proud retreat up the stairs. His eyes lingered on the shapely curve of her backside, and he wondered if she knew how closely her damp dress had clung to her breasts or how much it had aroused him. Straightening, he returned to the bar to pour one more glass of scotch. The clear glass bounced his brooding reflection back at him as he contemplated the sharp, unexpected turn his life had just taken. In a few short moments he would lay next to his wife on the bed where they had first made love. Where he had whispered naughty words in her ear that had made her blush and she had come beneath him amidst cries of ecstasy. Where his love for her had pulsed through him like a drug, and his every thought had been only of her. He remembered every second, every moment, and every breath taken in that bed. It had been his heaven before he had fallen into hell.
Marcus knew Catherine believed he had been with other women since their marriage bed had gone cold, but unlike his peers who openly boasted of their conquests and eagerly looked for more, Marcus had always remained celibate. If he could not have his wife he wanted no woman at all, for they would only be able to provide a shallow comparison to the pleasure he had found in Catherine’s arms.
How many other men had experienced that same pleasure? How many had tasted the sweet nectar of her lips or grazed their fingertips across the smooth silk of her thigh? How many had touched which was only his by right to touch? On a searing oath Marcus shoved the foul thoughts from his mind. He ran a hand through his hair, pulling the dark curls away from his forehead in a gesture of agitation Catherine would have recognized all too well had she seen it.
For a fleeting moment he considered finishing the rest of the scotch and passing out next to the fireplace, but idea was quickly dispelled. No, his sweet wife would not spend one more night without him beside her. He was finally going to get what he wanted: for Catherine to pay the consequences of her unforgivable betrayal.
Marcus’ legs felt wooden as he walked up the stairs. He took his time getting ready in the spare bedroom across the hall, taking dark satisfaction in the thought that Catherine was most likely huddled in the middle of his bed growing more and more anxious with every passing second he did not appear.
He slipped his shirt over his head in one fell swoop and kicked his riding boots into the corner. Dressed only in a worn pair of breeches that hugged his hips and made no secret of his bulging arousal, he crossed the hall and stepped into the master bedroom.
The room was dark save a single candle flickering on a small side table. It illuminated everything in a soft glow, and Marcus could just make out a faint shape beneath the covers. As he approached the shape moved and shifted, and Catherine’s head emerged from beneath the thick yellow quilt.
“You took so long I thought you had passed out downstairs,” she said scathingly. The annoyance in her eyes told him that was exactly what she had been hoping for and Marcus could not stop the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.
Had he truly thought his wife would be waiting for him trembling in fear? Catherine may have been many things, but a coward was not among them. She would fight him tooth and nail before she gave one inch and God help him he would not have it any other way.
“I am looking forward to seeing how much you have learned in the ways of pleasing a man. You were quite inexperienced before,” he said. Bracing one knee against the mattress he leaned forward and spread his hands evenly across the quilt, the perfect position for pouncing.
Catherine hissed at him like a scalded cat before she drew the sheets up to her chin. “Surely your red haired whore has kept you well satisfied.”
“There has been no one since you, Catherine,” he said evenly.
She snorted. “As if I am to believe that?”
He shrugged. “Believe what you like.”
Her eyes shot daggers at him as he reared back to slowly and deliberately untie the laces on his breeches. Once undone they slithered down his bare legs and he stepped out of them to stand perfectly still, allowing his wife to look her fill. She kept her gaze pinned on his face, but the flush in her cheeks told him she was quite aware of the changes occurring to his body well below his nose and mouth. A hard, mirthless smile captured his lips as he slid onto the bed with the calculated grace of a lion closing in on its prey. Catherine tried to squirm to the far edge of the bed and take the blankets with her, but he caught the quilt with one fist and drew it back with a flourish that left her gasping with indignation.
“Surely you are no longer shy? Or perhaps the men you have been sleeping with enjoy your virgin and vapors routine,” he mocked, even as his eyes feasted on every inch of her delicious body. She had stripped down to one very thin, very damp chemise before getting into the bed. The flimsy garment hugged every curve like a second skin and beneath his hungry stare her nipples puckered. A chuckle rose from low in his throat when she crossed her arms over her chest and glowered at him.
“Just get it over with,” she snapped, but Marcus slowly shook his head and inched closer until she was trapped in a cage of his making, her body rigid beneath his, her sapphire eyes wide and luminous.
“No,” he said softly. “I won’t make it that easy for you.” Dipping his head he nipped the spot where he knew her to be the most sensitive – that little appetizer of flesh between her neck and shoulder – and she trembled. His breath caught in response and he aggressively sought her mouth, pushing his lips to hers with an ardent fervor that betrayed his desperate longing.
But instead of softening and yielding beneath his assault she remained stiff as a board, her teeth clenched and her eyes pinched tightly closed.
“Open your mouth,” he snarled.
She shook her head.
“Damn it Catherine, do not play games with me,” he warned. And then, in a voice that had gone ominously soft, “You will not like what happ
ens.” His hand dipped between them to cup her breast over her chemise and his thumb began to draw slow, tantalizing circles around her nipple.
She gasped, arching into his touch, and with a growl of triumph he claimed her mouth. Still she fought him, refusing to yield completely until he had nibbled and licked every inch of her soft lips. On a moan those lips parted and his tongue dived into the dark recesses of her mouth, tasting her as she was meant to be tasted. She kissed him back, tentative at first, then with as much hunger as he, gasping and sighing and whimpering into his open mouth. More. He had to have more.
With a herculean effort Marcus tore his mouth away to pull impatiently at her chemise, tugging at the delicate silk with his fingers and then his teeth until the fabric peeled away to reveal her breasts.
“You are as beautiful as I remember,” he said huskily as his gaze swept down across her ivory skin, taking in the dusky rose of her nipples and the faint blush that colored her chest.
Catherine peered up at him shyly, worrying her bottom lip in a gesture that was both sweet and incredibly erotic.
“Marcus?” she whispered.
“Yes, sweet?”
“Do you think… you think you could kiss me again?
With a laughing groan he dipped his head and captured her mouth in a searing kiss that left them both breathless and yearning for something neither of them would admit to. Trailing his mouth inch by wicked inch down the delicate curve of her neck, he paused to nibble here and there, until his teeth grazed her left nipple and he drew it into his mouth, suckling with wild abandon. She arched beneath him and cried out, her fingers clutching at his hair and then scratching down his back in cat like strokes that left his skin tingling.
His mouth went lower, to the edge of her chemise, and then lower still as he used his nimble fingers to pull the damp silk from her flushed skin and expose her fully. She was perfect, from the sweet swell of her breasts to the shapely curve of her thighs. He drank her in, first with his eyes and then with his lips. She tried to close her legs and twist to side when his breath fanned across the most intimate part of her, but he stilled her anxious movements by pinning her slender hips to the bed.
“Let me,” he said hoarsely. “Just let me, Cat.”
She went limp in surrender, and then cried out in wonder when his tongue snaked through her soft curls to lap at the heart of her womanhood. He licked, nibbled, kissed, and sighed until she was writhing helplessly beneath him and, on a gasping sob, came into his mouth.
He could take it no more. A possessive growl rumbled low in his throat as he shot up the length of her to push breast to breast, belly to belly, thigh to thigh. When he nudged inside of her she welcomed him with arms that clung and lips that cried his name, and the rhythm that quickened between their two bodies before they plunged together off the edge into swirling nothingness was as effortless as it was heartbreakingly familiar.
When Catherine woke the next morning she was alone. For a few precious minutes she remained still, staring up at the wood beam and plaster ceiling while her body languished and her mind scrambled to catch up. What had she done? She had slept with her husband again, that’s what she had done. And heaven help her, she had enjoyed it. No, she corrected herself as her lips parted on a helpless sigh. Not just enjoyed. Relished. Wallowed. Loved.
She loved Marcus.
Muttering one of her husband’s favorite curse words under her breath, Catherine swung out of the rumpled bed and began searching for her discarded clothes. She loathed the idea of putting on her dirty chemise and the even dirtier traveling dress, but unless Marcus had gone to fetch her things while she slept…
“Oh my,” she said in wonder as her eyes fell upon three very familiar trunks stacked neatly side by side next to a heavy walnut armoire that had been a wedding present from some distant relation now long forgotten.
Heedless of her nakedness, Catherine flew across the room and knelt in front of the largest trunk. It opened easily beneath her prying fingers and her gasp was one of pure delight as the open lid revealed layers upon layers of soft clean chemises, freshly darned stockings, and smartly pressed bonnets. The next trunk held her dresses and the last one her considerable shoe collection. And Hannah told me I over packed, Catherine scoffed. There was, in her mind, no possibility of ever over packing anything.
Selecting a pale yellow walking dress whose simplicity would make it possible to put on without assistance, she dressed herself quickly and efficiently, forgoing the usual layers of undergarments for a simple ivory chemise and matching stockings.
Her hopelessly tangled hair posed a bit of a problem which Catherine solved by ruthlessly tearing a silk ribbon from one of her bonnets and using it to tie her wild curls in a simple tail. It was not the neat and tidy chignon she was accustomed too, but it would have to do. Her cheeks received their usual pinch to bring color to her otherwise pale complexion, and with that she was ready to face her husband.
She found Marcus in the kitchen sitting at the table, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his arms resting idly next to a bowl of half eaten porridge. He looked up when she entered the room and his eyebrows pinched together to form an ominous V over the bridge of his nose.
“Hello,” Catherine said, smiling hesitantly. Butterflies danced in her stomach and her skin felt unnaturally warm as she recalled in blushing detail what Marcus had done to her last night… How his lips had touched her and suckled her. How his fingers had known just the right spots to please. How delicious it had felt to have his body slide over hers and his –
“What do you want?” he asked curtly.
Instantly her butterflies disintegrated into one tight knot of despair and Catherine brutally shoved any errant thoughts of their lovemaking from her mind. It was clear her husband did not share her tender sentiments, and why should he? Was she such a fool that she believed one night of heaven would free them from hell? Marcus wanted nothing from her save an heir, and she could not afford to lose control of her tightly bottled emotions now, not when she was so close to being free of him.
Lifting her chin she clasped her hands in front of her waist and fixed him with a haughty stare. “I was going to thank you for retrieving my trunks, but now I am not.”
“Oh you’re not, are you?” he asked.
Was it her imagination or was he fighting back a smile? She frowned. Marcus did not smile, or laugh, or take joy in anything beyond his bloody ledgers. The man she had fallen in love with was gone and no amount of hoping would make it otherwise. Hadn’t she learned that the hard way? Remain aloof, she reminded herself sternly. Do not allow yourself to care. If you care, he can hurt you and you cannot stand to be hurt anymore.
“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 –”
A Brooding Beauty Page 3
