No Man's Bride

by Shana Galen

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “Your father—”

  “I won’t go back,” she said, her voice shaky but strong. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want this to happen, but I will not go back.”

  Quint frowned. “Then you knew?” he said. “You willingly took part in his plan.” He tamped down the burst of anger that threatened to flare up again. Now he knew the kind of woman he was dealing with.

  “No!” She stepped out of her corner, the words spoken so vehemently that he almost found her believable. “I had no choice. He-he—if I hadn’t gone along he would have…” She trailed off, and he watched her glance about his bedroom, then turn her gaze on him. Her hands tightened on the pile of silk bedclothes at her throat. He wondered if she realized they gaped at her side, showing him the curve of one honey-colored breast.

  He looked away. He didn’t want to feel lust for her right now. He was angry, so angry, and lust would only complicate the matter. He wanted to strangle her. How dare she deceive him like this? How dare she and that bastard father of hers do this to him and Elizabeth?

  She was speaking again, and he glanced at her, fury making her words hard to understand at first.

  “I don’t understand how this happened,” she was saying. Catherine gestured to the bed. “How did we end up here? I don’t remember—”

  “You were drugged,” Quint said without preamble. “Opium, as I’m sure you well know.”

  She closed her eyes. “The tea. He made me drink it before we left for the church.”

  He leaned forward in his chair and pounced. “So you were drugged, but that doesn’t change the fact that your name was on our marriage license. You stood with me in the church and said the vows.”

  “I didn’t want this,” she said, her voice a mere breath.

  “I don’t believe you.” He could see the shock on her face, but he didn’t care. “Tell me, why should I believe you? You all but seduced me the night of the betrothal ball.”

  She curled her lip, mirroring his own disgust. “You wanted to be seduced.”

  “Well, I didn’t want this marriage. I didn’t want you.”

  She flinched, then took a breath.

  “You’ve made your feelings for me plain. What are you going to do?” Her voice still shook when she spoke, but he wasn’t sure exactly what she was afraid of—the fact that she was naked in a room with a man or the threat of having to spend the rest of her life with said gentleman.

  “There’s nothing I can do.” He ran a hand through his hair again. Bloody hell, he wanted to kill that bastard Fullbright. But his anger was already smoldering, being replaced by something like despair. “I know of no escape.”

  “But we could get an annul—”

  He shook his head. “Annulment, divorce. Either choice leaves you a ruined woman. Where will you go? Your father will not take you back, and your family will be disgraced.”

  “I told you that I won’t go back.” The color had returned to her face now, and her hazel eyes were bright with anger. Even doomed as they were, he could appreciate her strong will. She took a step forward. “And I won’t accept this marriage.”

  Quint gave a bark of laughter. “Is that so? And just what do you propose we do, Miss Fullbright? There is no way out of this without causing a scandal. And not just a scandal that people will whisper about for a Season and then forget. If we even hint to the public that we were duped into this marriage, you and I will never recover.”

  He knew the words he spoke were true, knew the rational part of his mind was beginning to emerge, and yet the facts, logical as they were, were no easier to accept. With bile in his throat, he forced himself to go on.

  “We must use all of our skills to persuade the public that I changed my mind and intended to marry you all along.”

  “And who will believe that? What about the banns, the betrothal ball?”

  Valentine looked at her as though she were a simpleton. “People will believe what I tell them. I’ve built my reputation on honesty and integrity.” And made the mistake of believing others were the same. What a fool he’d been.

  Bedclothes still clenched tightly to her chin, she advanced on him. “So that’s what this is about. You are worried about your wretched career. Well, I couldn’t care less about your political advancement. I won’t be your wife. I’ll-I’ll run away.”

  “Oh, no you will not.” The little deceiver might have helped trick him into marriage, but she would not ruin his career, too. Quint stood and stared down at her, though she was not much shorter than he. “Do you think I want to be married to you? A woman who stands here and tells me she cares nothing for my entire life’s work? A woman who isn’t half as pretty or remotely as charming as her sister, and I am stuck with you for life? Life. Do you think that’s what I want?”

  She took a step back, but he caught her wrist.

  “Do not dare think I don’t know what you did, you little liar. But my hands—our hands—are tied. There is no way out. And I will not have you do anything rash that might jeopardize both our reputations. I need a partner, not a liability.”

  Catherine wrenched her wrist free of his hold and took two steps back. “You want a partner? Ha! You want a lapdog to follow you about and nod at your every pronouncement. I’m sorry I’m not the sweet, biddable wife you’d hoped to get, but I assure you Elizabeth would not have been so either.”

  “I suppose now I will never know. Damn it!” He slammed his hand down on the desk, angry at the situation, his own foolishness, and his loss of control. “Damn it all to hell. I don’t even know what to do with you.” He made a dismissive gesture. “I should just send you home. Let your father deal with you.” It was an idle threat, but her body tensed in immediate fear.

  “I won’t go. And if you even try—”

  “Don’t presume to tell me what you will or will not do. You’ll do what I say.” Quint couldn’t stop the words from spilling out of his mouth. He did not intend to speak them. He didn’t even mean them, but something about her defiance and the reckless look in her eyes set him spinning.

  “You pompous, self-centered bastard,” she spat. “You don’t have to worry about me. I won’t be your problem much longer.”

  She swept the train of the bedclothes over one arm, marched to the door, opened it, and stomped into the hallway.

  “Where the devil are you going now?” Quint said, following her. “You can’t walk about London dressed in a sheet.”

  “It’s not your concern,” she called over her shoulder, now descending the staircase that would lead to the entry hall. “Go back to your room and feel sorry for yourself.”

  Her voice began to fade, and he had to start down the first flight of stairs. He passed a maid who was staring after the woman dressed only in a bedsheet and who then goggled at him in his dressing robe.

  “I’m not going back to my room,” he said when he’d caught sight of her again. “And you are not leaving. Get back into that bedroom.”

  She’d reached the last three steps and descended them without even pausing. As she marched toward the front door, Quint’s butler rushed forward to open it for her.

  “Webster! Do not open that door!” Quint roared. Webster paused, but she breezed past the man.

  “Thank you anyway, Webster,” she said as though she’d known the man for years. “I can open it on my own.”

  Webster bowed, “Yes, madam.”

  Quint ran a hand through his hair and rushed down the last steps. “I order you to stop. Now! Elizabeth!”

  His new wife’s back went ramrod straight, like a stag who has been shot with a mortal arrow. She paused, hand on the doorknob. Quint held his breath, praying to God she’d reconsidered.

  She looked back. “My name is Catherine.” And she opened the door and walked into the London morning.

  Quint looked at his butler and then back at the line of servants peering down the hall and over the staircase. As one, they looked do
wn and proceeded to work diligently at their tasks.

  Quint grabbed the door and slammed it shut. Idiot woman! Let her go out there and make a fool of herself. This was exactly what he’d meant when he’d said he didn’t want her doing anything rash.

  From outside he heard a man yell, and then there was a crash, and Quint shut his eyes. Dear God, the woman was already stopping traffic. Quint pulled the door open again, saw his wife strolling, head high, shoulders bare, sheets pulled up to her ears down the walk in front of his house. He whipped back to his servants. “Fetch my boots and my horse.” They gawked at him. “Now!”

  Quint went after her. It had taken more time than he liked to fetch the horse from the mews and to saddle the beast, but Quint had used the minutes to tug on the pants he’d worn the day before. Unfortunately, the quick search of his room had not uncovered Catherine’s clothing.

  Quint spurred his horse forward, following the trail of surprised and whispering people Catherine had left in her wake. He saw her a moment later, and he thanked God it was early enough that most Londoners were still abed. She could have been hurt or accosted by now.

  “Catherine!” he yelled, galloping up beside her.

  She barely glanced at him. “I see you remember my name.”

  He tightened his grip on the reins to stop himself from snatching her right then. “It was a small mistake. And an understandable one.”

  “I see.” She marched on.

  He decided to try reasoning with her. “Catherine, I know you’re upset right now, but you have to come home.”

  “I have no home,” she said, and he could have sworn she increased her pace.

  “I meant come to my home. Just for now. Temporarily. Until we sort all of this out.” Quint looked ahead, trying to determine where she might be headed. As he did so, he saw the Secretary of the Navy’s coach approaching. He ducked his head as the secretary peered out the window at him.

  Catherine did not even notice. “I don’t think so.”

  Quint was becoming desperate. Another block, and they would reach the heart of Mayfair. Not to mention, it was later than he’d first thought. The streets were already beginning to crowd. He tried one last attempt at reason. “Catherine, I’m going to ask one more time.” He spurred his horse forward so that it blocked her path. “I’m begging you,” he said, choking on the words as though they were poison. “Please turn back.”

  She barely glanced up at him, stepped to the right, and walked straight by the horse, dragging the bedsheets in the dirt after her.

  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.

  Chapter 9

  Catherine 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.