No Man's Bride

by Shana Galen

  Quint shook his head. Meeps had difficulty remembering anything that did not have to do with politics or affairs of state. The man could recite legislation and political speeches verbatim, but he did not recall the name of Quint’s estate or that of his betrothed. “Yes, Mr. Meeps.” Quint began sorting again. “I married yesterday morning. Surely there was something about it in the paper. I confess I have not had a moment to look at it. Have you?”

  “No, my lord. Too much happening in your offices right now. But I have the Times right here.” He extracted the newspaper from the bottom third of his stack. “Would you like me to look for a relevant article?”

  “By all means.” While Meeps clucked over the news, Quint read and signed and replied to the various correspondence before him. He’d just finished his pile and started on the mountain before his assistant, when Meeps let out a small cry.

  Quint looked up, pen in hand. “You’ve found something?”

  “Yes, my lord. It’s not on the first page, but it’s prevalent enough. Here, my lord.” He handed the paper over, and Quint read silently.

  The piece was not good, but it might have been worse. Much of it was devoted to relating the antics of Catherine and her three cousins, though the article referred to the most recent events as rumor. What was not rumor was the marriage between Catherine and Valentine, and the paper made much of the betrothal ball for the younger Miss Fullbright and speculated as to how Miss Catherine Fullbright had stolen her sister’s fiancé away.

  Quint threw it down in disgust. There was no longer any question in his mind that he and Catherine would have to leave for the country tomorrow. He might have been willing to give her a day or so to become accustomed to the idea, but no more. If they stayed in Town, they would only create more talk. They could return in a few weeks, when interest in their marriage had waned.

  “Meeps,” Quint said, rising and ringing for his butler. “I am afraid you will have to do without me for a bit longer. I find I am required at my estate in Hertfordshire.”

  Webster entered, and Quint handed him the newspaper with the offending article faceup. Then he scrawled a note to Catherine, instructing her to be ready to leave at first light. “Take this to my…wife. Thank you, Webster.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Meeps was shaking his head. “Sir, you will do what you must, but I cannot support a trip to the country at this time. You need to be in the city, now more than ever.”

  Quint gathered up a new pile of documents and began flipping through them. “I will keep abreast of things in the country. If anything truly pressing arises, I am not so far from London.”

  “Yes, but you do not know the latest news.” Meeps lowered his voice, and Quint looked up. “We had discussed the possibility of an undersecretary position.”

  Quint nodded. “What of it?” After his last victory in the House, he was expecting the appointment. Leaving Town should not affect it one way or the other.

  “I have heard rumors, sir.” Meeps’s voice became even softer. “That the prime minister was so impressed with the work you did on the Valentine-Cheswick Reform Act that he is now talking of offering you a position in the Cabinet.”

  Quint stared at his assistant for the space of five heartbeats. The news was too overwhelming for him to accept all at once. It took those five heartbeats to allow it all to sink in. “Bloody hell!” He jumped to his feet and slapped Meeps on the back. “Bloody hell! We did it!” With another whoop, he descended on the decanter of his best brandy and poured two overflowing snifters.

  After the first few sips, Quint lit a cheroot and savored it. “And what about Fairfax?” Quint asked, referring to his rival.

  Meeps raised his glass again. “No mention of the man. Not yet at any rate.”

  With a smile, Quint filled their glasses again and watched Meeps drain his. Quint did not remember ever having seen Meeps drink before, but the man was keeping pace with him.

  “And I propose another toats—er, toast!” Meeps said. “All hail the—”

  Quint looked up and saw Catherine standing in the doorway, his letter in hand.

  “Catherine!” He slammed the snifter down, feeling like a naughty child. “I mean, Miss-Lady Valentine. Meet my assistant, Harold Meeps.”

  She nodded at him. “Mr. Meeps.”

  Meeps held his glass aloft, toasting her. “To you, madam. Many haspy—I mean, happy—years together.”

  “Thank you. Do you think you might give me a moment alone with my”—she swallowed and cleared her throat—“my husband?”

  “Certainly.”

  When Meeps was gone, Quint’s wife turned her golden hazel stare on full force. “Do you often smoke, sir?”

  Quint stared at his cheroot, taken by surprise. Had she come all the way downstairs to complain about his smoking? He put the cheroot out. “I have had good news. But if my smoking bothers you, I—”

  “May I ask the meaning of this note?” She held up the paper he had scrawled a message on and sent with the Times. He noted that her hands were shaking, but if she was afraid of confronting him, that was her only tell.

  “It means we will be leaving for the country posthaste. You did read the article?” He sipped from his glass again.

  She straightened her shoulders, and he saw that amber cast in her eyes again. Bloody hell. The woman had been thinking, most likely preparing her arguments. Quint was tired of arguing. Could he not have even a small measure of peace in his own home? “And don’t argue,” he added before she could speak. “You’re going.”

  “Am I? Lord Valentine, I am no child of seventeen. I am a woman of twenty.”

  “I am well aware of that fact.”

  “And I have been thinking.”

  Quint clenched his hands. It was just as he’d thought.

  “I’ve been bul—ordered about all my life, and I have had enough. I will no longer tolerate overbearing men telling me what to do.”

  Quint set his glass down very slowly. He liked to do things slowly when he was angry; that way he kept his emotions controlled. “I am not overbearing. You are irrational.”

  She blinked and said through clenched teeth, “I do not want to argue with you. Go to the country, if you will, but I stay here.”

  Quint took three deep breaths, trying hard as hell not to be overbearing. It was damned hard when the chit was so frustrating. “You will not stay here. We leave for the country at first light.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she balled up the note he had written.

  “Is that your idea of a rebellion?”

  “Is this your idea of marriage?” She threw the paper at him, and it hit him in the chest. “I won’t be dictated to or ordered about.”

  “Then be reasonable.” He picked up the paper from the floor where it had landed and placed it carefully on the desk. Then he moved slowly around the desk until he stood before her. She took a shaky breath and moved to put distance between them. “Do not make me force you to go.”

  “That’s all you men know, isn’t it? Force and brutality.”

  “Good God. If you knew me better, you’d know how ridiculous these statements are.”

  “If you knew me better—”

  “I intend to get to know you better. In the

  country.”

  She flinched back from his raised voice, and he paused, allowing her nerves to settle again before he spoke.

  “Catherine,” he said quietly, “until such time as you understand the political workings of this country as well as I, you will have to trust me to do what’s right for us both.”

  “For us both?”

  He could see now that her anger had overridden her fear. Her eyes blazed with golden fury.

  “This has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with your all-consuming career. You think I didn’t hear you toasting when I came down?” As she spoke, she backed away from him, holding one hand out defensively. But she was obviously intent on saying her piece. “You’re so worried your petty care
er will be hurt by your marriage to me, you can’t wait to hide me away rather than be seen with me.”

  Quint stared at her. “Where the devil did you get that idea? But while we’re on the subject, you must admit you are not exactly the ideal political hostess at present. Stay in Town, and you will be forced to attend social events as well as to host them.”

  “And you don’t think I can?” She halted, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “No, I don’t. Putting aside for a moment the fact that you have no clothing, have you forgotten the episode at the betrothal ball? You were terrified of the crowds and the noise. I had to escort you outside so you did not faint.”

  “I-I only wanted to get you outside to warn you about marrying Elizabeth.”

  Quint arched a brow. “I saw your color, Miss Fullbright, and you’re either a very good actress, or you were very scared. All you have done now is verify to me that not only are you afraid of social settings, but you can be manipulative as well. Which is all the more reason for me to take you to the country.”

  “And do what with me? I won’t be locked up. I’d-I’d rather die. You can’t lock me up!” And with that she swung toward the door and pulled on the knob. But she was shaking so badly she could not open it, and the more she pulled, the more she shook. Quint came up behind her, hands hovering over her arms, but he did not know what to do. He was afraid if he touched her, she would only become more upset.

  Finally, he reached out and covered her hand with his. She jumped and froze, but he only helped her turn the knob. As soon as the door had opened, she shot out, like a cat from a bath of water. He heard her feet on the stairs, and her bedroom door slam closed.

  Quint went back to his desk, lifted his glass, and poured a somewhat less-celebratory brandy. He had to do something, or this disaster would turn into an all-out catastrophe. He had several points to consider, and he did so, glass of brandy firmly in hand.

  Point one: He did not trust his new wife, but the closer he got to her, the better he would know her true character.

  Point two: If he was stuck in this marriage— and he didn’t see a way out without admitting to the country at large that England’s political star had been duped into marriage—so if he was stuck, he wanted a wife he could mold into the perfect political hostess.

  He needed her trust for that, and he knew few women were able to distinguish the physical from the emotional. When he had her physically, he would have her emotionally as well.

  He might not ever trust her, he might not ever come to terms with that she’d done, but he would know her. He would know what to expect from her and of what she was capable. What if he was wrong—unlikely but possible—and she was blameless in this farce of a marriage? Could Edmund Fullbright have done it all on his own?

  Quint didn’t know, but he wanted to get close to Catherine and find out.

  With that objective in mind, Quint pulled out a clean sheet of a paper and wrote an express post that would seal his fate. And this marriage.

  Chapter 11

  Catherine knew she had lost the battle. Overbearing politician! She was going to have to go to the country with him, and she’d rather go by choice than by force. But that did not mean she would let her guard down, not even for a second. She did not trust or understand this man. She could not predict his actions. Was all of his kind behavior merely a ploy? What would happen when he had her in the country? There she would be at his mercy. He could have his way with her and lock her up if she did not please him.

  Then again, perhaps he was right. Was she overreacting? He had been nothing but kind…albeit, a bit domineering. But he had not raised a hand to her and—

  She heard a sound from his room and held her breath, listening. Though she’d placed a chair under the knob of the main door and pulled the dressing table in front of the dressing-room door, she was still terrified he would break in. She listened for a long time and when all was silent, she breathed again.

  Lord, what was she going to do? Of all the men she might have married, only royalty would have been worse. She knew the role of a politician’s wife. They hosted parties, they attended parties, they went everywhere and knew everyone. Catherine’s chest tightened just thinking about it.

  She was so stupid, so inept. How could she ever hope to fit in among those women? And she knew nothing about politics. Her father had made fun of her whenever he caught her reading, and politics were never discussed at home. She’d been told to shut up and mind her own business when she’d asked about political items she’d read from the papers at Maddie’s house.

  The little she did know was from listening to Maddie’s father talk, but those discussions were infrequent and usually brief.

  Now Valentine expected her to impress all of London and further his career with her social finesse. Surely she would fail, and then he’d want to be rid of her. He’d lock her in a small, dark attic, and she’d never be free. She could not allow that to happen.

  And yet, how could she prevent it? She would have to go along, travel to the country with him, tolerate him for now.

  Until she found an escape.

  Catherine was in a boat, rocking from side to side, the waves pushing the vessel this way, then back again. It was cool and dark on the boat, and it smelled clean and fresh, like oak trees and pipe smoke. She wondered vaguely if she were on Josie’s ship. Had Josie finally found her family’s lost pirate treasure and bought her own vessel? She’d always said she’d take Catherine away with her when she became a pirate.

  Catherine burrowed in more deeply, wondering at the softness of her bed on the ship. And it smelled so good here.

  Slowly, she opened her eyes and peered into the darkness. She blinked. It was not the unfamiliar darkness of a ship, but the inside of a carriage with its curtains drawn. The rocking was not waves, but the carriage making its way over the roads.

  With a start, she tried to sit, but just as quickly had her arms clasped and her shoulder pressed back down. “It’s all right,” a male voice said. “Everything will be all right.”

  Catherine looked up, her eyes adjusting to the gloom, and saw Valentine. She frowned, wondering at his position, then realized she must have been lying on his lap!

  She struggled to rise again, and this time he allowed it. As soon as she was up, she squashed herself into the corner of the carriage, as far away from him as possible. “How did I get here?” she stammered.

  Valentine adjusted his coat, and she saw that she’d creased it when she’d been lying on him. Dear Lord, how long had she been draped over him like that?

  Valentine looked up at her and, seeming to read her mind, said, “You’ve been asleep these last two hours. I tried to wake you this morning, but you were obviously exhausted.”

  Catherine cursed silently. This was exactly the reason she had vowed to stay awake. She could stay up practically all night, but no matter how early she went to bed, she found mornings difficult to tolerate and preferred to stay abed as long as possible. When she’d been young and a yell from her father had not wakened her, he’d thrown cold water over her.

  “But how did you get into my room?” Catherine asked. “I had the doors blocked.”

  Valentine smiled, and she hadn’t seen the expression in so long that she’d forgotten what a nice smile he had.

  “You apparently did not realize that the dressing-room door opens from the inside. I merely opened it and pushed the dressing table aside.”

  “I see.” She looked down in embarrassment.

  “Catherine,” he said, “I know you do not want to be here. I understand you can’t trust me right now, but I swear by all that’s sacred to me—on my mother’s family ring”—at that he pulled a small box from his jacket and held it out to her— “I will not harm you or lock you up.”

  Catherine stared at the box. It was wooden and intricately carved. Another gift? She’d rarely received gifts in her life, and when she did they usually came with a price. She looked into Valentine’s eyes.
“What’s inside?”

  “Open it and see.” He held the box out to her again.

  Still, she did not move to touch it. “And then what? What happens when I open this?”

  “I hope you’ll put it on. It’s your wedding ring.”

  “But I don’t want—”

  “I know. If you don’t want to think of it as a wedding ring, look at it as a symbol of my promise to you.” He reached over with his free hand and opened the box. Inside, the gold ring shimmered with rubies, garnets, and sapphires. “This ring is your assurance of my good faith.”

  Catherine stared at him, then back at the ring. Was she supposed to believe the promise he gave her? If she took this ring, did that mean she agreed to trust him?

  Tentatively, she reached out and touched it, then withdrew her hand once again. She could not wear this ring! It was too much. She’d never had something so beautiful and so expensive.

  But she wanted it. She wanted to see the beautiful ring on her hand, to know someone had given it to her. Someone had thought her worthy of it.

  She reached out once more, and the ring glinted in the light like something enchanted. Catherine drew back again. “I can’t,” she said. “I-I cannot wear something like this. It’s too valuable.”

  “So are you,” Valentine said, taking the ring from the box. He held out his hand for hers. “If you wear this, it does not mean you accept this marriage. I realize now that I’ve moved too fast with you. I think if we’re given some time alone, get to know each other, you will learn to trust me.”

  Catherine listened, and she stared at his open palm, but she did not move. She liked his words, and she wanted to trust him, but she couldn’t help but feel that this was some sort of trick.

  And if it were a trick, what then? How was that any different than what she faced now? He would do with her as he pleased, ring or no ring.

  “Catherine,” he said, and his voice was soft. She’d rarely heard gentleness in a man’s voice, and it perplexed her. “Give me a chance. Please.”