No Man's Bride

by Shana Galen

  It was the gentle please that undid her. She knew all too well what it cost a man to say that word. Taking a shaky breath, she slipped her hand into his and allowed him to slide the ring over her finger. It fit perfectly, shining brilliantly, even in the dim coach.

  “It suits you,” he said, twining his fingers with hers.

  She looked down at her hand in his, surprised that his fingers seemed so much larger than her own. She was not a small woman like her sister or Josie. She’d always felt too big, ungraceful, and clumsy, but Valentine seemed to have the ability to make her forget all of those feelings. Beside him, she did not worry that she was too tall and awkward. Good Lord, the ring alone made her a dozen times more graceful.

  “There are things we need to discuss,” Valentine was saying when she looked away from the ring again. “Expectations I have from my wife.”

  She watched him warily. “Attending and hosting parties and such?”

  “Correct, but we must address more personal issues as well.”

  Catherine stiffened. “I’m not your wife.”

  “Legally you are. As I’ve told you, the likelihood of escape from this union is slim. And I can tell you now, after seeing that article in the Times, I am even more determined not to end this marriage in any way that might result in scandal. I think you will find it near impossible to achieve a divorce or annulment without my support.”

  She knew he was right, but her chest tightened anyway. “Then I am trapped,” she said, fear rising in her belly. She began to fumble with the ring, wanting to tear it off. He’d said she could trust him, and in the next minute, talked of locking her in this marriage. If the space of a heartbeat was the length of time she could trust him, she wanted none of it.

  “No,” he said, putting a hand over her ring finger before she could pull the band off. “You are not trapped. I am a broad-minded man, and if you wish no part of my bed, I respect your wishes.”

  Catherine stared at him, feeling the heat of his hand on hers.

  “I can look elsewhere to satisfy those desires, and I will be discreet. You will never find yourself the topic of gossip on that subject.”

  Her voice had all but left her, but she managed to croak, “And am I free to do the same?”

  His look turned dark, and his hand tightened on hers. “I am broad-minded, but I am still a man, and I have my pride. If I am not to be your lover, you’ll have no man. I need your word on that.”

  Relief swelled through her. If he spoke the truth, she would be free and safe. She might have to take on the appearance of his wife, but not the actuality. She would never have to be subjected to his advances, to the same indignities that her mother had borne for so many years. “Very well, I give you my pledge—”

  He lifted his hand. “I see you are quick to make decisions, but if you will humor me, I’d like you to give this more thought. There is another option. We could share the marriage bed.”

  Catherine shook her head. She had a quick image of her mother one morning after Catherine had heard her screaming. Her lip had been bloody, and she’d walked gingerly, as though in pain. She shuddered. “I-I can’t.” At his puzzled look, she added, “I don’t even know you.”

  “Your family is among the aristocracy. Among our set, men and women marry all the time without really knowing one another. We shall be in the country at least a week, perhaps more. You have time to get to know me.”

  He paused, she supposed to give her time to consider.

  “Will you hold your decision?”

  She wanted to say that there really was no decision to be made. He might claim that he would not touch her, but how realistic was such a promise, especially from a man? Husbands had expectations of their wives, and if she wanted to avoid divorce—to avoid being forced to return to her father—she would need to keep Valentine happy. That might mean spending time in his bed.

  She shuddered, but she would do what she had to. At least she could put him off for a little while. “When shall I tell you my decision?”

  “Before we return to London. But before we leave the subject, I have one more request.”

  “You seem quite full of them,” she said, and then blinked in horror at her impudence. Her father would have slapped her.

  Valentine grinned. “I’m a politician. We rarely run out of words or ideas.”

  Catherine nodded carefully. Could it be that he was not at all offended by her brashness?

  “All I ask,” Valentine continued, “is that you do not close your heart to me this next week. Allow me to woo you—”

  “Woo me? I am not my sister, sir. I think you shall grow tired of the game.”

  “Then I will grow tired, but I ask you to allow me to try.”

  “Why?” She gave him a narrow look. His face went through a myriad of emotions—annoyance, resignation, and finally what looked to her like sincerity.

  “I don’t trust you any more than you do me, Catherine. You tricked me into a marriage—”

  “It was my father!”

  He shook his head. “Allow me to continue. But we are here now. We are married.” He said the word as though he loathed it more than she did. “I want to try and make this work.”

  She didn’t believe him. Oh, he told the truth when he said he didn’t trust her, but he was not wooing her out of any heartfelt feeling. Catherine would have wagered all she had—little more than the clothes on her back and the ring he’d given her—everything he did, he did with his career in mind.

  He didn’t love her. He loved Elizabeth.

  “Fine, then try to woo me,” she said. She shrugged. If the man thought pretty words and baubles would work on her, let him make a fool of himself then.

  She put her hand over her new ring, feeling its solid, timeless stones against the skin of her hand. She had no gloves, and thankfully she had worn her gown to bed, or she would probably be back in her sheet.

  “Then I will start my wooing by saying that you do yourself a disservice, Catie.”

  She gave him a sharp look, and he grinned again. Lord, when the man smiled at her, her stomach did quick, jerky tumbles.

  “May I call you, Catie? Only when we’re alone, of course.”

  “Of course,” she stammered. “You work quickly, I see.”

  Suddenly the carriage seemed far too small, and Catherine looked longingly at the seat across from them. Would he comment if she moved? Would it be a sign of fear? She did not want to show more fear.

  He reached out and took her hand again, and it took a vast amount of her remaining courage not to draw it back. “I see you eyeing the other seat,” Valentine said, squeezing her hand. “You want to move away.”

  “I think it would be more comfortable.”

  He laughed. “I fear it will be a long time before you are comfortable again, Catie.” And then he parted the curtains and peered out into the dawn. They were out of London, and the horses were moving at a good clip. Catherine wondered how long she would be forced to sit next to him. Already her shoulders and neck ached from tension.

  And her whole arm tingled. He had not released her hand, and the heat of his fingers infused all the surrounding skin. He sat, holding her hand, and peering out the window for a long time. Catherine finally parted her own curtains and looked outside. She watched the low green hills roll by, the fat milk cows, and the cozy, little cottages. She smiled at the laborers in the cornfields, who raised their heads when the carriage passed.

  And just as she began to relax, Valentine moved his fingers.

  It was a very small movement, and she might not have noticed it at all except that his hand in hers had been absolutely still up until that point. Now she felt one finger move, tracing a small circle on the inside of her palm. She shivered and tried to ignore the sensation. But he repeated the movement, this time the circle grew bigger, his finger tracing the underside of one of hers when the circle was complete.

  She looked at him, but he was still staring out his coach window, his face impassi
ve. Perhaps he moved his fingers without thinking. She tried to loosen her hand, to free it unobtrusively, but he did not release her.

  With a sigh, she went back to looking out her window, and then a few moments later, he began caressing her palm once again.

  Catherine tried to ignore it, but it was difficult when each new touch made her feel hot and cold all at once. Her arm tingled, and she noticed that each new caress was different from the last. One caress was soft, that next more firm. He drew a small circle on her palm, and the next circle was so large, his touch extended over her wrist, making her pulse throb deliciously.

  Catherine continued to stare out the window, but she could not believe Valentine’s caresses were unintentional. He was the devious one, not she. She had to remember he did all of this for his career. He didn’t care for her; he wanted to control her.

  But what to do? Should she say something? Ask him to cease? Even as she contemplated her options, he grew bolder, his fingers actually traveling up her arm, tickling the sensitive under skin and tapping over her delicate inner elbow.

  At that Catherine could no longer sit still. She was already squirming in her seat, and when his fingers glided over her inner elbow, she turned to him, eyes burning.

  “Sir, I must ask you to cease at once.”

  He turned from his window to regard her, brow raised. “Cease what?”

  She glowered at him. “You know what. Cease touching me.”

  “Am I not allowed to touch my own wife?”

  “I’m not truly your—”

  “And I am merely holding your hand.”

  She let out a frustrated breath. “No, you’re not. You’re caressing me.”

  He gave her a look of mock-horror. “Good God. Can you ever forgive me?”

  She pinched her lips at him and glared. “Stop making fun of me. You promised to respect me, and I want you to cease.”

  “Very well.” He turned so that he faced her more fully. “I will cease if you tell me why.”

  “It makes me uncomfortable,” she said, and felt a blush creep up her cheeks. Lord, she hated when she blushed.

  “How?”

  She frowned. “What do you mean? I just feel unsettled. I don’t like it.”

  “Are you certain?”

  She shook her head in disbelief. “Of course I am certain. I know when I am uncomfortable.”

  “I don’t doubt it. But you said you felt unsettled. That feeling is not always unwanted. Sometimes it can even be pleasurable.”

  Catherine felt her cheeks burst into flame.

  “Did my touch give you pleasure?” Valentine asked.

  Catherine had to avert her eyes. It was a scandalous question, not fit for a discussion even between husband and wife. Certainly not appropriate for two people who were united by the merest thread. She looked down at the hand he still held and, with his words swirling in her ears, couldn’t help but imagine those fingers sliding over her shoulder, her collarbone, flitting across the swell of her breast.

  She shivered and tried to free her hand, but Valentine held tighter. “What were you thinking just now?”

  “Nothing. I-I—”

  He placed a finger over her lips. “There is no shame in feeling pleasure or imagining pleasurable activities. Do you know what I was thinking?”

  She shook her head, desperate to know while at the same time wishing he would simply leave her alone. She didn’t like the way she felt—the oversensitivity of her skin, the way her nipples hardened against the material of her stays, the dampness between her legs. She felt restless as a filly on a new spring day, and she longed for the cozy, comfortable days of winter.

  But now that Valentine had awakened her, he seemed loath to allow a return to sleep.

  He slipped his fingers between hers again and leaned closer. “I was thinking about you in my bedroom. I was imagining standing in the doorway, watching you slide that gown off your shoulders, down your arms—”

  “Stop, sir! This is not proper.” But she could feel the heat and pulse between her legs growing.

  “—baring your back,” he continued. “I can see all that honey gold skin until the dress drops to your hips, revealing the dip at the small of your back. And I want to kiss that place. Flick my tongue over it and lave it until you writhe beneath me.”

  His fingers were sliding over hers once again, back and forth, up and down. And Catherine wanted to silence him, but she did not have the strength. Lord help her, but she wanted him to do all the things he described. She wanted to feel his hands on her.

  And then, just when she felt she could be silent no longer, when she felt she must demean herself and beg him to touch her, he released her hand and sat back. Once again, he parted the carriage curtains and peered out into the landscape, his face impassive, his warm, strong hands immobile at his sides.

  Catherine stared at him, trying to comprehend the transformation. This man, her new husband, was obviously a man of much control. And he was also a man of much passion. As she stared at his unreadable face, she wondered which side of him she liked more.

  Chapter 12

  The sun was low in the sky by the time Quint turned to his new bride, and said, “This is it.”

  She sat forward and parted the curtain, letting a spill of violet-tinged twilight into the carriage.

  “Look down at the top of the next rise,” Quint said, pointing into the distance. “That’s Ravensland.” As the coach topped the bank, Quint gave his bride a sidelong look. He watched her face, waiting for any telltale sign of disappointment. His family had large estates, of course. His mother and father lived in Ravenscroft Hall in Derbyshire, but this property was his own— small and simple and unassuming.

  If Catherine had usurped her sister and married him for money, he’d know it in a moment.

  And he did. As soon as Catherine saw the house, her eyes widened, and the first smile he had seen all day teased her lips. Without looking away from the house, she said, “Oh, it’s lovely. I was afraid it would be some monstrous thing that rambled on and on and where I’d get lost.” She turned and smiled at him, and Quint was caught staring at the full, ripe peach that was her mouth.

  “But it’s not,” she said, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of his stare.

  Quint blinked. What was she talking about? He hadn’t heard a word since—“Oh, monstrous. Right, you are. It’s a good house, but I don’t have the room for a full complement of servants. I hope you don’t mind, but I can always hire from the village.”

  “Oh, no. I don’t mind. In fact, I can help out.”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  With an abashed smile, she turned back to the window.

  Quint was relieved that those piercing brown-gold eyes had left his face. It gave him a moment to collect himself. Whenever he was close to his bride, she seemed to distract him with some new quality he hadn’t noticed before. All day in the carriage, it had been her scent. The comparison of her mouth to a peach had not been capricious. He’d smelled peaches, and the closer he leaned to his bride, the more intoxicated he became. When she had been sleeping on top of him, the scent was so strong and so tantalizing that he had been unable to resist stroking her long, black hair.

  But his attempts at seduction had been quite deliberate and quite personal. He’d planned most of this last night. He would win her affections while remaining coolly detached. But it would not be easy. Everything about her tempted him, and he knew the signs of a drowning man. Allowing himself to care for this woman was a dangerous proposition. She had tricked him into marriage.

  Beside him, Catherine tensed, and he peered past her. They were nearing the house now, and his servants had come out to greet him. There were perhaps nine in all—good people, most of whom had worked for his family for years—but Catherine eyed them as though they were a revolutionary mob after her head.

  “Catie, you needn’t be afraid.” He put his hand on her arm and she jumped.

  “I’m
sorry,” she said, putting her hand to her heart. “I become nervous around new people.”

  Quint stared at her and forced himself to take a deep breath. What was his job but meeting new people—diplomats, up-and-coming stars of Parliament, even political opponents? The world of politics was constantly shifting and changing. What was he to do with a wife who ran and hid every time she saw someone new?

  The coach slowed and pulled around the circular drive, and one of Quint’s footmen opened the door and lowered the stairs. Before he exited, Quint gave Catherine’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “I’ll be right by your side. Just smile, and you’ll get through it.”

  She nodded somewhat stiffly, her face pale and her hands trembling in his. Quint prayed she wouldn’t faint or make a scene.

  Quint exited first, then with great ceremony, he held out his hand and assisted Catherine from the carriage. When she stepped down, he whispered, “Smile.”

  She gave a tight grimace.

  Quint could see that for their part, his staff was ecstatic to meet their new mistress. The servants clapped and cheered at the sight of Catherine, but this only seemed to make her more nervous.

  Quint held up a hand to quiet them. “Your new mistress, Lady Valentine.”

  The servants cheered again, and Quint felt Catherine go limp beside him. He put an arm about her waist and assisted her up the stairs to the door, but he couldn’t stop himself from wondering if this was an act or real fear.

  His housekeeper came forward, eager to be first to welcome the new mistress, but Quint whispered to her, “Mrs. Crumb, might we do introductions another time? I fear my wife is overly tired from the long trip.”

  “Of course, milord. I’ll have her things brought to your chambers.”

  “Then you received my letter?” Quint asked.

  “Yes, milord. And this morning the workers began the improvements that you specified.”

  Quint felt like a scoundrel. He’d sent that letter by express post last night, indicating he wanted the room that would have been Catherine’s completely redone. While the room was in need of remodeling, the work was not necessary, especially considering that the other rooms in the house were occupied or untenable. In effect, Quint had ensured he and Catherine would share a bedroom. It was devious and low, not something that Quint would have normally done, but how else was he supposed to get close to her?