No Man's Bride

by Shana Galen

  He hid a grin. What she really meant was that her own response had been disconcerting. There was a passionate woman inside her somewhere, and he intended to free that woman. “Yes, well, as I said, I wish I could apologize, but as it stands, I cannot. In fact, I think that you ought to be the one to apologize.”

  “Me?” she screeched, and swung her body toward him. “What have I to apologize for?”

  “Being irresistible for one.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “Being so beautiful and so tempting that I had to have you. You went to my head,” he said, giving her a sideways glance, “and I lost control of our kiss.”

  She shook her head. “Men always blame women for their own lack of control. I see you are no different.”

  “But I had meant the kiss to be controlled and”—he swallowed and attempted to say the word without laughing—“chaste, but you have a power over me—”

  She snorted.

  “—that renders me quite helpless.”

  “Lord Valentine, if this is your idea of wooing, you will have to do better than falsehoods and exaggerations. I know I am not beautiful, and I know I am not irresistible. Men have been resisting me for twenty years, and I imagine a man like you has little problem doing the same.”

  The words were edged with emotion, and he knew she spoke from her heart. He could not stop himself from taking her hand, nor could he dam up the hole her statement made in his heart. “Is that what you really think?”

  She nodded and tried to free her hand. “It’s what I know.”

  He let her hand go. “Then you have been misinformed. I wanted you last night and this morning—before that even—and I still want you. I sit here beside you, and all I can think about is how good you felt in my arms, and how soft your mouth was, and how much I want to—” He cleared his throat.

  She was staring at him, hazel eyes wide.

  “You are a powerful woman, and a beautiful one, Catherine. I wish that for one day you would try to see yourself as I do.”

  She began to protest, but he took her hand again and kissed the gloved fingers. The village was coming into view. “Today, Catie. Just for today, when you are in the milliner’s or the dressmaker’s shop, try to see yourself as I do. Try to see how truly beautiful you are.”

  And then he steered the horses through the village, releasing her hand so that he could raise it in greeting to the locals he had known since he was a child. The first stop was the dressmaker. He escorted Catherine inside, spoke with Mrs. Punch, the proprietress—a woman who had dressed his mother and sisters when they were in the country—and promised to return in time to take Catherine to dine at the pub.

  As he was leaving, he slid behind Catherine, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “See yourself as I do,” he whispered.

  “What a scamp,” Mrs. Punch said, as Valentine disappeared out the shop’s door. “I can only imagine what the boy said to make ye blush so. Pretty girl like you. I’m sure he doesn’t deserve ye.”

  Catherine blinked. Now Valentine’s silly words and phrases must really be going to her head because she thought the old woman had actually called her pretty.

  Catherine looked about the shop. Mrs. Punch had led her to a back room filled with mirrors and half-finished sewing. But the space was neat and clean, and she’d been led to a spot before one of the mirrors in the center of the room. At the back of the room was a door to another area, and behind her was the door to the main shop. It was a pretty shop, with large windows and plenty of bright materials arranged neatly within.

  The whole village appeared neat and simple. The buildings lined the street in pretty rows, each with a sign hanging out front, indicating its name. Most of the shops also had window boxes, and they were already bursting with flowers in pinks, yellows, reds, and purples. The people were friendly. Almost everyone they had passed had waved a hello to Valentine, and some were so cheery, Catherine had found herself smiling.

  Now, in the dress shop, Mrs. Punch called for her assistant, and the girl swished in from the front room, holding an armful of lace. “Put that away,” Mrs. Punch said. “I need you to fetch me all the best muslins and silks.”

  The girl blinked. She had a large rosy mouth, straw-colored hair, and enormous blue eyes. Catherine was glad Valentine had not been here to see her. Unlike her, this assistant was truly desirable. Catherine imagined that she had no lack of suitors.

  The girl swished away, and Mrs. Punch shook her head after her. “Lazy girl, my Clare, but she’s got a good eye and can sew better than anyone else in these parts. Well, better than anyone else but me.” She hobbled behind Catherine and began unfastening her gown. “Let’s get this ill-fitting thing off ye and get some measurements.”

  A sudden flush of modesty lit her cheeks in the mirror across from her, and Catherine said, “Oh, but can’t I leave the dress on?” She did not want to stand about half-naked, especially when the beautiful, rounded assistant would return any moment.

  “Nonsense. Ye have nothing to be ashamed of. You’re a lovely girl, and I can’t stand seeing ye in that ugly dress. It’s all wrong.”

  And so with little other choice, Catherine submitted to having Maddie’s gown and stays removed, and she stood in her shift with her arms up, then out, then down as Mrs. Punch took measurement after measurement.

  “Have you known Lord Valentine long?” Catherine asked when Mrs. Punch stopped to scribble a number on the paper she kept in her apron pocket.

  “Oh, yes. I’ve known the lad since he was so high.” She held her hand off the floor to about the height of Catherine’s knees. “And I’ll tell ye, he was always a rascal.”

  “I can believe that,” Catherine muttered.

  “The boy could argue with a tree trunk if he felt so inclined.” Mrs. Punch wrapped the measuring tape around Catherine’s bust, and Catherine swallowed and tried not to blush. “Never got in trouble, no, not Master Quint. Whenever he was at fault, he managed to argue his way out of it. No surprise to any of us that he ended up in Parliament.”

  She was writing on the pad again, and Catherine peered more closely at the older woman. “You seem proud of his accomplishments.”

  “Oh, the whole village is proud that one of our own done so well. Put those on my chair,” she told Clare, when the assistant returned laden with various shades of muslin and silk. “And finish these measurements.”

  The girl obliged, taking the measuring tape and stringing it along Catherine’s back. Catherine closed her eyes and tried to pretend she was somewhere else. “But Lord Valentine told me he did not grow up here,” Catherine said, when the assistant had paused in her efforts and was making a note of the measurement.

  “Oh, well, him and his family were here often enough.”

  “What is his family like?” Catherine asked, then thought better of the question, but as it was too late to take it back, she added, “As we’ve only just married, I do not know them very well.”

  Or at all.

  “The Lord and Lady Ravenscroft are proud but good,” Clare said, though Catherine had not been speaking to her. Mrs. Punch nodded her agreement. “Why, I never seen a noble lady who cared so much about people like us.” Clare paused and glanced at her. “Excepting yourself, of course, my lady.”

  Catherine raised her brows. Noble lady! Ha! If only this seamstress had seen her scrubbing floors last week, she wouldn’t think her so noble.

  “That family has always been good to me and mine,” Clare went on, while Mrs. Punch held up various colors and materials against Catherine’s skin to judge their effect. “My mother hasn’t been well for years, since my papa died when I was just a babe, but Lord Valentine makes sure that we have something to eat. He even gave my brother John a position as a footman at his estate.”

  She would have expressed her surprise, but Mrs. Punch suddenly threw a mass of blue silk over Catherine’s head and shoulders. She had never thought Valentine particularly chivalrous. In fact, he appeared more single-minded. After al
l, hadn’t he plainly told her that he wanted a wife not for love or companionship but to advance his own interests?

  And still, as the fitting continued, neither Mrs. Punch nor Clare had a bad word to say about Valentine. They sang his praises, so that by the time the styles and gowns had been decided on, Catherine felt that her husband was all but a stranger. If Mrs. Punch and her assistant had the right of it, Catherine was married to the most handsome, most intelligent, most successful, kindest, and best man in all of England.

  Clare left to make a note of their selections and write up the bill, and then the shop bell rang and Mrs. Punch disappeared for a moment as well. Catherine was left alone in the dressing room in her shift and bare feet. She looked about for her shoes and stays, lifted chairs and bolts of material, but she could not find either. Finally, she stood and, turning, caught sight of herself in the mirror.

  What had Valentine asked her to do today? See herself as he did? He’d said she was beautiful and irresistible. Now she stared at her reflection in the mirror and tried to see that girl. She supposed that her face was not bad. Her skin was too dark, but it was smooth and clear, and her eyes were pretty. She liked their honey hazel color and their almond shape. And she liked her nose. It was straight and not too big. And her mouth was wide and she had even teeth. She smiled and admired the way her eyes lit when she was happy.

  Lifting her hands, she extracted the pins from her simple hairstyle and let the mass of dark hair fall about her shoulders and back. Her hair was straight and soft but thick. She liked the way it felt when it swished against the bare skin of her arms.

  To her surprise, she liked the way she looked. She was by no means the temptress Valentine described, but she was pretty.

  How had she never noticed that before? Was it because she was always comparing herself to Elizabeth’s petite blond beauty that she had never admired her own assets?

  Clare was another blond beauty, but she was not petite. She had large breasts and hips that were barely contained by her work-worn clothing. Perhaps men like Valentine preferred women who were not so small and slim but were robust with rounded bodies.

  Catherine lifted her hand to her neck and brushed the hair back over her shoulders. Her skin tingled at the sensation, and she closed her eyes and ran her hand down to her collarbone and then the drawstring of her shift. She opened her eyes, and peered about her. She could still hear Mrs. Punch speaking in the other room, and Clare did not seem to be hurrying back. With a quick motion of her hands, Catherine loosened the strings and allowed the cotton to fall down about her elbows.

  In the mirror she stared at her breasts. They were the olive color of the rest of her skin, but the nipples were dark and jutted upward. In fact, now that they were free and exposed to the cool air, they hardened in much the same way they had when Valentine had kissed her this morning. She remembered the ache she’d felt and lifted a hand to cup one breast. It was heavy in her hand but also soft and full. With one finger, she flicked the hard nipple and felt a surge of pleasure rush through her. Her thighs tingled, and the skin became damp.

  She took the other breast in her hand, holding them both, molding them, and then she closed her eyes and thought of Valentine doing this to her. The heat between her legs flared and burned, and she had to catch her breath.

  It was a good thing she had, too, because she heard the bell outside tinkle again and the sound of Mrs. Punch’s footsteps. Quickly she righted her underclothing and was just securing her drawstring again, when the older woman entered. Catherine flushed, certain her face would betray what she had been doing and thinking, but the old woman seemed not to notice.

  “Oh, my! Ye look as cold as an icicle! Where are your clothes?” And she hobbled after Clare, returning with Catherine’s clothing and shoes, which had been mixed in with the new materials.

  She helped Catherine dress, and when Catherine looked in the mirror again, she expected to feel like her old self. But the woman in the mirror was not the Catherine she was used to. Even as she pinned up her hair and righted her clothing, she now noticed her breasts pushing against the material. She noticed the curve of her jaw and the slant of her eyes. She noticed the high color in her cheeks, and for the first time, she did feel beautiful. For the first time, she saw what a man like Valentine might see in her.

  That was, if he had not forgotten her. She checked the clock and saw that it was past the hour he’d promised to claim her. She tried not to look hurt as she watched as Clare and Mrs. Punch right the store and make ready to close. As casually as possible, Catherine inched her way toward the shop’s front window, peering out in search of her errant husband.

  “I bet I know where Master Quint is,” Mrs. Punch said. Catherine frowned. Apparently, she’d not been as surreptitious as she’d thought. “Clare, take Lady Valentine to Myrna.”

  Clare smiled. “Do I have to come back?”

  Mrs. Punch laughed and shook her head. “No, be off with ye. Take Lady Valentine, and then yer free to gallivant about with that man of yourn. But remember what I told you. Get the ring on yer finger before ye open yer legs.”

  She winked at Catherine, and Catherine, supposing that she was a married woman now and supposed to find such humor amusing, tried to smile.

  A few minutes later, Catherine was following Clare across the main street and down an alley to where she supposed Myrna lived. Catherine was not certain what her husband would be doing there, but she was prepared for anything. Like the rest of the village, the alley was clean and the houses small and well kept, but there were fewer shops now, and Catherine saw more children and dogs in the street. They continued walking until they finally reached the end of the alley, and this section was dark and shadowed.

  Catherine felt a shiver of fear as she watched Clare point to an old wooden house with sagging windows and roof. The face of the house seemed sinister, the door a yawning cavern ready to swallow her. It reminded her of home. But she took a deep breath and followed Clare inside.

  Chapter 16

  Catherine ducked under the low opening to the house and squinted in at the darkness. Her nose twitched at the greasy smells of old food and the musty smell of sickness. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness, she was able to take in the small room with its hearth, rough dining table, and several children seated splayed-legged on the hard floor. Clare greeted the children by name and explained that they were her siblings and cousins.

  Catherine gave them each a smile and watched as they smiled back and then returned eagerly to the porridge in their bowls. How she wished she had brought something for them. They were obviously not starving, but she knew what it was to go hungry, even if just for a few days. She would not have anyone suffer the pang of emptiness she remembered often feeling in her belly as a child.

  Then Clare motioned her toward another area of the house, where a curtain had been strung to give the occupant a bit of privacy. As Catherine watched, the curtain parted and a familiar face looked out at her.

  “Lord Valentine,” she said in surprise.

  He looked just as surprised to see her. “Catie, what are you—?” He seemed to fumble for something, and she realized he was looking at his pocket watch. “Damn, I didn’t realize the time.”

  And then Catherine heard another voice, a female voice, though weak and frail, say, “I’ve kept you too long again, Master Quint. I’m sorry.”

  Quint turned back to the woman, whom Catherine could barely make out in the darkness behind him. “Don’t talk rubbish, Myrna. It’s not every day I get to see you. Besides, now you can meet my new bride.” He gestured to Catherine, and she stepped closer, brushing by the coarse curtain as she ducked into the alcove where the woman lay. She was Catherine’s mother’s age, but shrunken by illness and confinement.

  The woman reached up and grasped Catherine’s hand, and she knelt beside her. “She is just as pretty as you described,” the woman said to Valentine. “And what a sweet face.”

  Catherine smiled. “Thank you. I hope I h
ave not disturbed you.”

  “Ha! I am glad to meet you. Your new husband here can talk of nothing else. I see you brought my daughter with you.”

  Clare stepped forward, and the woman gestured to her. “Going out again, are you?”

  “Not if you need me here, Mother.”

  “No, go out and have a good time. All of you. I’m tired now and will sleep.”

  Catherine nodded, rose, and backed out of the small alcove. It was then that she noticed a large basket filled with food in the corner of the room. The basket looked familiar.

  Her husband said his good-byes, swinging the children into his arms and around in a dizzying dance, before escorting Catherine from the house. When they were in the alley again, she turned to him, “That basket of food in the corner. You brought that from Ravensland. I remember seeing it in the curricle.”

  He looked down at her. “I did. Myrna is an old friend. She’d been sick for many years, and I promised my mother I would care for her. I send food and pay her rent, and I visit whenever I am in the village.”

  He took Catherine’s arm and led her back toward the main street.

  “You are very kind,” she murmured. “You buy me dresses, you visit sick women. What other secrets do you hold?”

  “You’ll have to wait and see,” he said with a smile, as they reached the main street. Taking her elbow, he directed her along the buildings until they reached a cheery pub with men and women from the village streaming in and out. The owner’s wife greeted them warmly, saying, “Milord, it is so good of you to come and sup with us. It’s a bit busy today. Would you like me to sit you somewhere quiet?”

  Valentine nodded. “Please. Then bring us two glasses of wine and some of the crusty bread you make so well.”

  The woman smiled with pleasure at the compliment, seated them at a table in the back, and, having delivered them two glasses of wine, scurried away to see to the bread and a bowl of her best stew. Valentine sipped his wine and sat back. Catherine marveled that he looked as comfortable here as he did on the back of a horse or in his well-appointed office.