by Shana Galen
She looked about the pub and noticed that while the locals were interested in them, they did not stare or ogle. They weren’t about their business, only tipping their hats or nodding politely when she caught their eye.
The pub itself was large and cozy, with rows of tables and benches and several smaller tables and chairs in the back, where she was seated. The ceilings were high and the walls filled with paintings. Catherine looked at the walls beside her and saw that they were actually seated beside a curtain leading to another room. The curtain was parted slightly, and she could see a bed and a chair on the other side.
“They rent that room out for the night,” Valentine told her. “I don’t imagine the occupants get very much sleep, but it’s better than nothing when you can’t afford one of the rooms upstairs.”
Catherine looked away from the curtain and went back to sipping her wine.
“Did you have a good afternoon?” he asked, after they sat in silence for some time. “Were the gowns Mrs. Punch selected to your liking?”
“Yes.” She nodded to the woman as their bowls of stew and warm crusty bread arrived. “Mrs. Punch has a very good eye, as does her assistant. I believe she said the first gown will arrive in a matter of days.”
Valentine scooped up stew onto his bread and took a large bite. “Of course, you’ll have gowns made in London as well. But Mrs. Punch knows the latest styles. She will do a good enough job for the present.”
Catherine watched as the pub door opened again, and Clare entered. She had changed out of her work clothes, and now wore a brightly colored dress with a low bodice that emphasized her assets. Most of the men gave her appreciative looks when she entered, and Catherine looked at Valentine to see if he had noticed; but he was tearing at another chunk of the bread.
Clare moved easily among the other locals, speaking to some and passing among them, but she seemed to be looking for someone. And Catherine knew when she had found him by the way the girl’s mouth erupted in a smile. It was a boy of seventeen or eighteen with long brown hair hanging in his face. He’d been in and out of the pub, alternately serving, cleaning the tables, and delivering tankards of ale.
And when the boy spotted her, his face went from pale and haggard to handsome and robust. Catherine smiled. The two were obviously in love.
“And what has you smiling?” Valentine said. He followed her gaze to Clare and her young man and then looked back at Catherine. “Young lovers. I should have known.”
“They seem very happy,” Catherine said, tasting her stew and then, taking a cue from Valentine, breaking off a piece of the bread and swabbing it through the thick chunks of meat and vegetables.
“Yes, they do. I’d like to see you that happy.”
Catherine looked up. “Wooing me again, my lord?”
“I try my best. And what of you? Did you do as I suggested today? When you were bedecked in silks and laces, did you try and see yourself as I do?”
Catherine blushed, embarrassed to have her thoughts returned to her wanton behavior in Mrs. Punch’s shop. “I tried,” she said finally.
Behind them, the curtain swayed slightly and they heard the muted sound of voices. Catherine turned her head and saw that Clare and her young man had entered the room by a back door and were standing, talking at the far end. She could not hear their words, but the sound of their low, confidential voices was audible.
“And did you succeed?” Valentine was saying. “Did you see anything of the temptress that I see?” His voice was as low as those of the two lovers on the other side of the curtain, and it sent a shiver up her spine. Then, as she watched, the boy took Clare in his arms and bent his head to kiss her.
“I beg your pardon,” she said when she saw Valentine watching her, waiting for a response.
He began to speak again, but as he did, Catherine caught sight of the couple through the crack in the curtain again. She really did mean to attend to Valentine, but she could see the lovers almost without any effort, and now the man had reached down and cupped Clare’s bottom, sliding his hands over her rounded rump as the girl pressed her body against him.
Catherine’s own body tingled in response, and she jumped when Valentine put a hand on her arm. “Are you well? You look a bit flushed.”
“I-I’m fine,” she said, and took a large gulp of her wine. Valentine frowned at her, but she gave him a weak smile, and he went back to his stew.
Catherine tried to do the same, but she found her eyes drawn again to the lovers. She had only to move a fraction of an inch to see them. Now the boy was no longer kissing Clare’s lips, but he’d moved to her neck, and his hands were loosening the low-bodiced gown she wore. As Catherine watched, he freed Clare’s breasts and took each rosy nipple in his mouth. Clare threw her head back, giving him full access, and Catherine caught her breath at the quick rush of sensation she felt between her own thighs.
“She seems to be enjoying that.” Valentine’s voice was low, a murmur in her ear.
Catherine stiffened, and her eyes met his. He’d angled his chair so that he could see through the crack in the curtain as well, and he’d moved closer to her. Catherine had been so absorbed, she had not noticed.
“I-I was not watching,” she said. Her cheeks flamed and she stared hard at the remnants of her stew.
Valentine chuckled. “You weren’t watching? Is that why you didn’t hear a word I said these past five minutes?”
“Perhaps we should ask for another table,” Catherine said, still staring at her stew and acutely aware of Valentine beside her, his gaze on the entwined couple on the other side of the curtain. Catherine heard a low, female moan, and had to exercise great restraint to keep from lifting her head and looking.
“We probably should ask for another table,” Valentine said, “but I rather like this one. Oh, now that looks like fun.”
She snapped her head up and stared at him. “Sir, you should not be looking. It is obscene.”
His eyes met hers. “Obscene? How?”
She shook her head, unable to explain, and not wanting to. But he kept his gaze on her face and waited. Finally, she was able to stammer, “Wh-what they are doing. It is not right.”
“Not right? If it is not right, then you and I and all of these people in this room are wrong. How do you think you came to be, Catie?”
She shook her head and looked away from him, inadvertently catching sight of the couple again. Now Clare’s breasts were completely exposed, and the boy had her seated on the bed. He was kneeling before her, ruching up her skirt, while she kneaded his hard member through his pants.
Catherine looked away. “I understand how children come about, sir. But that is not their intention. They are doing this solely for—”
“For what?” he said, his gaze flicking past her. Her heart sped up when she imagined what he saw. “For pleasure?”
She nodded. “Yes, and that is obscene.”
He took her chin between two fingers and brought her gaze to his face. “Are you telling me that feeling pleasure is obscene? That the physical expression of love between two people is obscene?”
She had not thought of it that way, and she had no ready answer.
“Look again through that curtain, Catie,” he said, releasing her chin. “Now you tell me if what you see is obscene.”
The couple was close together again, she still sitting on the bed, he kneeling on the floor before her. His hands were under her skirts, but he’d risen up and was kissing her passionately. Clare returned the kiss with equal fervor.
Valentine whispered in Catherine’s ear. “What is obscene about that? Was it obscene when I kissed you this morning? When I touched you?”
“No.” She watched Clare move against the boy and remembered her own urge to move closer to Valentine. “No, but you did not touch me like that.”
He chuckled softly, his breath tickling her ear. “Oh, but I want to. Look how the lad has lowered her gown, how her breasts spill forth. If that were you, I would bury my face
in your flesh, kissing your nipples until they were hard pebbles against my tongue.”
“Sir!” Catherine shifted uncomfortably in her chair as warm wetness dampened her thighs. Her own breasts tingled in response to his words, her nipples growing hard once again. “You should not say such things.”
“Would you rather I do them?” And then she felt his hand, solid and light, on her knee.
“No, you mustn’t,” she hissed.
“Look through the curtain,” he said. “Do you see where his hands are?”
Lord help her, but she could not stop herself from looking.
“Tell me what you see,” Valentine prodded, even as she felt him lift her skirts under the table. She glanced about the room, praying no one could see what he was doing. But no one was looking at them, and Valentine’s body blocked hers from view.
“Tell me what he is doing, Catie.”
She glanced behind the curtain again and cleared her throat. “He is touching her.”
“How?” Valentine murmured, his hand sliding under her skirts to touch the bare skin of her knee. “Where?”
Catherine could barely find her voice. She could not believe she was answering Valentine’s questions, allowing him to touch her thus. But his warm hand felt so good on her, that she could not seem to stop her words from tumbling out. “He’s sliding his hand up her thigh.”
Valentine’s own hand slid up her thigh. She shivered.
“And then he slides it back down again.”
Valentine complied and then repeated the gesture. As Catherine watched, the boy did the same to Clare, but his hands were not on the top of Clare’s thighs, as Valentine’s were.
Catherine tried to speak and had to clear her throat again. “His hands slide up the inside of her thigh.”
Valentine paused for just a moment, and Catherine almost turned to look at him, but she dared not meet his gaze. She would feel too much shame at what she was doing then. Valentine’s hand slid up her inner thigh and back down again, and Catherine gasped.
“You like that,” Valentine said, his hand stroking her flesh again, this time his fingers reaching even higher so that Catherine had to restrain herself from moving to meet him. “Now what is the lad doing?”
Lord, help her but she knew if she said it Valentine would do it. “He’s spreading her legs.”
“And what is she doing?”
Catherine glanced at Clare as Valentine’s hand exerted gentle pressure, widening her own legs, just as she’d hoped and feared. “She’s sitting on the bed, bare on top, her head thrown back.” Indeed, Clare’s chest was heaving, and she appeared to be mewing with pleasure, and then Catherine gasped.
“Now what?”
“He has—he has just—” But she could not finish, and Valentine looked past her, then leaned back and smiled.
“I would like to do that to you.” As he spoke, he spread her legs farther and worked his fingers in ever-widening circles. Catherine could not stop herself from scooting just a bit farther down the seat. She needed him to touch her there.
Valentine was saying, “I would like to take you home, lay you on the bed, and spread your legs, as I am now. And then I would delve between them and kiss you here.” As he spoke, his fingers caressed her core, and she almost jumped from the pure pleasure in it.
She glanced through the curtain again and saw the boy’s head between Clare’s legs. She leaned back on her elbows, her breasts jutting out, her breaths coming in ragged moans. Catherine moaned herself as Valentine continued to caress her, his fingers moving assuredly over her sensitive skin. And then he entered her, softly at first, with just the tip of one finger, but she almost jumped off the chair.
“Easy,” he said, as though he were calming a skittish horse. “I feel how wet you are,” he whispered in her ear when she was still again. “My fingers are damp with your excitement.”
He stroked her again, allowing another finger to enter her. Catherine tried to remain still, but she could not stop her body from writhing subtly against his hand. She prayed no one would see them, she prayed he would cease, and she prayed he would never cease.
Her gaze flicked to the couple again, and she saw that Clare’s legs were shaking now, spread far, and taut with effort. Her gasps of pleasure were far too loud, and Catherine feared the whole pub might hear. And then she realized that what she heard were her own gasps in her ears as Valentine’s fingers stroked her, bringing her higher and higher until she could not think, until she was so warm and the heat so intense that she was certain she would burn up.
And then she exploded. Her knee hit the underside of the table, but she did not feel any pain. All she felt were spirals of bone-numbing heat hurtling through her so that every muscle went limp and flaccid, and her entire body was heavy with pleasure.
And then she opened her eyes, and her gaze met Valentine’s.
One, two, three…
Oh, Lord, she did not know what to say, what to do. How could she have allowed this to happen? She was obviously a very wanton woman.
“I-I—” she trailed off, unsure what to say. Finally, she managed, “I didn’t know I could feel like that.”
“I spoke to you of pleasure,” Valentine said softly. “The marriage bed holds many pleasures.”
She met his gaze again, and he reached out and stroked a lock of her hair back. Under the table, he righted her skirts and slowly brought his hand into view again. She stared at it. It was an ordinary hand, and yet it had given her so much pleasure.
“You’re embarrassed,” he said, his eyes full of concern. “I’m sorry. I should not have done that here. I just wanted to show you—” His gaze moved to the curtain again, and she followed. The boy was now standing, and Clare was unfastening his bulging trousers.
“I think it best we go now,” Valentine said, taking her hand. He tossed the owner a pound as they exited and then led her quickly to where his curricle waited.
It was dark by the time they left the village. They rode back in silence, Catherine barely breathing for fear Valentine would hear and mistake the sound for an opening for conversation. She could not speak to him, not because she was angry or even embarrassed any further but because she wanted to keep what she felt close to her heart.
In the space of only a few days, everything she had thought she knew about men, and especially about Quint Childers, had been turned upside down. Men were not all violent brutes who sought to hurt women. They did not all drink to excess and then launch into tirades, terrifying their wives and children. Valentine had either spent his time quietly reading in his office or with her. He cared about reform and about the less fortunate.
He treated his servants and indeed all that he met well. He treated her well. He was understanding and authoritative but not a bully. He hadn’t pounced on her, even when it was clear he wanted her. He treated her gently, with respect. When he took her riding, he had given her his best horse. He had made sure she would receive the best dresses.
And then when they had been in the pub and had seen Clare and her young man, he had not scolded her for looking or taunted, he had found it as arousing as she. He found her arousing, and had awakened a passion within her she did not know existed.
She had not known it could be this way between a man and a woman. She had not known men could give pleasure as well as pain. And now she was torn. She knew, even without the physical closeness developing between them, that she was beginning to have feelings for Valentine. He was a man above men, and she feared that he was too good to be true. What if she misjudged him? What if she gave herself to him, became his wife in all things, made this marriage true and real, and then it proved the wrong decision? What if Quint Childers was not the man she hoped?
She stared at the ring he’d given her.
And what if he was?
Chapter 17
The next few days were painful for Quint. He felt as though he were constantly on edge, constantly aware of his wife, and constantly aroused by her.
/> He had not intended it to happen. At the start of this seduction, he had planned to remain emotionally detached. But every day he spent with her weakened his resolve.
They had gone riding every morning and for walks in the afternoon. They supped together and sat in his study after dinner, reading and talking. Over all that time, how could he not notice that she had a quick mind and a kind heart? Even worse, she seemed to grow lovelier each day. When the first two gowns had come from Mrs. Punch’s, Quint had been amazed at the transformation that gowns designed for Catherine had made.
Catherine changed from a lovely young woman to a true beauty, her exotic complexion and those honey hazel eyes making her even more alluring. His desire for her reached heights he could not remember feeling for any other woman.
He watched her, even when she did not know he did, and he knew she watched him too. She was contemplating their marriage, considering— he hoped—coming to him, to his bed, becoming his wife in truth. He still slept on the chaise longue in their bedroom, and he had not pushed her to change this. He would not. He wanted her invitation, not her acquiescence.
That did not mean he did not take any liberties. She allowed him to hold her hand and to wrap an arm about her, and he kissed her as often as possible. She allowed the kisses and kissed him back, but she did not allow their embraces to go beyond a few fervent caresses. She did not allow what had happened in the village pub to happen again.
Despite his slow pace, Quint was not dissatisfied with his progress. He wanted her in his bed—rather, wanted to share his bed with her— but he wanted her as trusting, loving wife even more. She was becoming that woman every day, and he only wished he could speed the process along. The letters and documents he received from Meeps each evening increased Quint’s hopes for attaining the Cabinet seat. But Meeps also reiterated the need for Valentine to be in London. Fairfax was beginning to mount his own campaign for the seat.
