by Shana Galen
Quint sat forward, leaning his elbows on the desk. He liked organized strategies. “Go on.”
“Your first line of attack will be Parliament. You must quickly attach yourself to the new act sponsored by Lord Graves. It’s bound to be controversial.”
Quint shuffled through the stack of papers Meeps had moved aside until he found the documents he sought. “Ha! Graves wants to lower taxes on”—he flipped several pages—“hell, on a whole host of items.”
“Fairfax opposes the bill.”
“What a surprise. It’s not going to be popular.”
“Except with the people. Pass that bill, gain the people’s support, and the prime minister cannot afford to overlook you.”
Quint nodded. “The second prong of attack?”
“You have to attend every rally, every plebeian meeting, every reform society gathering. You’ll give rousing speeches, and your name will be all over the Times.”
Quint began taking notes. “I’ve already received several invitations to speak. I’ll have you accept for me. Hire Black and Clarion to write my speeches.”
“Black is working for Fairfax now.”
Quint looked up. “Get him back. Pay him whatever he asks. No one turns a phrase like Black.” He went back to his notes, his hand writing furiously but not as quickly as the rapid-fire ideas in his mind. He loved this feeling at the beginning of a political campaign. He felt like a general, eager to rally his troops and yell, “Charge!”
“I’ll need you to return to London today,” Quint told Meeps in between shuffling through papers and scratching notes. “I want you to talk to Graves, prepare the way for me—”
“My lord, you know I will be happy to, but we still have one more avenue of attack to discuss. Perhaps the most important one.”
Quint stopped writing, but he did not look up. “I know. My wife.”
“She must host the party to end all parties. Fairfax has proven himself. Invitations to his affairs are some of the most highly sought. There is not an MP in Parliament who doesn’t seek his favor the week before one of his wife’s soirees. You must do the same.”
Quint sat back slowly and his attention drifted to the window overlooking Ravensland’s lawns. Catherine, in one of her new pale muslin gowns, was a cloud of yellow and white among the green landscape as she meandered closer. Her dress was simple and pretty, her dark hair caught up in a knot on top of her head. Her face was peaceful, with a slight smile that hinted she knew a secret. He knew some of her secrets, too. He’d shared them with her last night.
She was beautiful and innocent, and no match for Lady Honoria and Fairfax. He’d seen her all but wilt when she was surrounded by people and noise. How would she ever host an affair?
“Is that your wife?” Meeps said, peering out the window closest to his chair.
“Yes. I’ll speak to her about the party. She can begin to plan it as soon as we return to London.”
But Meeps was still staring out the window. “She’s lovely. I don’t remember her seeming so lovely before.”
Quint steepled his hands. “When we return to London, we’ll make sure she is the admiration of the ton. No one will forget how lovely she is.”
Meeps looked at him. “And you think that’s possible?”
Quint sincerely hoped so.
As soon as she entered the house, Catherine noticed that the door to Quint’s study was closed, but she did not think anything of it. He was awake, and he was only a few feet away. She could not wait to see him.
She hurried through the foyer and with a quick tap on the door, opened it, and said, “Are you finally out of bed? Thor and Hazard are waiting for their morning ride.”
Quint was indeed behind his mammoth desk, as she’d expected, but he rose awkwardly when she entered and glanced to his right. There another vaguely familiar man was also rising from one of the armchairs, and the heat bloomed in her cheeks. “Oh, I see you are busy. I am sorry.” She turned to close the door, but her husband’s voice stopped her.
“Lady Valentine, please, join us.”
Catherine did not want to join the men. The man with Quint looked harmless, but new people made her uncomfortable. She could never think of anything to say. But, dutifully, she turned around and, closing the door behind her, stepped into the room.
“Please.” Quint gestured to one of the couches near the hearth. She was accustomed to sitting in the armchairs, but Quint’s guest was in her usual spot. She went to the couch and arranged her skirts carefully so that she did not have to look at the men right away. Quint came to sit beside her.
“Lady Valentine, you remember Mr. Meeps. He is one of my advisors.”
Catherine glanced up at the pale, red-haired man. He was thin, wore small glasses, and dressed completely in black. He looked like a clerk. “Sir, it is a pleasure.” But it was not. If a political advisor had come all this way to speak with Quint, it meant something important was happening in Town. It meant the end to this short-lived idyllic time alone with Quint.
Apparently, she was to be involved as well. She did not want to be involved.
Meeps nodded at her and retook his seat in her chair. She looked at Quint. It was strange to see him like this. After all they had shared last night, here she was sitting beside him, acting as though they were complete strangers. Why, she knew what he looked like without his trousers on. He knew what happened to her when he…
Her face began to heat, and she decided not to think of that at present. But it was difficult when every time she looked at her husband, images from last night came rushing at her. She wondered if he had a similar feeling, but he seemed completely at ease.
No, that was not exactly true. He was saying something to Mr. Meeps, but his gaze kept darting back to her. He had the look of the jailer whose duty it is to escort prisoners to their executions.
The jailer looked at her, a sympathetic and yet determined look on his face.
“What is it?” Catherine said immediately. “What’s wrong?”
He smiled at her, but the happiness didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing is wrong. We’re returning to London, as we discussed last night.”
“And Mr. Meeps?” She knew that was not all. The ax had yet to fall.
“Mr. Meeps and I were discussing political strategy. And I thought that while we are in Town, we might host a ball or a soiree.”
Catherine blinked. Her head felt light, almost as though it had come unattached and was tumbling fast and furious toward the Aubusson rug beneath her feet. “A ball?”
“Yes. I’ll help you, of course.” He said something else, but his voice was murky and she could not comprehend.
A ball. A party with dancing, loud music, and a crush of people. An opportunity for her to make a hundred mortifying mistakes, especially if she were the hostess. Everyone would be looking at her, watching her. She clutched her fingers together tightly.
One, two, three…
Meeps began to speak. It was a moment before she understood him. “—for Lord Valentine’s career. Of course, you must invite the prime minister, the prince regent, the Cabinet ministers—I will send you a complete list. As your town house is rather small, you might think of having the ball in one of the assembly—”
The prime minister? The prince regent? No, no, no. She could not possibly host these men. What would she say? What would she do? The preparations for an event like this were unimaginable.
The cozy study began to feel hot and cramped. The walls inched closer until they crouched over her like angry beasts.
Four, five, six…
Catherine stumbled to her feet, and Valentine caught her arm. Both he and Meeps jumped to their feet. “Are you well?” Quint asked.
“I think I shall go upstairs and lie down,” she said. She tried not to look at the walls hunkering closer, not to hunch as she strode through the shrinking door, but she could not force her feet to slow as much as she should have. She darted through the door, and when she heard it click shut behind her, she broke
into a run for the stairs and managed to make it to their room before she lost her breath entirely.
Catherine was gulping for air when she closed the door to her chamber. She leaned against the door and shut her eyes, thankful this room was still its original size. She counted to ten and climbed onto the bed she’d shared with Quint just a few hours before. Curling into a ball, she pressed her fingers to her eyes to hold back the sting of tears and tried to breathe deeply.
How could he? How could Valentine do this to her? He knew hosting a ball like this was her greatest fear. And yet he’d thrown the suggestion at her as if it were nothing—a choice between a lemon or apple scone at tea. And not only did he want her to eat this enormous, fearsome scone, he wanted her to do so in front of the whole of London Society.
London Society. The upper ten thousand. The haute ton. The most scheming, most unforgiving, most vengeful collection of people since the Romans. And here she was, a defenseless gladiator, thrown in the pit with the lions.
And for what? His career. His ridiculous career.
“Catie?” There was a tap on the door, and the knob turned. Belatedly, she wished she’d thought to block it. Not that that would have stopped him. She sat and tried to smooth her hair.
“I don’t want to talk right now. I’m not feeling well,” she managed. Lord, he looked handsome this morning. He must have finally accepted that his hair had grown too long, and he’d pulled it back into a queue, secured by a black string. His shirt and cravat were white as snow, and he was dressed to ride, boots, riding coat, and all.
She watched him stride across the room toward her, ignoring her wish to be alone. If she were a gladiator, he was the lion. She knew his body now, could imagine the bunch and pull of his muscles as he moved. She looked at his hands and remembered how they’d felt on her flesh, how they’d stroked and caressed until she was breathless with needing him.
She looked into his eyes, trying to distract herself and hold on to her anger. But looking into his face didn’t help. That too brought back memories— the rough scrub of his beard against the inside of her thigh, the way his long lashes framed those mahogany eyes, the feel of that full mouth on her nipple.
She turned away from him but felt the bed dip as he sat beside her. It was strange to have him so near her again. Here they were on the bed, where they’d shared so much last night, but now all she felt was betrayal. She’d thought he had finally accepted her, was coming to care for her. But he hadn’t changed at all. He still cared more about his career than anything else.
She wanted to turn her back on him, to walk away and never look around, but she could not because she had changed. His wooing, his gentle nature, the way he’d loved her last night—those things had changed her. She needed him. She had fallen in love with him.
And he loved his career.
He sighed. “Catie, I know this is not what you had in mind when we discussed returning to London. You get nervous when you attend balls—”
“Not what I had in mind?” she whispered, but her words were loud enough to silence him. “No, it wasn’t what I expected, but perhaps that’s because you deceived me into believing you cared how I felt. What was it you said? You wanted me to be happy?”
“I do want you to be happy.”
“Then don’t force me to host this ball.” She turned to him and met his gaze head-on. “In fact, don’t force me to return to London at all. Let’s stay here for the rest of the Season.” She prayed he would accept her suggestion, prayed he would be the man she wanted him to be, but he was shaking his head.
“I cannot. I’m needed in Parliament.”
“Then you go back. I’ll stay here, and you can join me when the session is over.”
“I’m not leaving you,” he said, taking her hand. It would have been a sweet statement had not his eyes been hard and determined.
“Why?” she said, withdrawing her hand. His touch still evoked too many memories. “Surely, I have not become indispensable to you in so short a time. Surely, you can live without me for a few weeks.”
He stood and ran a hand through his hair, disordering his neat queue. “Why do you have to make this so difficult, Catherine? I understand your fears, but I need you. Can you not do one thing for me?”
“For you or for your political ambitions? That’s what this is really about.”
He shook his head, then suddenly turned and knelt before her. “I have a chance at a seat in the Cabinet. Do you know how long I have wanted this and worked for it?”
She looked away. Already her heart was melting. How could she resist his pleas? After last night, after the gentle way he had been with her, how could she deny him anything? Even when the one thing he wanted terrified her.
“I have worked my whole life for this opportunity, and I am so close,” he was saying. “I deserve this, but I need you. Charles Fairfax is my competition, and he’s been gathering his supporters this past week you and I have been away.”
“And he’s married to the Duke of Astly’s daughter.” She glanced at him. “I must seem a poor choice in comparison. Especially considering whom you really wanted.” And Elizabeth would be waiting for him back in London.
“Damn it!” Valentine rose and paced away from her. “I don’t have time for this right now, Catherine. I want you, you know I do, and I need you right now. I need your support.” He turned on his heel. “Do I have it?”
She gave him a long look, took a deep breath, and said, “Yes, you have it, but let’s be clear, Lord Valentine. You need a wife. You don’t need me. You’ve considered me a liability from the start.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? And why should I believe you, when you lied to me last night?
“I did not lie—”
She stood and crossed to him. “Then look me in the eye and tell me that you did not have your career in mind last night even as you spoke of our returning to London only to make me happy.”
To his credit, he did not look away. “Catherine, I care for you. What happened between us last night—”
“Don’t speak of it to me,” she said, forcibly restraining her tears. “Do not ruin that for me as well.” A rogue tear escaped her defenses. He reached out to stroke it away, but she realized his intention too late and flinched back.
“Goddamn it, Catie. I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.
“It’s too late for that. Just go.” She turned away from him, staring at the white walls of her room. “I’ll begin packing. We can leave as soon as you are ready.”
Chapter 19
Quint didn’t understand women. He didn’t understand why they had to mix everything up in their minds until everything a man said or did produced offense in one way or another.
He’d traveled back to London with Catherine a week before, and since that time, he’d exchanged barely half a dozen words with her. Not that he’d seen her very often. He’d been so busy that he could not even remember the last time he slept.
Forget sleeping with her. He supposed he could add that to his list of transgressions—deserting the marriage bed. She probably assumed he’d neglected her on purpose. Nothing could be further from the truth. He wanted her, thought of her constantly, but he did not have time to smooth her ruffled feathers.
She’d been angry, and he could understand that. The anger came from fear. He’d asked her to do something that terrified her. Naturally, she was frightened and lashed out. But he did not understand how she managed to connect one small favor with everything else he felt for her. He still cared for her. He still wanted her. Why would her hosting a ball for his political allies change anything between them?
But it had.
Now when he looked into her eyes, he no longer saw fear and wariness. He saw pain, and somehow he was the source of that pain. He supposed she saw his request for her to host the ball as a betrayal of some sort, but that was ridiculous. Why couldn’t she see that hosting the ball would actually be a good thing for her? It would
help boost her confidence. The ball was as much for her as for him.
Well, that supposition might be stretching things a bit, but the ball was at least not solely for him.
As he strode into his London town house, he tried to remember the last conversation he’d had with his wife. Barring that, he tried to remember when he’d last seen her. It had been at least a day. Surely not more than that. Not two days.
The clock in the foyer struck one. She was probably asleep by now, but Quint could not afford to wait any longer to see her.
He’d mentioned the ball to the prime minister, and Quint had to be sure the plans were going according to schedule. And, of course, there was another transgression. Quint had promised to help her plan the thing, and he hadn’t lifted a finger to do so. He’d been too busy, overwhelmed by bills, speeches, and correspondence.
But he would rectify everything now. He would apologize and renew his offer of assistance—or at least the best efforts of his own assistant—and she would forgive him.
He hoped.
And after she forgave him, he would kiss her, make love to her, and all would be right between them again.
He hoped.
He took the steps two at a time and clomped down the hallway. Her door was open, and he slowed as he neared it.
“Oh, good, Lord Valentine. You have returned.”
Quint peered into Catherine’s dimly lit room and saw her seated on the low plush bench used at her dressing table. A valise crouched at her feet.
He frowned. “It’s after one in the morning. Why are you awake and dressed?”
“I was waiting for you. I wanted to tell you good-bye.” She stood and bent to lift the valise.
“What are you talking about?” His eyes swept the room. Her armoire was open, and except for a few scattered linens, it was empty. The dressing table was bare of combs and brushes. Nothing personal remained in the room.
Quint felt the old prickle of unease at the back of his neck. He lifted a hand, rubbed it away, but it returned with a vengeance. Nothing good came from that prickle.
Catherine stepped before him. “I’m leaving you.”
