by Shana Galen
The dining room was blissfully empty, and she leaned against a chair, took a deep breath, and tried to calm herself. No one was looking at her. No one cared one whit for her. It was only that there were so many people in the rooms, jostling against her, closing her in. She was being foolish, especially considering that she had been doing so well all evening.
There was nothing to fear. And yet, she couldn’t seem to take a deep breath. She closed her eyes.
“Out of breath, dear sister?”
Catherine opened her eyes and stared into cornflower blue ones. Lizzy.
No, not Lizzy. Not now. Catherine just needed a moment to collect herself, and then she’d be able to take anything Lizzy threw at her.
Catie straightened and shook her head, praying for courage. “Elizabeth, how good to see you.”
“Liar. You’re no more glad to see me than I am you.” Elizabeth crossed her arms and cocked her blond head so that her curls bounced. “You stole my husband.”
Catherine shook her head. “No, that’s not true. Father—”
“You stole him, and you’ll pay for making a fool of me.”
“Lizzy, you know I would never do that. Besides, you’ve always said nothing less than a prince would do for you.”
Elizabeth reached out and snatched Catherine’s arm, digging her nails in deep. “He was mine, and I will have him back.”
Fear stabbed Catherine’s lungs. She knew Lizzy would do what she said. Lizzy always got what she wanted. Had she ever thought she could hold Quint when her sister wanted him? But she wouldn’t give him up without a fight.
“Let go.” The words were low, but Catherine knew she was losing the battle to keep this exchange between the two of them. Soon Lizzy would say or do something to draw the crowd’s attention, and the ball would be ruined. Catherine’s mind raced. She couldn’t allow Lizzy to ruin this for Quint. She had to find a way to remove her sister before it was too late.
“Do you know what everyone is saying about you? They think you’re a whore. They know Quint should have been mine.”
Catherine shook her arm, and said firmly, “Let me go, Elizabeth. This is not the time or place.”
“You would say that.” She dug her nails deeper, and Catie hissed with pain. “You shall go home with Valentine tonight. I have nothing to return to but that hovel. Since you married, I haven’t had a single offer. I’m going to be an old maid.”
“Do not be ridiculous,” Catherine said, finally managing to free her arm. Spots of blood welled up where Elizabeth’s nails had taken hold. “You’re only seventeen. You will have many suitors.”
“I want Valentine.” She swung her arm, sending a stack of china cups onto the floor. Catherine jumped back to avoid the shrapnel, but Elizabeth caught a strand of her hair and held on.
Catherine could hear gasps and whispers as people began to realize what was happening. She closed her eyes, knowing that whatever happened now it was too late. It would look to everyone as though Elizabeth were the wronged one. Quint would hate her. “Elizabeth, let go.”
Elizabeth had her hair tight, and the tears were beginning to sting Catherine’s eyes.
“You ugly whore. I hate you.”
Catherine’s blood boiled. “Not as much”—she wrenched her hair free of Lizzy’s grasp—“as I hate you!” And then she pushed with all her strength.
Lizzy stumbled over a chair, knocking it over, and then was thrown off-balance. She threw an arm out in an attempt to stop from falling into one of the tables, but Catherine hooked a foot under her, and Lizzy went down, landing with a thud on the floor.
“Now, you’ll pay,” Elizabeth hissed, rising to her knees. Catherine knew she had to stop her sister before an even bigger fiasco ensued. She glanced around for something useful, but saw nothing other than the punch bowl.
The punch bowl.
Elizabeth was rising to her feet, spewing threats and curses, and Catherine grabbed the bowl and lifted it.
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “No!”
But it was too late. Catherine dumped the cold punch over her sister’s head so that the red liquid cascaded over Elizabeth’s head and shoulders, dripping onto the floor. Several guests dashed to get out of the way. Elizabeth looked up, her hair matted to her face. She looked small, like a wet cat.
“I think that’s all the time I have to speak with you tonight, Lizzy,” Catherine said. She signaled to two footmen standing speechless in the corner of the room. “Please escort my sister out. She is no longer welcome here.”
“You bitch!” Elizabeth screamed as the footmen came up on both sides and took her arms. “Valentine was mine!”
Catherine saw the reporter from the Times standing in the doorway. He had his notebook out and was jotting something in it. Oh, Lord. Why did he have to see?
And then she looked past him and saw the prime minister and Quint. Both men looked shocked and slack-jawed. Catherine closed her eyes. As she’d feared, she’d ruined everything.
She turned away from her husband’s disappointment. Tears wanted to well in her eyes, but she would not allow them to fall here, where anyone could see. Undoubtedly, her marriage was over. They’d come so far together, but none of it would matter after this. She’d ruined his chances at a Cabinet position.
Behind her, she heard the footmen returning, and then she heard Valentine’s voice. “Is she gone? Good. Make sure she doesn’t return. I don’t ever want to see her face again.”
Catherine turned to stare at her husband. He was glad Elizabeth was gone? He was throwing her out? In front of the prime minister?
Where was her true husband?
He stared at her across the room, and then he was walking toward her, his pace increasing the closer he came. And he didn’t stop when he reached her. In spite of the fact that she was splattered with punch, he pulled her into his arms. Catherine was rigid from shock.
“Are you well?” he asked. “I’m sorry, Catherine,” he whispered in her ear. “I’m so sorry.”
“But why are you sorry?” she asked. “You have done nothing.”
“I should have listened to you. I should never have invited her,” he said.
Catherine blinked at him. “Then you don’t blame me?”
“Blame you? Sweetling, you tried to warn me. I’m the one who’s a stubborn fool. You were right about your sister. You’ll never have to see her again.”
Catherine opened her mouth, but no words would come. She swallowed. “Then you don’t want her? You don’t wish you’d married her instead of me?”
Quint shook his head. “Your sister pales in comparison with you. How many times do I have to tell you that I only want you?”
“Oh, Quint.” She wanted to say more, but the words lodged in her throat.
He took her hand. “Everyone is looking at us, expecting us to do something. Would you favor me with the next dance?”
“I-I—” She glanced about them. It was true. Everyone was looking at them. For once, it didn’t matter. She was with Quint. “Of course.”
Quint led her to the center of the ballroom, where they joined the line of couples in a country dance.
He stood across from his wife and smiled at her. The night was a disaster, and still he could not stop smiling at her.
He wasn’t sure exactly what had happened. The evening had started out well enough. His wife was lovely, easily the most beautiful woman in the room. She had been a poised and gracious hostess, and the ball had begun without incident. The prince regent had arrived just as the dancing had begun, and he was in an agreeable mood and began the ball by partnering Catherine’s cousin Lady Madeleine in the minuet. And then Quint had danced with Catherine, and he was pleased to note that she was an excellent dancer.
He had been more than pleased to relinquish her hand to the prime minister, and though she trembled when he released her, he thought that her time with the prime minister had been a success. Mr. Perceval had come away laughing and had shaken Quint’s hand and told
him that Catherine was a refreshing change from the usual Society hostesses.
Quint had deemed the ball a success—at least in his own mind. And when he’d seen Fairfax, he’d shaken the man’s hand with equanimity. Why not? It had been a good fight, but one of them would have to go away the loser. Quint knew it would not be he.
Now, he was not so certain. The incident between Catherine and her sister would be in all the papers in the morning. He’d be the butt of jokes and speculation. He hated gossip, but after an incident like the one tonight, there was no avoiding it.
He had probably lost the Cabinet seat.
And still he could not stop smiling at his wife. She was so beautiful, so brave, so…Catherine. Looking at her, the Cabinet position just didn’t seem to matter anymore. Nothing mattered except her.
“Thank you,” she said, as they moved with the other couples in the dance.
Quint had to move away from her as his turn came, but when they crossed paths again, he said, “Why are you thanking me? I haven’t apologized near enough.”
She blinked at him but had no time to make a response before she linked arms with the man diagonal to her and executed the next movement of the dance. When they came back together, she said, “You stood by my side. That’s all that matters to me.”
Quint squeezed her fingers. “I’ll always stand by you. I should have listened to you before. I was wrong about your sister, and I admit when I’m wrong.”
They parted again, and it was ages before he finally had her in his arms again. He turned her, pulling her closer than necessary, and she whispered, “It takes a strong man to own up to his own mistakes.”
Quint grinned at her, turned her about, and took her hand, leading her off the dance floor. “And it takes a weak one to succumb to his wife’s charms in the midst of a ball, but I hope you can forgive this weakness as well.”
“I can forgive anything of you.”
Her voice was breathless behind him as he pulled her along. He nodded at guests and eyed a servants’ door nearby. They had almost reached it when Mr. Hudson, the reporter for the Times, stepped in front of him.
“Lord Valentine,” Hudson said, and Quint noted that the man was holding his notebook like armor. “Might we have a word?”
Quint gave Catie a quick glance, then pulled her to his side. “What is it, Mr. Hudson? As you can see, my wife and I have a ball to host.”
“Yes, you’ve been busy all evening. That was an interesting scene with your sister, Lady Valentine. Care to elaborate?”
Catie paled, and Quint stepped in for her. “No, she does not.”
“Then what do you have to say, Lord Valentine? There have been charges of impropriety, even illegality, connected with your wedding. Were you not engaged to Miss Elizabeth Fullbright?”
Quint narrowed his eyes. He’d successfully deflected most of the questions and controversy by leaving Town and exercising his power as a peer. Why was Hudson bringing it up now?
Behind the reporter, Quint saw Fairfax standing a few feet away. His handsome rival was smiling smugly.
Quint turned back to Hudson. “How much did Fairfax pay you to ruin me, Hudson?”
He heard Catie gasp beside him and took her hand.
“I don’t know what you mean, Lord Valentine,” Hudson said smoothly. “I have quotes from Lady Valentine’s own father and sister. Fairfax has nothing—”
“Fairfax has everything to do with it,” Quint said, closing in on the reporter. Hudson stepped back. “You’ve always supported him over me. Perhaps I should mention something about the value of impartial journalism to your editor, Mr. Hudson.”
“Perhaps I should mention the role opium played in your wedding, Lord Valentine. An opium-eater in the Cabinet. What will the public say?”
Quint released Catie and grasped Hudson by the neck, thrusting him against a pillar.
“Quint, no!” Catie called. “Think of your position.”
But he didn’t care about his position anymore. He didn’t care what anyone said or thought about him. He only cared about Catie. He would protect her.
“Listen to me, Hudson,” he growled. “You print whatever lies about me you choose, but you leave my wife and my marriage out of this.”
Hudson put his hand over Quint’s and loosened his grip. “I would like to, my lord, but with the public so divided, and the prime minister so uncertain, I fear I must tell our readers the truth.”
Quint breathed in and out, felt his head spin, and saw his dreams and his future slipping away.
And then he turned to his wife. She was there, beside him, looking at him with so much trust, so much faith. In her hazel eyes, he had all he needed—and more.
“Quint?” she said uncertainly.
“One moment, sweetling,” he murmured. Slowly, he turned back to Hudson. “I have a new story for you, Mr. Hudson. Something I think your readers will find even more fascinating than my wedding.”
Hudson raised his eyebrows and the pad. “I’m listening.”
“I am no longer seeking the Cabinet position. In fact, I wholeheartedly endorse Mr. Fairfax’s appointment.”
Hudson’s eyes widened. “You are serious, my lord?”
“Print it, Mr. Hudson. If you don’t, I will.” He turned to take Catie’s hand again, then swung back to Hudson. “And leave my wife out of it, or I promise you, Hudson, you will have more than your story to worry about.”
With that, Quint pulled Catie after him and headed directly for the servants’ door. The corridor was dark and littered with forgotten serving trays and glasses. Quint hoped the servants had abandoned it temporarily as well.
Quint knew he’d just ended his career. He knew he’d just tossed away all his dreams, all he’d worked for. But as Quint pulled Catherine inside the servants’ hall and leaned against the door, closing it, enveloping them in the dim glow of a distant candle, he didn’t care. His career was nothing. Nothing mattered except Catherine.
“Quint,” she said, her voice worried, “did you just tell that reporter you were ending your bid for the Cabinet?”
He ran a hand through his hair. “That doesn’t matter to me anymore. All that matters is that I’m here with you.” He leaned in to kiss her.
“But Quint,” she said, holding him off with one hand, “your career means everything to you. You have to go back out there and tell that reporter—”
“No, Catie,” he said, his finger brushing over her lips, “I meant what I said. As for going back out there, I’m perfectly happy exactly where I am right now.”
Quint wrapped a hand around his wife’s waist and tugged her against him. She was warm and supple in his arms, and he could not resist bending to taste the exposed skin of her neck.
“So sweet,” he murmured against her ear and felt her shudder. “I wonder if you know what I’m thinking at this moment.”
“Perhaps I am thinking the same thing,” she said, pressing herself against him.
“Oh, God, I hope so.”
He took her mouth with his, delving between her warm wet lips, tasting her hungrily. He tried to be gentle, but his need was too great. And she was having none of his tenderness tonight. Her hands tore at his coat, and then, when she could not remove it, her fingers tugged at his hair, bringing his mouth down on hers.
He removed his coat for her, and then her hands were inside his shirt, her touch heating his skin even further. His hands inched up her waist, cupping her breasts, and then fumbling with her gown and her stays to free her flesh for further exploration.
“My, but you did that rather easily,” she gasped, as his thumbs brushed over her erect nipples.
“I have a confession.” He dipped and laved a tongue over one pebbled nub. “I am rather eager to be inside you.” He closed his mouth over one breast and kneaded the other with his hand.
“I think…I feel…the same.” Her voice was breathless with need, and she arched against him, pulling his hair to keep his mouth where she desired.
When sampling her flesh with his lips was no longer enough, he reached under her skirts and stroked her thigh. Her skin was silky smooth under his fingertips. As he inched higher, she moaned in his ear. Her moans turned to gasps as his fingers penetrated the juncture of her thighs. She was already wet for him.
He plied her flesh with expert strokes until her breathing rasped against his temple, and then she tugged on his hair and he looked up at her.
The corridor was dark, but she had a mischievous smile on her face. “Let me show you what I am thinking,” she whispered, and with one hand she reached out and stroked his hard length through his trousers.
He threw back his head and closed his eyes, reveling in the pleasure of her touch. Her fingers were uncertain at first, slow and cautious, but then, with encouragement, her strokes grew bolder and longer. And then with a flick of her fingers, she freed him from his trousers, and her hand touched his bare flesh. He stifled a growl in her neck, and pulled her hard against him.
Lifting her off the ground, he swung her toward the door, and pinned her against it. Her skirts were an encumbrance for only a moment, and then he felt her warmth against him.
“Wrap your legs around me, sweetling,” he murmured in the peach-scented curls at her ear. “I’ll hold you up.”
She did as he commanded, and with slow, cautious movements, he entered her. But once again, she thwarted his best attempts at gentleness. She moved against him so that he filled her far more quickly than he’d intended. And God help him, but he loved the feel of her around him.
He withdrew and thrust again, trying once again to keep his movements gentle, but she tugged at his hair. “Harder, Quint. Faster.”
He could not argue with that dictate, and he plunged into her, hearing the thunk as her body pushed against the door. And still she urged him on, her words frantic in his ear, her hands tugging at him, her body taking and demanding as eagerly as his own.
Her cries became louder, drowning out the thunk of the door and the orchestra music above that. She was riding the tide with him. He could feel it in the way her legs tensed, the way she threw her head back, the tiny ripples as she clenched and released around him.
