Instinctively Catherine recoiled at his touch, which caused Marcus’s jaw to tighten and his eyes to harden.
‘I think I am right in assuming that you did not love your father.’
‘I disliked him exceedingly—as much as he disliked me, and almost, if not more, than you did, it would seem.’ Catherine said this without any hesitation and with such an intensity of feeling that Marcus could feel her hatred.
‘It seems we have that in common, at least.’
‘Then you can be sure it is the only thing,’ she retorted scathingly.
‘We shall see.’
‘How could you despise him so much and yet sit down to a game of cards with him? An immensely profitable game of cards,’ Catherine stated meaningfully.
‘So,’ Marcus said, nodding slowly. ‘He told you of that.’
‘My father never told me anything.’
‘Then who?’
‘His lawyer. Not until he was dead was I told the sordid details of how I came to be your wife—how you intended using me as your mistress until you tired of me and how my father insisted on marriage instead. You could not have known then how much my father despised me, otherwise you would not have used me in your foul scheme.’
‘Perhaps not—but it is done and there is no going back. Your father and I had an agreement, that once the marriage ceremony was over I would not see you again until after he was dead. I kept that agreement. However much you resent me and intend fighting me, Catherine, you are my wife—or are you going to tell me you did not know what was happening to you? That night, even though you were against it, you pledged yourself to me—or perhaps you don’t remember.’
‘I remember well enough,’ she flared. ‘I remember how I was bartered and sold like a piece of human merchandise. You and my father included me in a game in which I was not consulted. Tell me, Lord Reresby, when you played your tawdry, shameful game, did either of you give a thought to me and how I would feel having to tell the man I loved and hoped to marry that I could no longer be his wife because I had married someone else? Do you deem it right to force yourself on me, destroying any hope I had of wedding the man of my choice?’
Marcus remained silent, frustrated because he condemned his own actions and could not defend himself. From his own and Catherine’s irate viewpoint, he had acted dishonourably.
‘Do you wonder that I feel anger and resentment towards you?’ she went on. ‘How dared you treat me in such a fashion? Put yourself in my place, my lord. Ask yourself how you would feel. And how do you expect me to live with you as your wife—to respect you as a wife should—after what you have done? I will tell you this,’ she said, breathing deeply, ‘that no matter what you expect of me, I despise you. I loathe you only a little less that I loathed my father, and I shall until the day I die.’
Marcus looked at her seriously, nodding slowly. ‘We shall see,’ he said quietly, seeing her stricken face and angry tears misting her eyes. He had caught the note of anguish in her voice, which tore at his heart. She was right and he was deeply sorry for the hurt he had caused her, but it was too late to change anything now. It would be a long time, if ever, he thought, feeling a pang of regret, that she would be able to trust him—but it would also be a long time before he would be able to forget that she was Henry Barrington’s daughter. And yet he knew he must if they were to have any sort of life together as man and wife.
It was time for him to take control. Removing his jacket, he threw it onto the bed and seated himself before the fire. He leaned indolently back in his chair, and crossed his long legs at the ankles. ‘I imagine you are now ready to explain your behaviour.’
The tone of his voice made Catherine’s heart contract. No hint of softness showed in the marble severity of his face—no hint of anger, either, which was infinitely more disturbing. Fear stirred in her heart. After all, what did she know of this husband of hers? Was he a hard man, a violent man, who would beat her into submission? She forced herself to keep calm, not to appear ill at ease, not to show the unnerving effect being alone with him was having on her.
‘Well?’ he demanded impatiently. ‘I should like to know precisely what has happened between the two of you. Your companion appeared to be a rather attentive young man, and as your husband I have to ask you just how far his attentions have gone. And do not lie to me, Catherine. If there is nothing else, there has to be truth between us from the start.’
Understanding his meaning, Catherine felt the flush start somewhere deep down and rise upwards over her breast and face, and then rage, full-bodied and fortifying, propelled her forward to stand over him. ‘Of all the loathsome, arrogant…’ she erupted furiously. ‘Harry and I have known each other since we were children, and his behaviour towards me has been impeccable.’
‘Thank you for that edifying piece of information,’ Marcus remarked coldly. ‘And I am to believe that?’
‘Believe what you like. I don’t care, but I speak the truth.’
Marcus believed her, though as he continued to watch her, his face was set in lines of smiling challenge. Now was the time to let her know who was the master, his expression seemed to say. When they reached Saxton Court she would be mistress of both the house and servants, but as man and wife, what went on when they were alone in their bed was for him to decide.
‘I shall soon discover that for myself. Now, take off your clothes and get into bed.’
Catherine’s cheeks flamed suddenly as though he had hit her and she recoiled instantly. ‘And what about my feelings? Do they count for nothing?’
‘Your attitude suggests that I seek to force myself on an innocent, unprepared young woman,’ Marcus remarked with a spasm of anger. ‘You are my wife, and, by God, before we leave this place you will be my wife in truth.’
‘Am I expected to be a servile creature, nothing more than a consenting slave to do your bidding? I will never love you—and you delude yourself if you think that. I know well that I must do my duty—but if you touch me now there will never be liking between us.’
As quick as a panther Marcus sprang from his chair and advanced towards her. Before she could protest he untied the ribbons holding her cloak and let the heavy folds fall to her feet. He gazed at her, standing straight and unflinching before him. The soft light fell on her lovely face and shoulders. Her face was pale under the heavy mantle of her midnight hair, and her eyes, blazing her defiance and as challenging as his own, were bright with bravely held tears. She looked so heartbreakingly lovely that Marcus longed to draw her into his arms, but to do so would earn him a harsh rebuff.
‘Defy me one more time and I’ll remove them myself. It is not my intention to make you dread this night, Catherine, but I consider it kinder to tell you how things will be than to let you wonder. We have to talk, you and I. There are many matters to be settled between us, but time for that later. Tonight I want us to set our differences aside and behave like any newlywed couple.’
‘Don’t you lay a finger on me, Marcus Reresby,’ Catherine warned, ‘or I’ll scream the place down.’
‘And don’t you threaten me, Catherine. You’ll regret doing so. I’ll touch you whenever and however I please, so let that be an end to it. Now get undressed.’
Catherine’s soft lips tightened, and her eyes, glaring at him, blazing defiance, remained fixed on his as she began removing her clothes, her fingers fumbling with the difficult fastenings. When she came to the last piece of concealing clothing she cast it off and in one glorious gesture flung it to the floor. Breathing fast, she opened her arms wide, every curve and hollow and shining piece of flesh exposed for him to see.
‘There. Is this what you want?’
Marcus, having watched her in mocking amusement, now froze in surprise and admiration for the amazing sight he beheld. She was beautiful, like a lovingly and delicately carved figurine, and yet as she squared her shoulders and shuddered at what was to come, he realised he’d hurt her and humiliated her, which brought a twinge of conscience. And
yet even now her stubborn, unyielding pride refused to permit her to collapse at his feet. That indomitable spirit of hers remained unbroken, and for that he thanked God.
Without more ado she crossed to the bed, turned back the bedspread and climbed in, where she lay staring up at the canopy, clutching the sheet under her chin, acutely aware of her nakedness. She heard Marcus divesting himself of his clothes and refused to look at him. When he joined her and, intent on his purpose, drew her rigid figure into his arms, she did not flinch. She wanted him to take her swiftly, for the thing to be done.
And it was, for Marcus was of the same mind—determined to make her his, and quickly. There was an urgency about him, violent yet tender, and Catherine felt a sharp pain, just for a moment, and when she would have cried out her mouth was stilled by his. When it was done and Marcus had rolled away, leaving her body trembling from the assault, she lay on her back in a state of confusion and frustration.
Knowing that she was irrevocably and eternally in love with Harry, she was ashamed that a man—yes, a man, she realised, not a boy—other than Harry had taken her virginity. Tears formed under her closed eyelids and slipped down her cheeks. Although it was not wrong to lie with one’s husband, by doing so she felt that she had betrayed Harry.
The fire had died. In the darkness, leaning towards Catherine, his weight supported on one elbow, Marcus could not distinguish her eyes, but her face was wet when he touched it. In response Catherine turned her back to him and curled up on her side. Miserably she tucked her head in her bent arms and sobbed. Putting his hand on her shoulder, Marcus gently tried to turn her toward him, but she shrugged his hand off.
‘Please don’t touch me,’ she said in a suffocated voice. ‘Please.’
After pulling the covers up to cover her, Marcus lay back. Something shattered inside him as he listened to her muffled sobs that seemed to go on for ever. He should not have done this to her. He should have shown patience, courted her, softened her, for no matter how impatient he had been to make her his wife, it would have been wise to do so. And now there was nothing he could do to atone for the act he had committed against her will.
At thirty-one years old Marcus was a man who knew his own mind, understood his motivations. He was a shrewd, rational man, highly disciplined, who prided himself on his inability to be swayed by emotion or flights of fancy. So what on earth was happening to him? Catherine had sparked feelings in him, feelings of protectiveness, and deeper, unfamiliar ones, too. Feelings he did not understand.
When at last she rolled on to her back and fell into an exhausted slumber, he leaned over her and tenderly brushed a damp strand of hair from her cheek, content to spend the rest of the night watching her sleep. Because he knew that until she welcomed him into her bed as her husband, this was the last time he would ever touch her.
The steady rain had dwindled into shreds of drifting, greyish mist by the time the carriage turned up the lane leading to the Reresby sprawling country estate. Catherine felt a palpably increasing aura of tension. She did not feel exactly enthralled by the prospect of their imminent arrival at her husband’s home. She had enjoyed a relatively uneventful journey, though she found Marcus’s stoic expression rather forbidding. She was careful to keep a guard on her tongue and held herself in reserve more than usual, and though she didn’t ignore Marcus precisely, she seldom addressed him directly for fear she would reveal her emotions.
Catherine was a maid no longer. She was a woman now, Marcus Reresby’s woman, but her heart remained unmoved and still belonged to Harry. The confusion her husband had created in her in their marriage bed that night at The Hague had evaporated with the dawn—until the next time, she thought as she looked at him. She remembered the unfamiliar, intimate things he had done to her, the feel of his long limbs pressed to hers, the feel of his mouth on her own, the strange joining of their bodies, and how it had left her confused, frustrated and curious about the act itself. Yet Marcus seemed to have easily dismissed what he had done to her that night, for three days had passed and he made no attempt to repeat it.
From Lyme Regis they had journeyed north towards Taunton, turning west before they reached the town. Travelling on top of the coach with the driver was Marcus’s manservant, who went with him everywhere. He was a young, mild-mannered man named Dickon, with big laughing grey eyes and dark auburn hair. With his sunny, open disposition and constant chatter, he had eased Catherine’s tension and kept her constantly entertained on board ship. She had been glad of his company.
As the carriage bumped along a winding stretch of road towards Saxton Court, a cluster of deer grazed under the dripping foliage of the trees. As the conveyance rumbled past, disturbed, they raised their heads to look at them before bounding away. Eventually the carriage passed through the archway of a battlemented gatehouse. A cobbled way led into the main court of the house, and the conveyance came to a halt before the towering edifice. Dickon leaped down to open the door. Marcus climbed out and held out his hand to his wife, but Catherine merely sat there, her gloved hands folded in her lap, her face set.
‘Please get out, Catherine,’ Marcus commanded her, a hard note in his voice. ‘The servants are waiting to welcome you to Saxton Court—your home.’
‘My home!’ Catherine flashed him a quick look. ‘I do not feel that Saxton Court is my home.’
‘Nevertheless, Catherine, that is exactly what it is. As you see, the servants have gathered outside at some considerable discomfort to themselves.’
Still furious with him for refusing to take her to Riverside House, she was of a mind to defy him. But there was a look in his eyes that was suddenly intimidating, and then, too, she was conscious of the servants waiting in the damp conditions. Reluctantly, her face mutinous and gritting her teeth, she took his proffered hand and stepped to the ground. She knew she was looking her best. Beneath the fur-lined cloak resting on her shoulders her travelling clothes were of supple sapphire-coloured velvet. The open collar showed off her long graceful neck, its delicacy emphasised by a tiny pearl pendant.
With her hand on her husband’s arm she allowed him to draw her forward. They moved down the line of the servants—a veritable army of clerks, housemaids, stable hands, gardeners, and all manner of estate workers, young and old. Every eye was drawn towards their new mistress. They were attracted by her beauty and enchanted by the spirit and animation evident in the way she moved and on her face. Almost instantly Catherine found herself consoled by the smiles and looks of admiration, and she knew that as Lady Reresby she would be treated with respect.
At the end of the line Marcus introduced her to Mrs Garfield, the housekeeper, standing respectfully to one side.
The older woman’s face held a gentle kindness, and her grey eyes expressed complete admiration. She curtsied low to her new mistress as if she were of royal blood. ‘Welcome to Saxton Court, my lady. I hope you’ll be happy here.’
Catherine smiled wryly as she looked up at the great house towering over her. ‘So do I, Mrs Garfield. So do I.’
Heads turned to watch as they climbed the wide stone steps between a double row of more servants and entered the house.
Catherine cast her eyes around the vaulted hall, seeing its towering walls hung with shields, swords and other trappings of ancient chivalry. A fire burned in a huge stone hearth, providing a welcoming warmth.
Marcus paused and looked around, noting with some satisfaction that the house was kept scrupulously clean. Light streaming through the long windows fell in bright shafts upon the polished oak floor and wall panelling, lighting upon the grand staircase. He could smell polish, and the sweet scent of fragrant blooms in several vases placed on tables. For a moment he was content to stand and gaze while the years slipped from him as if coaxed away by that sweet smell. Here, a lifetime ago, he had declared to his father his intention to become a military man. How disappointed his father had been, having hoped Marcus would take over the running of Saxton Court. With an effort he shrugged the memory aside.
Now was not the time to dwell on what might have been.
Hearing footsteps coming slowly towards them, Catherine turned her head towards the sound. Her attention became focused on a figure clad entirely in black moving towards them with a stiff gait, casting a very long shadow across the floor.
‘Ah, Fenton,’ said Marcus. ‘Come and meet my wife, Lady Reresby. Catherine, I would like to present Mr Jacob Fenton, my bailiff. Mr Fenton came to Saxton Court shortly before my father died.’
Allowing nothing of his thoughts to show, Fenton turned to Catherine, wearing a faintly superior, supercilious expression. A man in his fifties, there was nothing gentle looking about her husband’s bailiff. His bearing and expression spoke of arrogance. He was a tall man, with dark brown hair drawn off his narrow face, and pale green predatory eyes. His chin was long and curved, a facial defect that did nothing to enhance his looks.
In Catherine’s breast a ripple of something stirred. She didn’t know what it was, but she knew that in some peculiar way it was important. Something about Mr Fenton was familiar, but she could not think what. She had never seen him before, so she could only surmise that he reminded her of someone else.
Fenton inclined his head slightly without taking his eyes off her face. ‘At your service, Lady Reresby. Welcome to Saxton Court.’
‘Thank you. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Fenton,’ Catherine responded. ‘But, do I know you?’ she added uncertainly. ‘Have we met?’
‘No, Lady Reresby, we have not. I would remember. We were expecting you several days ago, Lord Reresby,’ Fenton remarked to Marcus.
‘Yes—unfortunately I was delayed—at The Hague of all places,’ he replied drily, casting a meaningful look at his wife. ‘And how has Saxton Court fared in my absence? From your reports everything appears to be satisfactory.’
For the next two minutes he questioned his bailiff about the estate.
For what seemed an eternity Catherine stood by his side perfectly still, waiting for the moment when Marcus would remember she was there. She felt as if there was a strange power emanating from him now, a force that seemed to communicate itself to Mr Fenton and diminish the man. When Marcus had finished discussing estate matters and he switched to something else, his voice began to scrape against her lacerated nerves, but she waited patiently for him to finish.
His Rebel Bride Page 6
