by C. J. Archer
She didn't reach the stairs, however. Light flickered from beneath Hughe's study door. Deep male voices came from beyond, loud enough for her to hear if she put her ear to the wood. She only did it to see if she could hear, but when she heard her name, she paused. If they were discussing her, then she ought to know what they said. She might learn something about her future husband.
"When are you going to tell Cat?" Edward Monk asked.
There was a long pause before Hughe answered. "I'm not."
"What?" Orlando spluttered. "Are you mad? Tell her, man!"
"She has a right to know," came Cole's deep, commanding voice.
"I beg to differ." Hughe met his tone with a steely one of his own.
"Husbands and wives shouldn't have secrets from one another," Orlando said. "Trust me when I tell you, it never ends well."
"It ended well enough for you," Hughe said.
"After more drama than I care to endure again, and then I did tell her."
"Your situation is not as bad as mine."
"Stop playing the fool with her," Edward said. "She doesn't deserve to think her husband a fop when he's not."
"He's right," said Cole.
Hughe snorted. "An expert on women's opinions now, are you?"
"More so than you, it would seem. Holt's right. Tell her. Tell her everything or your marriage won't go well for either of you."
"Christ, this is an ambush," Hughe muttered so quietly that Cat had to strain to hear him. "Listen to me. It seems I have to explain some matters to you dim-wits. Your marriages are based on love and trust. Mine isn't."
Cat felt like a hole had been punched in her chest. She bit her wobbly lip and willed her tears not to spill. He was right. Of course he was. Hughe hardly knew her, it wasn't fair for her to expect him to love her just because she already loved him.
"You might grow to love her in time," Edward said. "She seems like a nice sort."
"She is nice. That's why I’m marrying her. I needed a nice, agreeable wife of my choice. Besides, I had to do it. You all know why."
Had to? Why did he have to? Because he was worried about leaving her with Slade and Hislop?
"But things are different for me than they are for you," he went on. "My marriage will be different."
"It doesn't have to be."
"It does. It was my duty to marry, but the other part of my life must remain separate."
Did he mean his mistresses? As if her heart didn't hurt enough, now it felt like it was being pierced with a needle over and over.
"I am not the romantic type," he said. "Not like all of you."
"Are you calling me a romantic?" Cole growled. Cat pictured the big brute leaning over Hughe, fists poised to thump him.
"As it happens, I am," Hughe said. There was a commotion inside that had Cat worrying about her betrothed's handsome face. Fortunately, his grunt was one of laughter, not pain. "Marriage is making you slow, Cole."
"I won't miss next time you call me a bloody romantic."
"My point is, I am not the sentimental type. You were right earlier. I am ruthless."
"Aye," came Orlando's heavy answer. "You are that. None of us doubt it."
Cat swallowed. His tone worried her. In what way was Hughe ruthless? He'd been nothing but gentlemanly to her. And yet she remembered the way he'd dealt with her attackers in London, and Hislop when he'd threatened her. Not even that cruel man had dared challenge Hughe. These three gentlemen, his friends, must have seen what she'd seen in Hughe's eyes at those moments—a cold, calculating anger that he barely had under control.
"Yet that doesn't mean you can't fall in love with your wife," Orlando went on. "Indeed, I'd like to put a wager on it."
"Don't," Hughe snarled. "Don't treat this lightly, or her. If you want to know the truth, then I'll tell you. I won't fall in love with my wife because I don't find her desirable. You've seen the sort of woman I take to my bed. Cat is the complete opposite."
Cat reeled backward. She blinked at the door, but it wasn't enough to keep the hot tears at bay. She swiped them away, only to have more take their place. His words raked over her skin like a sharp trident, tearing at her, wanting to gouge out her aching heart. She clutched her housecoat over her chest—her flat, pathetic chest—and fled. She ran back to her room, slipped under the bedcovers and cried softly into the pillow.
***
Hughe felt sick and a little lightheaded. The wine was too strong. He'd opened one of his best to share with his friends, and this was how they repaid him. By forcing him to say things he regretted as soon as the words were out of his mouth.
Yet he couldn't take them back. Not now and not in front of them. They were so smug with their troubles behind them and their lovely wives tucked up in their beds, waiting for them to return.
Christ. Cat had wanted him in her bed tonight too. He could have had his own lovely wife waiting for him. Could have eased the ache that had set up residence in his groin ever since catching sight of her on the front porch that afternoon. He'd not thought little Cat would take his breath away, but she did. Every time she touched him, he felt something shift inside him. Every time she smiled, he wanted to smile back. Every time desire filled her eyes he wanted to take her and kiss her and make her his own.
But he did not. Tomorrow night he could, but he was going to be ready for her then. He was not ready for her tonight. Not after drinking a skinful of strong wine. He knew he couldn't keep his heart closed and his mind on the task of making an heir while he was drunk. Duty. That's what this marriage was about. Duty, heirs and making sure she never found out he married her because he felt guilty for killing her first husband.
"Congratulations," Monk said with a shake of his head. "That was possibly the most foolish thing I've ever heard you say, and you've said a lot of foolish things."
Hughe watched Cole's fists, just in case he decided to use them again. He'd dodged the first blow, but only just. Love and marriage hadn't made him slow in the least. He was as dangerous as ever. "Cat is the opposite of what I like in a woman," Hughe said. "The evidence is before you in Lady Fitzwilliam, Lady Crewe, Lady Duckworth—"
"Enough," Orlando said, sounding bored. He refilled Hughe's glass.
Hughe threw it down in one gulp. If ever there was a night he needed to drink to excess it was tonight. He was getting married in the morning. Married! Tomorrow night and every night he was in Cat's company, he was going to remain as sober as a monk. He eyed Monk and snorted. Damned romantic fool.
"The thing is," Orlando was saying, "you're not with any of those ladies anymore." He smiled slyly, as if he'd won an argument. So did Cole and Monk. "Which proves that they're not your type after all."
Hughe dug his hands into his hair and held onto his aching scalp. "Stop talking in riddles."
"You could have had any unwed lady in the kingdom, yet you chose Cat, the very woman you should have stayed away from after assassinating her husband."
"No. I told you. That's why I married her."
Orlando, the pretty prick, laughed. "You chose her, Hughe. Open your eyes—"
"If you tell me to look into my heart, I'll thump you. I know why I chose Cat. She was in a bad situation, thanks to me."
"And me," Cole said. "Should I marry her too? I'll warn you, Lucy won't like that. She might look sweet, but I wouldn't cross her on this if I were you. She's grown quite attached to me."
He sounded so annoyingly smug. They all did. They thought Hughe was like them, when he wasn't. He wasn't soft, he wasn't romantic, and he had certainly never loved anyone, nor would he. Not even his mother. Now that would shock them if he told them.
"She's not the sort of woman I like to keep me warm," he said again, yawning. Maybe if he kept telling them that, they'd give up and leave him alone. He was tired. Tomorrow, his life changed forever. He needed to sleep to get through the madness.
"That's what we're trying to tell you!" Monk said. "You chose her to marry, not to fuck."
"I do want
to fuck her," he slurred. Too late, he realized he'd said too much. He'd given them more ammunition. Damned wine.
His friends laughed. "Get up," Cole said, rising. "I'll carry you back to your bedchamber like the pathetic boy you are."
"No," Monk said. "Let him find his own way." He winked at Cole and Cole smiled back.
Hughe had the distinct feeling he'd missed something important. Not surprising, since he was too drunk and too tired to think straight. Maybe he'd even nodded off for a moment or two.
Orlando opened the door and somebody took him by the elbow and steered him out. Despite saying they wouldn't escort back to his own rooms, Cole marched him away from the study. He let Hughe go just outside a door then deserted him. They all did.
It took another moment before Hughe realized whose door he stood outside. Cat's.
The pricks. They'd done that on purpose. Well, more fool them because Hughe wasn't drunk enough to do something that foolish. He wasn't going inside. Cat would be asleep and he didn't want to disturb her before her wedding day. He meant it earlier when he told her she would need her strength. It was going to be a long day tomorrow. He was only ever going to marry once and he was going to make sure the wedding feast reflected it.
But first, perhaps he could take a peek at his betrothed's sleeping form.
He opened the door. The two maids snored softly on their truckle beds, but there was another sound that had his heart stopping. He strained to hear. Perhaps he'd make a mistake. He hoped he had.
But there it was again, the soft gasps of someone sobbing. Cat was crying.
CHAPTER 8
Hughe crept to the bed, mindful of not waking the maids. He was good at creeping. He'd done quite a lot of it over the years. Usually when he reached his target, he would slit their throat, but this time he lay gently down on the bed behind Cat. She didn't move, but she must have known he was there. Her tears ceased. Her breathing seemed to have stopped too. She was as still as a stone, but even through the bed linen separating them, he could feel her warmth and softness. He sidled closer until her back was against his chest and rested his hand on the curve of her hip. A shudder rippled through her and he had an urge to hold her until it subsided. He circled his arm around her, trapping her against his body.
"Poor little Cat," he whispered in her ear. "Don't cry." He nuzzled into her neck and breathed in her scent. She must have bathed in rosewater. It was intoxicating and filled his head completely. Or perhaps he was still reeling from the effects of that damned wine. He trailed his fingers lightly up and down her bare arm. The skin was soft, silky. He'd known it would be.
Other parts of her would be soft too. Like her throat, her nipples, the inside of her thigh. He grew hard thinking about touching her there, licking her, testing just how silky she could be. His cock felt hot and thick, the ache almost unbearable.
He shifted to alleviate the pressure in his groin, but ended up with her arse right there. God's blood, she had the most delectable little behind. He wanted to slide his cock against it, slip underneath her—
No. Not tonight. Not while she was upset. It was the eve of their wedding no less! She wouldn't want a great oaf of a drunkard prodding his hard cock at her. He must restrain himself, no matter how much it hurt.
He sighed against her and kissed the back of her head. She seemed to relax a little into him, which only served to harden him more. He lay there, frustrated beyond belief, and tried to think through the fog left behind by the wine.
How had this happened? When had he begun to desire Cat? Perhaps it began in London when they kissed. Or when she flirted with him with wit and words. Or when he'd seen the bruise Hislop had inflicted or when he'd seen her holding little George Holt. He wasn't sure. It had happened in small increments over time to take him by surprise.
Bloody hell. He tried to tell himself that desiring his wife was good for their marriage, but only a fool would believe that. Desiring Cat now would cause complications. He was supposed to keep his distance from her. Supposed to keep her happy, do his husbandly duty to get her with child, then leave her alone. He'd killed her first husband! He'd been the architect of her poverty and misery. She would hate him if she learned the truth, perhaps fear him too, and he couldn't bear that. Not now that he'd begun to like her.
"Don't cry, my little Cat," he murmured. She must be upset because of his mother. She could be a dragon when she wanted to be. He'd been the target of her waspish tongue on many occasions and knew what she was like. He was used to her ways, though. Cat was not. "I'll have a word with her in the morning. She won't dare to speak to you like that again."
Cat frowned. He thought she was crying over something the dowager said? Did his drunkenness make him blind as well as stupid? Perhaps it did. She'd seen what too much wine could do to a man. Although, to be fair, when Stephen was drunk, he would come to her bedchamber and tumble her roughly until he reached satisfaction. Hughe did the opposite, despite the rod prodding her rear. If only he would give in to the urge. If only he wanted her enough to take her before they were wed.
Clearly he didn't, or that erection would have been sated by now. Hughe might like her, he might want to comfort her when she was upset, or protect her when she was in danger, but he did not want more. He did not return her love.
His breathing deepened. His hard chest rose and fell against her back to an even, steady rhythm. His manhood deflated and the arm circling her grew heavy. He was asleep.
Cat closed her eyes and tried to sleep too, but her aching heart kept her awake for some time. She must have succumbed eventually, because the next thing she knew her maids were rousing her and Hughe was gone.
It was their wedding day.
***
The wedding of Lord Oxley was held in the family chapel in the presence of the groom's intimate friends, some neighboring farmers, a few villagers and the higher servants. The lack of nobility was noted, but everyone there chose to dismiss it as inevitable since the marriage happened quickly. The ceremony itself was a somber affair, but the revelry at the feast afterward made up for it.
By the end of the day, when it was time for the bride and groom to retire to their chambers, many of the villagers, farmers and servants were dead drunk in Oxley House's great hall. Some had fallen asleep under the table, or out in the garden since it was a lovely evening. The village alderman still sat at the table, his head on his trencher, snoring into a pile of pheasant bones. The dowager countess had picked her way around them earlier in the afternoon and disappeared with her ladies into a quieter part of the house, displeasure written over her face. It was rumored that she was displeased with more than just the drunks, however. The lack of noble guests, for one thing, and her son's choice of bride for another.
But her stern countenance didn't put a dampener on the event. Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, and if anyone noticed that Lord Oxley's friends remained sober, they didn't care. If anyone noticed the new bride's sad eyes as she looked up at her husband, they didn't say so. What they did comment upon was how pretty she looked in her wedding gown. Prior to that day, most of her dresses had been too large for such a slight figure, but the blue satin gown fit her like a glove and showed off her tiny waist.
The couple was sent upstairs with a bawdy song that roused the drunks and would have made the dowager countess's lips purse if she'd still been there. The new Lord and Lady Oxley waved at their guests from the landing, then Lord Oxley picked up his new bride and with a "Whoop," carried her out of sight.
Hughe set Cat down on her feet just inside her bedchamber and shut the door on the cheering crowd. "They'll quieten soon," he said with an apologetic smile.
Cat had hoped to be taken to his rooms, but it would seem he preferred to bed her in hers. She still resided in the guest chambers, where she'd been since her arrival. His mother was yet to move out of the mistress's apartments. Cat didn't mind. She liked these rooms. They were closer to Hughe's.
"At least we're alone," she said. The maids had
been given the night off, their beds tucked away. They'd lit enough candles to see by and strewn extra lavender among the rush matting. The bed covers were turned down, inviting.
"Do you need help undressing?" he asked.
She turned her back to him. "There are pins there," she said, pointing to her lower back where skirt met bodice. "If you wouldn't mind."
He unpinned her. The skirt, underskirt and forepart fell away. He collected the items and the sleeves she handed him and carried them into her wardrobe.
"Did you enjoy the feast?" he asked, returning. His gaze didn't quite focus on her, but a little past her, as if he couldn't even look at her. This was going to a tortuous coupling then.
"I did," she said. "The food was plentiful and delicious. Your friends and their wives are a delight. I'm so glad they came, and that the Monks will be staying. I know I'm going to get along with Elizabeth."
"They all like you," he said, standing before her. "Do you need help with the bodice?"
"No, thank you." She untied the laces down her front and separated the two pieces. He took them from her and carried them into the wardrobe too. She stood in her long shirt and slipped off her shoes. Hughe helped her with the necklace he'd presented to her that morning. It was an exquisite gold chain with a large oval sapphire at the center and smaller sapphires at intervals along the chain. She hadn't noticed until he'd taken her hand in the chapel that the sapphire ring he always wore was missing. It was then that she realized the gem now occupied the center of her new necklace.
She removed the matching earrings that he'd also given her that morning, and the rings. The jewels were a sharp reminder that she had done very well out the union and he'd fared poorly. She'd brought nothing of value to the marriage.
"Would you like me to disrobe before you remove your shirt?" he asked.
"I think that would be best."
It was all too formal, too awkward, too wrong. She wanted him to tear at her clothes, eager to see the package inside. She would have settled for a gentle unlacing. She hated this passionless process, as if he were ticking off each garment from a list. There was no desire in his voice, no heat in his eyes, not even an erection. Unlike the previous night. Clearly he only desired her when he was too drunk to see properly.
