He had never loved her at all. Nor had he been courting her. His entire pursuit of her had been a lark. A stupid, foolish game.
He had collected his winnings, and so, too, had she in the form of a life’s lesson learned.
“Are you saying you are certain you will not fall in love with him?” Hattie asked.
“I am saying I will never again fall in love with another man,” Catriona answered with utmost confidence. “The Earl of Rayne will never be able to hurt me, because I will never feel anything for him. He will be a means to an end, and that is all. If I wed him, I will have my life back. If I do not, I am doomed to either try to find a husband who will have me although I was compromised, or become a companion or a governess.”
Rayne had not been wrong about her potential fate. It was indeed grim.
“So you see, Hattie dearest,” she pressed on with a bright smile she did not feel, “marrying the earl is the best decision for me.”
Her friend gave her a searching look, her mien grim. “I pray you are right about that, Catriona, for you deserve only happiness.”
Happiness.
The word held a different meaning for her now than it once had. And she hoped she could rediscover it as the Countess of Rayne.
*
Alessandro sat opposite the Duke of Montrose in a private room at The Duke’s Bastard. Montrose had a half-consumed glass of contraband Scottish whisky at his elbow. Contrary to his previous meetings with the duke, this time, Montrose did not appear to be thoroughly sotted.
A welcome improvement, that. One would only hope the blackguard would remain sober enough to discuss the marriage contract for his only sister.
“I will provide her with a more than generous allotment of pin money,” he told Montrose, continuing his list of provisions for his future wife.
Wife.
Cristo, how the word stung. He remembered whispering it to Maria after they had first wed, in awe that she was his. Only, he had spoken it to her in their language. Esposa.
Lady Catriona Hamilton would never be his true wife.
She would be the woman he married. The way to settle his duties. The conveyance for his freedom and return to the country and people he loved.
“I have read the contracts,” Montrose said. “I find them all in order. Your allowances for Lady Catriona are fair. Fairer than need be, given her reduced status. Most men in your position would not accept her.”
He hissed out a sigh of annoyance. “I am not most men. And thank Cristo for that. I have already procured a special license, Montrose. What else did you wish to discuss? To my knowledge, the contract is plain, and it benefits Lady Catriona in the extreme. What reason have you for tarrying over it?”
Montrose took a long swig from his glass of whisky before settling it back upon the table with an indelicate thump. “Damn it, this is my sister, Rayne.”
He was unmoved. “Your sister who you insisted I wed?”
The duke scowled at him. “To save her. Because I love her. But I also acknowledge I was a trifle cupshot at the time I made the request to you.”
Alessandro pinned him with an unimpressed glare. “And every instance afterward, including now.”
“I am not in my cups now, devil take you,” Montrose denied.
He flashed the duke an insincere smile. “The devil has already taken me. That is why I am here, sitting opposite you in this glorified pleasure palace, watching you swill smuggled whisky and bluster over the marriage contract.”
It was also why he had lost the only two people he had ever loved. Why Maria was gone, why their son had never taken a breath in this world.
“Do you want to marry her or not, damn it?” Montrose demanded.
Here was his chance. He could say no. One syllable, so succinct, so easy. The same in both his languages.
“Yes,” he bit out instead. Because it was the only answer he could give. His duty loomed, now more than it ever had since his return. Lady Catriona was the answer he needed.
“And will you promise to treat her well?” Montrose pressed. “She is difficult and stubborn, but her heart is soft, Rayne. It has already been broken. She has endured a great deal.”
Alessandro almost laughed. If the duke knew what he had endured over the last few years, he would imbibe an entire bottle of whisky just to chase away the memories of it. He had not been ruined. He had been devastated. The man he had once been had been forever changed. Losing Maria and Francisco, fighting in the war, the horrors he had witnessed and partaken in, melded in his mind into one sickening blur of agony.
“I understand, Montrose,” he forced himself to say. “Believe me, I understand better than you think, and I promise to treat her as I would expect to be treated in turn.”
Which meant after she provided him with an heir, she could fuck anyone she chose.
And so could he.
Why this now filled him with a bitterness he could not seem to dispel was a question he would seek to answer later. Another day. A day when he was not signing his life away as he sat opposite the Duke of Montrose.
“You would not harm her, would you?” the duke asked next. “Or force her? If she is not willing? I am aware of this business you have with wanting an heir. Cat told me herself after your meeting. Before I agree to your nuptials, I need to be certain you will always…treat her with care.”
Cristo, what did Montrose think he was, a monster?
“I will not force myself upon her, Montrose,” he said coldly. “You can sleep soundly knowing you have not foisted your scandalous sister off on a man who would hurt her.”
He would not hurt her, of course. He was not a man given to violence against women. Against men, yes. He had committed a shocking number of sins at war. All of which he would carry to his grave and answer for one day. And he knew it.
But Lady Catriona Hamilton would not be one of them.
Of this, he was certain.
“I am not foisting her, damn you,” Montrose said then, before draining the remnants of his whisky from his glass and slamming it back on the table. “I am trying to save her.”
Alessandro gave a grim bark of laughter at such a pronouncement. “Ah, Montrose. None of us can be saved, and the sooner we accept our fates, the better we all shall be. Now, I trust all your concerns have been met, and the nuptials are to proceed as planned?”
Montrose looked as if he were about to argue, but instead, he nodded. “We shall proceed.”
Chapter Three
The garden at Hamilton House was small.
But the Earl of Rayne made it feel even smaller as he walked at Catriona’s side. It was not his impressive height or the barely leashed strength hidden in his lean form. It was not even the austere colors of his jacket and breeches.
Rather, it was his presence.
There was something dark and dangerous, breath-arresting, and stomach-clenching about him. Only he could make the out of doors seem like a confined space.
“I prefer for the wedding to occur quickly,” Rayne said as they reached a small stone bench bracketed by hedges.
His lightly accented English trailed over her like warm honey. The years he had spent in Spain had marked his speech, and she found it alluring.
“How quickly, my lord?” she asked, recalling his statement, the first he had made to her since his arrival that did not pertain to pleasantries.
Because of their betrothal, Mama had allowed the two of them an unchaperoned walk in the garden, but they were to remain within view of the drawing room windows. The part of the garden they had reached was decidedly not visible from where they had left her mother.
“Would you like to sit, Lady Catriona?” he asked solicitously.
His tone was so polite, it was difficult indeed to believe he was the same man who had prowled into the library three days before, upending her life as she knew it. She searched his gaze, wondering if it was wise to linger here with him, where Mama could not see them.
His lips quirked into a
half-smile. “There is no need to fear me. I promise not to compromise you.”
She drew back her shoulders. “I do not fear you, Lord Rayne. I merely did not wish to sully my gown.”
It was a lie, of course. He did incite an inkling of something much like fear deep within her. Nor did she particularly care for the state of her gown. The bench looked clean enough.
He turned toward her, so they stood chest to chest, and he looked down at her, his stare scouring her face. He was solemn. “Are you certain? The look in your eyes tells me otherwise.”
He saw too much. More than she wished for him to see. She looked away, severing the connection of their gazes, settling her eyes upon the hedges surrounding them with their twin walls of greenery.
“I am certain.” But this, too, was a prevarication. He made her feel…unsettled. He was an intense man. “You did not answer my question, my lord. How quickly do you wish to wed?”
The notion of marrying him at all still left her with the same feeling she had experienced once when she had taken out a horse Monty had prohibited her from riding. She had known the beast was dangerous and unpredictable, but she had been too tempted by the forbidden. The ride had been exhilarating and terrifying all at once.
He studied her, his smile fading. “Three days hence.”
Three days.
“Surely you jest, my lord,” she sputtered, finding her tongue. “I require time to prepare.”
“What do you have to prepare?” he asked dispassionately. “All I need is a bride.”
How coolly he spoke of their marriage, as if she could be anyone. As if any woman would do for the role of his countess. Though he had presented their nuptials to her in just such a bloodless manner, and she ought not to be surprised, she could not quite quell the spear of disappointment his detached manner produced in her.
“I need to prepare my trousseau,” she said. And myself.
“You shall want for nothing as my wife.”
“Nevertheless,” she insisted, “three days is not sufficient time for me to plan.”
He clenched his jaw, and even sullen, he was beautiful. “Five days.”
“I am afraid that is still not long enough—”
“Maldición,” he interrupted her. “A sennight. No more, Lady Catriona. I cannot linger here in England forever. The sooner we are wed, the sooner I will have an heir.”
The sooner he would bed her, he meant.
She felt hot and cold at once. “I am sorry, Lord Rayne, but when I agreed to become your wife, you did not make it clear you were desirous of such a hasty wedding. If that is what you require, perhaps it is best for you to find another bride. Our betrothal has yet to be announced, so ending it will not cause any undue consequences for you.”
His full lips compressed. “You are being stubborn, my lady. The marriage contract has already been made. You are mine.”
Mine.
His pronouncement chased away the ice within her, leaving only fire in its wake. Languid, licking through her, settling in her belly, and lower still, between her thighs. What would belonging to this somber, fascinating man mean?
“I am not yours yet,” she cautioned, chasing her unwanted reaction to him with common sense. “If we cannot agree upon marrying, I will not be yours at all.”
He touched her, gently holding her chin captive with his gloved thumb and forefinger. “Do not fool yourself, querida. You have been mine from the moment you agreed to marry me.”
She thought, for a breathtaking moment, he would kiss her. Catriona held still, refusing to wrest her gaze from his. She had only been kissed by one man, and the longing to dispel those kisses forever, to chase away their painful memory with the Earl of Rayne’s sinful lips rushed over her.
“My lord,” she forced herself to protest, but she was breathless. Helpless. Held captive by his intense regard. She wanted his kiss, and the knowledge frightened her more than anything else could.
But he did not bring his mouth to hers.
“A sennight is the longest I am willing to wait, Lady Catriona,” he said, still holding her chin in a gentle grip.
Slowly, he released her, only to trail his touch down her throat until his fingertips rested over her pounding pulse.
The ache between her thighs intensified. His proximity was intoxicating. His scent drifted to her on a soft breeze. Bay with a hint of spice. She inhaled slowly, attempting to gather her wits, but he had her desperately flustered.
There was something about this man—not just his attractiveness—but something indefinable and yet so heady. No gentleman had ever looked at her as Rayne was now. Nor had he ever touched her thus—just the ghost of a caress, and yet enough to set her pulse pounding and turn the trepidation inside her into flame.
“A fortnight,” she made herself argue, and only because her pride refused to allow him to see how greatly he affected her.
“What are you afraid of, my lady?” he asked, his baritone sending a delicious frisson through her. “Your heart beats so fast.”
She reminded herself the only reason he wanted to marry her in haste was so he could also leave her in equal haste. “Perhaps I require time to adjust to the notion of becoming a wife.”
His dark brows furrowed, his expression turning fierce. “Is it because of me? Because of who my mother was?”
Her heart gave a pang at the realization he must have been reviled before, by someone else. “No,” she reassured him. “That is not the reason.”
The true reason was the way he made her feel.
She was afraid of herself.
“Why, then?” Slowly, he removed his touch from her neck.
She mourned the loss. Her skin cried out for more. The connection had been so visceral, so profound, even though it had been just the faintest hint of a caress. But then, as she watched, his lips parted and he caught the tip of his glove in his teeth, removing it in an ungentlemanly gesture that somehow made her heart beat faster still.
“I have only just met you, Lord Rayne,” she forced herself to explain. “If I am to be your wife, I should prefer some time to get more acquainted with you first.”
He took his discarded glove in his left hand, and then his right hand—bare, swarthy, long-fingered, and enthralling as the rest of him—cupped her cheek. “There. The touch of flesh to flesh. Mine to yours, yours to mine.”
“My lord,” she meant to scold, but in truth, the words left her as a hushed murmur without any bite. “You ought not to flout propriety in such a bold fashion. If my mother were to see…”
“You would be ruined again,” he finished for her, flashing her a smile. “By me, the man who intends to wed you. You need not worry, querida. Your mama was not even watching from the window when we first entered the garden. No one shall see.”
His thumb traced her cheek.
She forgot to breathe.
Think, you fool, she urged herself. Put an end to this.
She clasped a hand over his, intending to remove it. But somehow, she could not force herself to do so. She liked the way his hand felt. Liked the sear of his caress. A rush of longing swept over her.
“What are you doing, Lord Rayne?” she asked him instead.
His smile deepened. “Acquainting us. Your body tells me one sennight is more than enough time, Lady Catriona.”
She swallowed. “My lord, you grow too bold.”
“I do not live by your society’s rules.”
“It is your society, too, is it not?” she dared to challenge. “You are half English. An earl.”
“This is the land of my birth, and that is the title I inherited, neither of which can be helped.” He paused. “But I do not belong here. I never did. I do not look like an Inglés, I do not think like one, and I do not act like one. My heart belongs in España. It is where I choose to make my home, in spite of what I lost there.”
His admission was impassioned, and she could not help but to feel this was the first time he was being completely honest with her. Tha
t this was the first time she was witnessing the real Earl of Rayne. But even so, there was much of himself he held apart, refusing to reveal.
“What did you lose there?” she asked, her hand still covering his.
It was as if they were locked together, as if they were the only two people in the world. She looked into his eyes, and she saw the devastation there. The stark pain. She saw the man.
But that quickly, his countenance changed, growing closed. The glimpse she had been given died like an ember cast from a fire.
“Everything,” he gritted.
His response left her with more questions than it answered.
What was everything? Was there someone he loved?
The knot inside her grew.
I will not expect fidelity from you. Nor should you expect it from me.
Or perhaps, he only wanted to marry an Englishwoman for the sake of his title, but he would return to Spain and the woman he loved. The notion ought not to send a pang straight to her heart, but it did.
She removed her hand from his and took a step back, putting some necessary distance between them. “And yet, you choose to return there,” she said coolly. “Why?”
His eyes remained flat, his expression like a mask. “It is the home of my heart.”
Of course he would not confide in her. Why had she imagined he would? More questions swarmed her. What manner of husband would he be? Whilst he intended to return to Spain as quickly as possible, she would be living with him. Sharing her body with him.
The foreboding increased.
“A fortnight,” she repeated. “That is how much time I require, Lord Rayne.”
His jaw tensed. “That is simply not possible. Seven days, Lady Catriona. No more.”
And here was a discovery about both of them, they were equally stubborn.
They stared at each other, at an impasse.
He made no effort to move closer to her, and neither did she to him. The chasm between them seemed to grow by the moment.
“I know nothing of you,” she said.
He raised a brow. “What do you wish to know, querida? Ask and I shall answer.”
If only she believed that. “I already asked, and you refused.”
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