by Sue Swift
She watched as Quinn washed himself at the ewer and bowl located atop the dresser in the room.
When he returned, she saw that his tool, now smaller and softer-looking, was damp. He nudged her legs apart to gently press a cool cloth over Kate’s tender female parts. She closed her eyes. While his touch soothed, she nevertheless felt intensely embarrassed at the unaccustomed intimacy.
“You’re nicely formed, sweetheart,” he remarked.
“You touch yourself here, do you not?” Kate’s eyes popped open before she covered her face with her hands. She was completely undone by his candor. “Quinn. The things you say—”
“Kate. Listen to me.” He dropped the cloth and grabbed her hands, forcing them away from her flushed face so he could look her in the eyes. “Never be ashamed, never, about anything between us. You are a beautiful, passionate woman, and this—” he touched a finger to her swollen femininity, “God gave you this solely for your pleasure. So how could touching it be wrong?” He bent his head to kiss her mouth again. Despite her shame, she quivered as liquid heat began to pour anew through her body. He kept his grip on her wrists with one hand, alternately teasing her breasts and her bud with the other.
Kate abandoned control and let Quinn kindle her fires.
* * *
Katherine crashed onto a wooden floor. She whimpered in mingled fear and pain. She looked around, recognizing the ballroom of Badham Abbey, eerily lit by moonlight streaming in through the tall windows. The dust motes she’d raised by her abrupt entrance shifted like ghosts in the moonlight. The blood in her heart froze solid. She did not understand how it still pumped, but pump it did, for she heard her heart’s rapid thud, felt the fluid in her vessels as it raced through her body.
Quinn grabbed Kate as she sat bolt upright in bed, her scream strangling in her tight, tense throat.
“Kate, Kate, it’s all right, I’m here, it’s me.” He enfolded the struggling, sweating girl in his arms as she whimpered. “You had a nightmare, darling, it’s gone now.” He continued to whisper endearments until she quieted and stopped trembling.
“Tell me about your dream, sweetling.” He wanted to know everything that went on inside his Kate.
“It’s nothing. Just—just—the night I left the abbey.”
Damn and blast! He struggled to keep his voice calm and comforting. “It’s over, love. I’ll never let them near you again. I promise you’ll always be safe.”
“I know.” She rubbed her face against his chest.
“When did decide you wanted me?”
“Hmm?” He paused, surprised by the abrupt change in the conversation. “That’s hard to say. I believe I desired you the moment you charged into my room, dressed in those outlandish tights.” He kissed the top of her head.
“Really?”
“Umm, yes. And you?”
“I’m not quite sure, either. I knew you were interested by the way you looked at me, and somehow, that made me think about you in a particular way.” She tipped her head back to look at his face.
His eyes were solemn as they met hers. “I did not intend to seduce you, Katherine.”
“I know. Something about honor.”
“Yes, something,” he said drily. “I would not desire gossip about either of us.” More experienced than Katherine, he knew gossip was the favorite food of the ton. Neither her birth nor her fortune would shield her from vicious tongues.
“‘Tis silly. Why let gossip keep us from happiness? I love you, Quinn, and I need you.”
“And I need you, but there are those who will say I defiled my ward.”
“I do not feel defiled.”
“Just a bit sticky.”
“Yes, quite.” She giggled, and he couldn’t help but take her in his arms again.
Chapter Twelve
Quinn, clad only in his trousers, yanked on the bell pull and shouted for his valet.
“Don’t bring Malcolm in here!” Kate clutched the sheet around her shoulders. “Where is Bettina?”
“Both our servants have arrived, along with clean clothing. Shall I ring for a bath, sweetheart? We should be on the road to London as soon as possible.”
“London?” Disoriented, Kate saw Bettina bustle into the room. The maid bore a salver with a pot of chocolate and a roll. The look Bettina shot Quinn reminded Kate of her maid’s attitude toward squints and wrinkles.
Quinn waited until Bettina left the room before replying. “I think you will agree that what happened last night requires our return to town to marry as soon as possible.”
“Why the haste? I want a proper wedding.” Kate sipped her chocolate.
“The haste, my love, is due to the fact that you may now be carrying my child.” He leaned over her, caressing her belly possessively.
“Your child, my lord?” Kate put down her cup with a snap.
“Our child.” Quinn hastily amended his statement. “Are you always blue-devilled in the mornings?”
“I am not blue-devilled. Where are my wrapper, my maid, and my bath?” Kate swung her legs out of the bed, and gasped in shock when she sighted the dried brownish smears which stained her limbs as well as the bedclothes.
“‘Tisn’t that much,” said Quinn. “No need to be in a pother. However, I believe we both want a bath this morning, hmmm?”
He tucked the sheet around her, then tugged on the bell pull again. He opened the door and, in deference to Kate’s need for privacy, stuck his head out. “Malcolm! Where is that bath!”
* * *
The visible evidence of her defloration startled Kate almost as much as the act. Quinn spared no time in repeating that act, giving Kate little chance to absorb the impact of the previous night. Frequency did not rob their lovemaking of its excitement, for he invented variations which made her head spin and her body quiver. The most commonplace event and situation held erotic possibilities, including the hipbath and the barouche. The journey back to London passed very quickly, as she literally had her hands full of her creative, demanding lover.
A frisson of remembered pleasure ran through Kate’s body at the thought. She suppressed her wanton longings and turned her attention to her new surroundings.
Katherine’s bedroom adjoined Quinn’s, which augured for numerous interrupted nights. Her dressing room was on the other side. The bedroom had a goodly view of Berkeley Square but was decorated in a manner which betokened vacancy for many a year, as the heavy puce hangings reflected a bygone era. She speculated the last tenant may have been one of Quinn’s old mistresses or perhaps even his mother.
* * *
“Mum’s, of course.” Quinn said as he escorted her down to dinner. They dined that night alone in Quinn’s home in Berkeley Square. His white, starched shirt gleamed against his black evening coat; the ensemble was set off by a single ruby. He grinned at Kate. “After my father died, she needed to be close by. But now, she’ll just have to become accustomed to the title of the Dowager Countess of Devere, and to the second-best bedroom.”
“I don’t want to offend your mother.” Kate sounded alarmed.
“Oh, no chance.” Quinn said, hoping to reassure her. “She’s been pushing me to marry since the old man died. Protect the lineage, and all of that. She’ll be delighted.”
“Where is the countess now?”
“At Devere. You’ll like the old country home, Katie. Lots of frogs and trees.”
“I suppose I should begin to behave with more countenance, now that I am going to be a countess.”
“You don’t have much time. We will marry on the morrow. Shouldn’t take more than an hour or two to get the special license.”
Kate picked at her salmon as Bartram topped off her champagne. “Where shall we marry, my lord?” Quinn eyed her with some concern, then moved an epergne full of white rosebuds off to one side of the dining table in order to scrutinize her more closely. “I understand you attend St. Martin-in-the-Field, Katherine.”
“Yes.” Kate pushed her plate away.
&
nbsp; “Will that church be satisfactory?” Quinn watched Kate over the rim of his champagne flute.
Although she wore her white silk trimmed with blue velvet—an ensemble which was particularly flattering—she did not have the glow he had expected on this occasion. He frowned. What on earth could she want? He’d spent most of the journey to London with his head nestled between her thighs. She ought to be delighted!
“Yes, my lord. It is very thoughtful of you to see to that detail.” Her voice was listless.
“I see you are unhappy about all of this.” He waved his hand about.
Kate remained silent, her teeth digging into her full lower lip. Bartram carved her a slice of sirloin.
The butler added green beans to her plate, then attended to Devere’s dinner.
Quinn tried again to divine the cause of his Kate’s megrims. “I am sorry we cannot wait until invitations are sent out or St. Wills returns.”
A tear started from Kate’s eye and coursed down her cheek. Quinn promptly waved the servants out of the room. She wiped her face with her napkin, reaching for composure. “It is true I would have preferred if some of my friends or family attend.” There was only the slightest tremble in her voice.
“You have no family worth discussing,” he said, hating the words as soon as they issued from his lips.
Quinn did not think of himself as harsh. “But Hawkes and Pen will be there, of course, to stand up for us.”
“Sir Willoughby and cous—Sir Pen will be our witnesses?” Kate’s tone took on a happier bounce.
“Of course.” Quinn smiled at his Kate and cut his meat.
“I thought Sir Pen would have taken Pauline back to Kent by this time.”
“He did not. He stays in Town until I have met Badham.”
“Met Badham?” Her voice sharpened. “Met Uncle Herbert where?”
Quinn realized he had misstepped, but couldn’t see a way out. He chewed and swallowed as he considered his next words. “I thought you knew, sweetling. I challenged Badham to a duel on the occasion of your rescue. I thought it was necessary.” He paused.
Kate went absolutely still.
“Hawkes and Pen are my seconds.”
Her face was paler than the perfect roses in the epergne. “When?”
“In, um, three days.”
Another pause. “And we marry on the morrow?”
“Yes, sweet Kate. You are in agreement?”
“Does my agreement matter? You are, after all, my guardian.”
Stabbed to the core, he rose. “What are you saying? I was under the impression, Katherine, you love me and wish to marry me.”
“Yes, of course I do. But do you not see how imperative it is for us to marry before you duel Uncle Herbert?”
Quinn threw down his napkin. “That is the plan.
But good God, what are you saying?”
“Quinn, if we do not marry before you meet Herbert Scoville, and you are killed, I am in his complete control.” Kate’s eyes were wild, her mien distracted.
“And if I die, Kate plays the merry widow?”
“Hardly merry, my lord, but free!” Kate also rose, frowning at Devere from across the table.
“Well, these are happy thoughts. Has it not occurred to you, sweet Kate, I might prevail?” He put his hands on his hips and glowered at her.
“I should hope you do, my lord, but that is hardly the point!” Katherine glared back at him.
“Well, what is your point?” He shouted at her from across the white linen, over the epergne filled with white roses.
“My point is that this is a bloody disaster, my lord, and if you had a pennorth of concern for anything other than your wretched honor, we would not be such straits!” she flung at him.
“What straits?”
“Rapiers or pistols, my lord?”
“Pistols, I believe. Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters!” she shouted. “Rapiers require skill. With pistols, any fool can make a lucky shot!”
“Are you calling me a fool?”
“Stop twisting my words!” Tears drenched Kate’s face. “Quinn, I absolutely forbid you to duel my uncle!”
“What?”
“You heard what I said!”
“Katherine, you are in no position to forbid me anything,” he informed her curtly. “Good evening, madam.” He stalked out of the room.
He slammed the door behind him. What a fool!
He had actually let himself believe that Katherine wanted him, loved him, for himself. It was dashed ironic—women had desired him for his fortune or his title, but had never seen him as a romantic champion.
Now one did, but he did not find the role at all to his liking.
Katherine, whose wealth and social status equaled his, wanted a knight in shining armor to protect her against her appalling uncle.
She didn’t want a lover or a husband.
She didn’t want to share his life with him, or bear his children, or be his friend and his companion.
His Kate’s mind and heart were a tangled web, and overriding it all was a driving need he didn’t quite understand. With a sense of stunned dismay, Quinn realized that she desired marriage merely to save herself from her wretched uncle.
She could hire a bloody guard, he told himself savagely. But shouldn’t she be happy? She’ll finally be rid of the beast and his spawn!
How could he have been taken in? He’d stake a stack of Yellow Boys that her climax, no, her several climaxes, were real. He knew the feel of a woman in orgasm; the myriad responses of her sweet furrow had become wonderfully familiar to his rod and to his fingers.
But it wasn’t just that, for his Kate; he’d wager his last dace on it. She wanted him as passionately as he needed her. He was certain he had not mistaken her ardent acceptance of his lovemaking. Damn and blast!
As angry as he was, he desired the perfidious wench still! Quinn stamped upstairs to his room. The last thing he wanted now was to encounter servants. He slammed the door to his room closed, and then hauled it open when he realized there was nothing to drink in his bedroom. He jerked on the bell pull and shouted for brandy.
* * *
Kate remained in the dining room, numb. How could events have taken such a horrible turn? Why on earth was Quinn so angry? Didn’t he understand he was her whole life, and that she couldn’t bear to lose him, not after all the other losses she had endured?
Kate understood that Quinn’s code of honor demanded a duel. Badham had abducted her, and Osborn had tried to shoot Quinn, hitting the horse instead. Those facts made Katherine deeply ashamed to be a Scoville. How could she be related to such villains?
If Herbert were allowed to survive, they’d never have any peace. The thought made her feel a bit better, though not much. It made sense, more sense than considerations of honor.
She pressed her napkin to her eyes until they stopped watering. Bad form to let the servants see her weep.
Kate left the dining room and retreated to her bedroom. She stared balefully at the door which led to Quinn’s room. No sound came from the other side of the door.
The bedroom was bleak and chilly. No fire burned on the hearth, as Bettina was not aware Kate had retired early. Only one lamp was lit.
The room had been dusted, and the bed linens were fresh. The water in the ewer on the dresser was cold, but adequate.
Kate undressed and washed and cried herself to sleep.
* * *
The next day dawned cool rather than sultry.
Kate was glad of the change in the weather. Her nerves were stretched to their limits, and she did not know if she could tolerate another close, warm day.
Unsure of appropriate attire for a fallen woman who was about to wed her seducer, she opted for simplicity, selecting a plain, ice-blue sarcenet with a matching chip-straw hat. A frown creased her brow as she eyed the jaunty hat in the mirror. Shouldn’t she hide her face? Unfortunately, veils were not in fashion. She told Bettina to bring her a bon
net with an exceptionally deep poke instead.
Thus attired, she met Quinn downstairs in one of the drawing rooms. This one was lined with books and its furniture upholstered in leaf-green brocade.
She looked at her intended. Quinn’s eyes were as puffy as hers, and he seemed to have difficulty keeping his lids raised. Crop-sick, is he? Serves him right! Somehow the knowledge Quinn had as bad a night as did she made Kate feel better. Ashamed, but better.
They took the closed barouche to Doctor’s Commons to procure the license, and were accompanied by Richard Carrothers “who,” said Quinn, “is a dab with the details.” While Carrothers was in the edifice dealing with “the details,” Quinn took Kate to a coffee house and poured cup after cup of strong brew down his throat.
The day dashed by. After a quick luncheon in Berkeley Square, Kate allowed Bettina to dress her again in her white ruched silk for the simple ceremony at the church.
Based on the hastiness of the wedding, both Kate and Quinn were surprised to see numerous equipages drawn up in front of St. Martin’s. Several of the vehicles sported crests of the nobility painted on their doors. It was a Tuesday at three in the afternoon, an hour during which members of the ton normally visited each other and exchanged gossip.
Kate and Quinn entered the church by way of the main doors. As they trod the length of the nave, they were astonished to see the dimly lit church was half-full. They stepped up to the altar, decorated with flowers and greenery, looking for the officiant and the witnesses.
The cleric bustled forth from the chancel, where he had been instructing the choir in anticipation of the Sunday service.
“Well, well.” He beamed at the two of them. “You are here, and eagerly anticipated, I vow. The special license?”