No Man's Bride

by Shana Galen

  “I can’t decide if you’re a cat burglar or a guest hoping to make a fabulous entrée.”

  The girl’s head snapped up. “Who are you?” she said, taking a step back.

  “Who am I?” Quint chuckled. The interloper had courage. He pulled out a cheroot. “I’m a guest with an exceedingly conventional entrance. No match for you. I came in through the front door.”

  She backed up again until she was flush against the stone banister. “So did I. I was only in the bushes because”—she glanced over the side as though looking for an inspired excuse—“because I lost something.”

  “Did you find it?” Quint lit the cheroot.

  “No.” The bushes below her heaved and swayed. “I mean, yes. I don’t require any assistance.”

  “Well, you might if you don’t step away from the banister.” Quint walked toward her. “It sounds like there’s something down there.”

  She immediately stepped in front of him, blocking his view. “Why do you say that?”

  Something grunted, and a branch below cracked. Quint raised a brow. “Because I bloody well hear it, that’s why. Now step away before you’re hurt.”

  She shook her head and continued to block him. She was a tall woman, barely a head shorter than he, and he could not see past her. “I’m afraid I cannot do that,” she said. “I cannot move unless—unless you come with me. I couldn’t live with myself if you were hurt by that—dog.”

  The dog made a very human grunting noise. The woman was obviously daft. She was either truly afraid for him or didn’t want him to see what was over the railing.

  Quint craned his head one last time. What was she hiding? Her lover? All he saw was darkness.

  “Very well, I will retreat if you will,” he said, giving in. He moved back, and she followed. “I came outside because I was looking for Miss Fullbright.”

  “Oh!” She paused midstride. “But I am Miss Fullbright.”

  But the woman looking at him was not Elizabeth at all. In fact, she was a poor substitute for his intended. Whereas his Elizabeth was petite and fair with a fall of blond curls and big blue eyes, this woman was tall and olive-skinned with hair so dark it was black. Pieces of that hair fell haphazardly over her eyes so that he could not determine their color, but he saw no resemblance whatsoever to his betrothed. Perhaps she was so daft she was now impersonating others?

  “I must be mistaken. Did you say you were Miss Fullbright?” He could see no harm in giving her the opportunity to rectify her erroneous claim.

  “I did. Who are you?” she asked. She swiped a strand of hair from her face and when she did so, Quint caught the resemblance. Her eyes were not the brilliant blue of her sister’s, but they were the same shape, and she looked at him with the same mixture of skepticism and curiosity.

  “Forgive me,” Quint said and bowed. “You must be Miss Elizabeth Fullbright’s sister.” Damn it, but he could not remember her name. Claudia? Cordelia—no, that was the mother. Calista?

  “And you must be Lord Valentine,” the girl said. Then, to his amazement, she looked him over. She studied him from head to toe as though he were a piece of meat at the butcher’s shop or a bolt of muslin she wanted for a dress or—he flexed his hands as her gaze traveled back up again, pausing for a moment on his groin—as though he were a prostitute in a line of them, and she was choosing her partner for the evening.

  The gall of the woman, and he had heard she was shy and insular. How wrong that report had been!

  “Congratulations on your impending nuptials,” she said when her eyes were back on his face. “Though I feel I should offer you my sympathies instead.”

  The bushes behind them rattled savagely. “Perhaps we should retire farther away.” She indicated the far corner of the terrace. Quint would rather have stayed and observed what other suspicious movements the bushes made, but she was already moving.

  When they reached the appointed spot, she perched on the balustrade. Behind her were the dark lawn and the misty lights of the city. The breeze whipped up, trailing loose strands of her hair over her shoulders. He caught the faint scent of peaches on the wind, and then it was gone.

  “Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Lord Valentine.” She stuck her hand out, and he shook it almost automatically. “Once again, my condolences on your engagement. Good night.”

  Quint recognized the dismissal, but he was not ready to go. Not by far.

  “Madam,” he said, “you offer condolences. I believe the accepted practice is to offer felicitations.”

  He watched her straighten her shoulders and had the distinct feeling she was bolstering her resolve as well. Good God. Was it that much of a burden to wish her future brother-in-law a happy marriage?

  She looked up at him. “I do not wish to overstep my bounds—”

  “Oh, no. You must speak now.” He waved her onward. “I insist.”

  “Very well. How well do you know Elizabeth, sir? What I mean to say is, have you known her long?”

  “A month, perhaps a bit less,” he answered. “I met her at the start of the Season.”

  “I see. And have you had an opportunity to talk much with my sister?”

  Quint drew his cheroot and watched her through the fragrant smoke. How did one define much? He had spoken with Elizabeth enough to know she would make an acceptable wife. That did not require extensive conversation, though. He would have plenty of time to know all her thoughts and opinions over the years of their marriage.

  Quint doubted the young upstart before him would appreciate the efficiency of his selection process. He was willing to wager she was the romantic sort. Finally, he said, “You are certainly full of questions tonight. And I had heard you could be timid.”

  She blushed at that. He saw the color in her cheeks even in the dim light. The woman was a mélange of contradictions—bold one moment, bashful the next.

  “I admit, I am not usually so forward, sir, but I cannot help but wonder how well you know my sister. Have you spoken with her much as opposed to”—she waved her hand as though searching for the words—“just looking at her?”

  Quint was speechless for a moment, unable to predict the direction of her questions. It was a bit unusual for an orator as great as he to find it difficult to gauge his opponent’s intent, but he had no idea at what Elizabeth’s sister—Camelia?—was hinting.

  Quint stubbed out his cheroot and decided a direct approach might be best. “What are you suggesting, Miss Fullbright? If you are implying there has been anything improper between us—”

  “Oh, good Lord, no!” She laughed then as though the statement were the most preposterous thing she had ever heard. “I simply wondered how well you knew Elizabeth. In short, sir, I wondered if you knew what a wicked shrew she is.” She raised her voice on the last and seemed to say it to the balcony at large. She looked back at him. “I can see by your look that you do not.”

  Immediately Quint schooled his face into the unreadable expression he used when a political opponent made a point that was technically correct but which Quint had no intention of granting him. “I fear I am at a loss for words, Miss Fullbright. Your sister is a very sweet girl, and I cannot imagine why you would disparage her so.”

  The girl muttered something that sounded like, “I’m sure you can’t,” and then she smiled at him. “I’m only trying to save you from a dreadful mistake, Lord Valentine. You seem a nice enough man.” At this she looked him over again. “Intelligent, handsome—though your hair is a bit long—and I would not want to see you shackled to such a horrible witch as my little sister.” Again, she seemed to say this to the terrace behind him, and Quint swore the bushes at the other end rattled at her words.

  He made to speak, but she held up a hand to silence him. And then, perhaps sensing this would not be enough to quiet him, she rose from the banister.

  Knowing who she was now, he could not help but judge her against her sister. He had been right in thinking her the taller of the two. She must have a good five i
nches on Elizabeth and was at least thirty pounds heavier. But it might be more, as her dress was too big for her, and she wore a wrap pulled like a shield about her.

  When she stood, she was nearer his height, and he was able to look directly into her eyes. They were much darker than her sister’s. He guessed them to be brown. And her hair. It was the thickest, darkest coil he had ever seen. There was the scent of peach wafting toward him again, and for one moment, he thought her beautiful—far more beautiful than her sister—and then the moment passed and he wondered how he could ever have compared the two.

  “My lord, I will not keep you, but I would be remiss in my duty as a fellow human being if I did not warn you against marrying Elizabeth.”

  “Your duty as a fellow human being?” Quint said through clenched teeth. “What about your duty as a sister?”

  She laughed again, and this time he had difficulty resisting the impulse to throttle her.

  “I owe Elizabeth no duty, I assure you. She is a spoiled, demanding little shrew, as you will see for yourself. Do not say I did not tell you so. Now, if you will, please leave me alone.”

  “Gladly.”

  She made a gesture that he supposed was meant to dismiss him, and as he was more than eager to oblige her, he started for the doors to the ballroom. At the last minute, he turned back. “It seems to me”—Caroline? Claudette?—“madam, that you, not your poor sister, are the shrew. I pity your family and the man you marry.”

  She laughed again, and he turned away from her—vexing how often and inappropriately the chit laughed—but he paused when she called, “You are absolutely correct, sir. I am a horrible shrew. Tell all of your friends. Take an advertisement out in the Times. I won’t relinquish my hand without a fight!”

  As soon as Valentine entered the ballroom, Catherine began to shake. To calm her nerves, she began to count. The predictability of the numbers always soothed her.

  Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…

  Even counting wasn’t calming her nerves at this point. She had almost been caught. She’d tied Elizabeth up and left her in the bushes, and Valentine had almost caught her.

  Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…

  She began to shake anew, thinking of the way she had spoken to him. She was not a rude person, but desperate times and all that. The problem was that not only had she been rude, she’d been critical. What had gotten into her? She was usually such a nice girl. Oh, she hoped she never saw Valentine again.

  And yet what else could she do? Lord knew she didn’t care whether or not he married Elizabeth. He seemed the sort of man who was unlikely to be swayed by someone like her at any rate. But she’d had to at least delay the nuptials. She needed time to plan her escape.

  Catherine rushed back over to the shrubs where she’d left Elizabeth and peered over the edge. She could just make out her sister’s golden hair and white gown in the thick foliage. Lizzy was staring up at her. Catherine would have liked to give her a three-fingered wave and skip off, but she could not be that cruel.

  “I’ll come back for you when Valentine is gone,” she called. Lizzy shook the bushes and said something, but with the gag in her mouth, Catherine couldn’t understand.

  “I’ll be back,” she promised and headed toward the ballroom to keep an eye on Valentine. She stopped just before entering to give herself a moment to rally her courage. The room was full.

  No, to say the room was full was like saying the old king George was just a little bit off. The room was brimming over, and George III was mad as a loon.

  Catherine tried to calm herself by reflecting on the fact that with so many people crushed together inside, there were many other people far more interesting to look at than she. No one would care about her.

  Unfortunately, she also detested small, tight spaces, and she could see nowhere in the room that would afford her any space to breathe.

  Taking a last deep breath of freedom, she plunged inside and squeezed through as best she could, searching for Valentine. Not that she wanted to speak to him. She just wanted to make sure he didn’t decide to return to the balcony to investigate the rustling bushes further.

  “Where have you been?” Her father’s fetid breath hit her cheek, and his rough hand grasped the tender flesh of her upper arm. “Why aren’t you dancing?”

  “I—” she began, but he shook her violently, and she could not finish. Catherine could only be thankful they were in public, else he would have done far worse than shake her.

  “I told you to find a husband.”

  She stared at him, at his small black eyes and large red nose with the broken blood vessels. How she hated him sometimes.

  “You’ve sat on your arse and lived off my largesse long enough,” he continued. “I’ll have you married before my Elizabeth, or you’ll know the back of my hand.”

  “Then I suppose you’d best release me so I can simper and flirt. Or are you going to make a scene? I can imagine how that will influence my chances.”

  “Little hoyden,” he spat. “I’ll be glad to be rid of you.”

  And then the bruising hold was gone, and her father disappeared through the crowd. Catherine’s brave façade shattered, and her teeth began to clatter.

  One, two, three…

  The noise and the heat from the crowd in the Beauforts’ ballroom seemed to press in on her. She tried to gulp air and could not.

  Four, five, six…

  Her heart began to pound, and her throat closed up. She had to escape. Ever since she’d been a small child, she’d had a fear of loud noises and tight places. The night her cousins had rescued her from the closet under the stairs had not been her last confinement there. And her father, whether sober, drunk, or depressed at having lost at dice, always found her pitiful cries amusing.

  But she could not cry here and now. She had to get out. She had to have space and air to breathe. Edmund Fullbright would not be pleased if she escaped back onto the veranda at the first opportunity. Her only hope was that he would be not be sober enough to know anything a half an hour from now. She’d smelled the alcohol on him, and it penetrated his every pore. Soon, he would be too drunk even to remember her name. Catherine was counting on that fact as she squeezed through the room and into the foyer.

  By the time she made it through the crush, she was perspiring and pulling in short, panicked breaths. She felt dizzy, and her chest was constricting, and just when she feared she would pass out, she felt a familiar hand on her shoulder.

  “Catie, are you well? Oh, no. You’re not. Quick. Sit down.”

  She was led to a chair against the wall and encouraged to take deep breaths. A footman was sent running for a glass of wine, and then that was thrust under her nose as well. She drank a small sip, then looked up to see Josephine standing over her.

  Josie bore the closest resemblance to the picture of a pixie that Catherine had ever seen. With her cropped auburn hair, pulled back by combs into a wispy crown about her head, her small pointed nose, and her perpetually mischievous smile, Josie looked like trouble.

  And she was.

  Her only saving grace was her huge, dark green eyes. They were fringed with long, dark lashes, and tilted upward. When Josie wielded her eyes, no one could stay angry at her long.

  “All right now?” Josie asked, those green eyes full of concern.

  Catherine, her voice still not recovered, nodded.

  Josie shook her head. “Why do you do this to yourself, Catie? You hate these things. Why not just stay home?”

  Catherine swallowed another portion of wine.

  “Now, take a deep breath. There is nothing to fear here. You just need a bit—”

  “Of confidence. Yes, that’s what you always say.” Her voice was raspy but strong. Catherine took another sip. “I’m in trouble, Josie. I can’t go back through there, so you shall have to go outside and untie Elizabeth. I left her in the bushes beneath the veranda.”

  Josie’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “I wanted to keep
her away from her fiancé, but as it was, I was almost caught. By him.”

  Josie blinked at her, and then erupted into a fit of laughter. “Oh, this is too much. Are you telling me that right now your evil sister is tied up and sitting in the bushes beneath the veranda?”

  Catherine nodded.

  “And that when you were tying her up, her own fiancé almost caught you?”

  “I was climbing back onto the balcony, and Elizabeth was still thrashing around. It’s not a long drop, and he heard her. I think I managed to convince him it was a dog, but what if he goes back out?”

  “Who cares? I say we leave her there until morning. Maybe the gardener will find her.”

  “Josie, we can’t!”

  “The little wretch stole my grandmother’s earrings and won’t give them back. I hope she gets frostbite.”

  “Oh, no! It’s not that cold outside, is it?”

  Josie smiled and plopped down next to Catherine in the chair. “No. I was joking. Maddie told me about Lord Valentine and Lizzy. How did your thief of a sister manage to win him?”

  “Her charm, I’m sure.”

  “What charm?” Josie took the glass from Catherine and swallowed its contents. “It’s a tragedy. Lord Valentine is so handsome. I would have thought Lizzy’s betrothed would have two heads and three arms.”

  “No, only one head that I saw.” And a very nice head at that, Catherine thought. A very nice everything. He was tall, taller than she by several inches, broad-shouldered but not so broad that his chest reminded her of a tree trunk, and his eyes were the loveliest shade of brown—a polished mahogany color that she could get lost in.

  Not that she intended to get lost in the man’s eyes—or any man’s eyes for that matter. At twenty, she was an avowed spinster. If Elizabeth wanted to marry the man, bear his cuffs and smacks when he drank too much and cry when he stayed out all night with whores, leaving her and her children home alone, then that was Elizabeth’s concern. Not hers.

  Unless she didn’t delay Elizabeth’s marriage.

  “Josie, I need your help.”