by Shana Galen
Quint crossed his bedroom and opened his dressing-room door. It was a small closet, and on the other side was another door, now open, which led to his bride’s room. Though they would not live here more than a few months, he’d had it refurbished specifically for Elizabeth. It was his wedding gift to her. Last week he’d had the room painted, papered, and upholstered in pale blues and lavenders. But now, as he stared at it, he could not picture Elizabeth there. When he looked at the bed he saw—
But it was not true that he couldn’t see Elizabeth in the room. He could picture her standing by the window, an impatient look on her face, and he could see her primping in the mirror of the tulipwood dressing table. He could even imagine her at the large kingwood-and-tulipwood armoire, sorting through clothing, attempting to pick the perfect gown for an evening out.
But he could not see her in the bed, could not see himself sharing it with her. When he looked at the bed, he saw—
He turned and strode back to his own chamber. Standing before his own bed, draped in dark blue, he willed himself to imagine Elizabeth there.
The image of a hazel-eyed, olive-skinned girl appeared before his eyes. Her silky black hair fell in soft waves to her waist, caressing generous curves. She was naked—her golden breasts covered by long, lustrous tresses—but the slight swell of her stomach and the curve of her hips drew his gaze. He wanted to reach out and touch those jutting hips, wrap his hand around her waist, and pull her lush, warm body against his own. He could smell her now, her fragrance rich and heavy like ripe peaches. Closing his eyes, he imagined taking her mouth with his and running his hands down along her body until he cupped that sweet derrière and pressed her hard against—
Quint opened his eyes and, hands on the coverlet before him, took a shuddering breath. The little witch had enchanted him. That was the only explanation.
He hadn’t cared one whit for the chit before the betrothal ball, but from the moment he’d seen her in the low-cut white satin gown, he could not take his eyes from her. Damn fool girl. Why hadn’t she worn a shawl with that gown? Better yet, why hadn’t she stuck to dressing in the poorly fitted gowns he was used to seeing her wear? He did not want to know that underneath those ugly shapeless things, she was so ripe and lush a man’s hands ached to caress her.
Unlike so many of the pale, cool beauties of the ton—hell, unlike his own betrothed—Catherine was alive. Her skin, her hair, her complexion glowed with luxuriousness he needed to taste, to touch. Beside her, Elizabeth looked pale and wan. A slip of a girl beside a goddess.
Quint had tried to avoid Catherine at the betrothal ball, but she had sought him out. Even then he attempted to ignore her. He tried to be cold, but she thawed his reserve until he found himself alone with her, arms about her, mouth so painfully close to touching hers that he felt he would go mad for wanting her.
And he still wanted her. There was no doubt in his mind that the ache in his groin and his agitated state were due in part to Catherine Anne Fullbright.
Quint was not a rake. Nor was he a saint, by any stretch of the imagination. He was a disciplined man. He did not want or need a woman in his bed every night. And he did not seek to bed every woman he met. There were women available to him, and he occasionally partook of their charms. He was a vital man of thirty, and he had needs. His needs were not pressing. There were often weeks when he did not even think of women, especially when he was consumed with important political affairs. More than anything else Quint sought a mate with the same goals as he. He fully intended to be faithful to Elizabeth, and he hoped one day he would come to love her, as his own parents had learned to love and cherish one another.
Quint knew what he wanted, and that was why he could not understand how he—an honorable man, a disciplined man, a rational man— could not cease fantasizing about his fiancée’s sister.
Was he so depraved that he imagined betraying his wife before they’d even exchanged vows?
Was he so degenerate that he could not stop images of Catherine—Catie, her sister had called her—lying under him, her legs wrapped around him and her breathing hard and rapid?
“Damn!” He turned and swiped his hand over his desktop, toppling several books and sending papers dancing all over the room. There went all his careful notes for the prime minister.
Shaking his head, Quint knelt to restore the desk to order and his temper to its usual evenness.
There was a quiet knock at his door, and his valet, Dorsey, said, “Are you well, my lord?”
“Fine,” Quint called. “Come back in an hour. I’ll be ready to dress for the wedding.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Quint listened for the receding footsteps and then returned to his task. With each paper he ordered, each book he set to rights, each pen he set in its usual place beside the blotter, he wiped Elizabeth’s sister from his mind. He ordered his bedroom as he ordered his thoughts, and there was no place for Catherine Fullbright in either.
The bedroom door slammed open, and Catherine sat up with a scream lodged in her throat.
“Elizabeth, go to your mother’s room. Now.” Her father stood in the doorway, the light behind him, his shadow falling over Catherine’s bed like a shroud.
Catherine watched as her younger sister scrambled out of her bed, passed her father, and hurried out the door. It was Elizabeth’s wedding day, and Catherine had only moved back in the room from the attic two days ago. Perhaps her father had forgotten he’d allowed her to move back?
“Father,” she stuttered. “Remember, you said I could sleep in here now.”
But he remained blocking the doorway, and Catherine shrank back when he raised the lantern he carried and stepped into her bedroom.
He was not alone. Beside him was a large man, almost as wide as the door and almost as tall. He had his ham-sized fists outstretched, and he leered at Catherine with obvious intent.
“F-f-father, what do you want?” Catherine pulled her knees up against her chest and tried to make herself small. With the two men in her bedroom, the room already seemed unbearably tiny and cramped. She struggled for breath as her heart pounded incessantly in her temples.
One, two, three…
“Well, what do you think?” her father said to the beefy man, holding the lantern closer to Catherine so that she was visible. She lowered her head, and her father grasped her chin and yanked her face back up. “Stand up girl. Show him what you got.”
She screamed as he hauled her from the bed. Her nightshirt ripped on the bedpost so that it fell open over her shoulder. She caught it before it could expose more skin. Head ringing, she clutched her father and looked up in time to see the beefy man grinning down at her. God help her, she could see the bulge in his pants.
“I like her. Ten pounds, you say?”
Catherine blinked. Ten pounds? Was she being sold? Here and now, thrust out of her warm bed and bartered away like a piece of meat?
“Ten pounds,” her father agreed, and stuck out his hand. The beefy man handed him a wad of blunt and then reached for Catherine.
She screamed. She screamed like she had never screamed before, so loud that it would wake not only the house but the neighbors and the whole city of London.
“Stop that infernal wailing,” her father bellowed. “I gave you a chance. I brought you suitors and took you to balls. But you wouldn’t listen.” He bent low and his rank, brandy-soaked breath wafted over her. “You and that little hoyden cousin of yours had to make plans.” There was dried spittle on his lips, and she could see he hadn’t shaved for several days. Stray, gray hairs grew in at all angles on his chin and cheeks. “Now, you see that I keep my promises.”
He hauled her up and all but threw her at the beefy man, but Catherine reached out at the last moment and grabbed her father’s hand. Her thoughts were wild now, desperate and jumbled, and all she could think was no, no, no!
She held fast to her father’s hand, even when he tried to pry her fingers loose.
“Get off me,” h
e said, but she held on. And somehow she leashed her terror, gathered it into a ball, and used it to fuel her courage. She looked up and into her father’s face. He was staring down at her, his expression uncertain. She did not think he had expected this from her.
“Daddy,” she cried, using the endearment she hadn’t spoken since she was a little girl. “Please, don’t do this to me. Please. Anything but this.”
“I won’t have this insubordination,” he roared. But she held on. “You’re no longer my daughter.”
“Daddy, please, no. Please. I’ll marry. Whomever you choose. Anything. Please don’t give me to him.” She glanced ay the brute again. “Please, please.”
“You’ll do whatever I ask?” he said. “Marry whomever I say?” When she looked into his face again, she saw the slightest hint of a smile. Her blood turned to ice, and she felt her stomach heave.
“Anyone?” her father pressed. “Even your sister’s betrothed?”
Catherine swallowed the acid in her throat. She wanted to scream no. What her father suggested was wrong. Immoral. She glanced back at the beefy man, then back at her father.
Catherine swallowed the acid in her throat and nodded.
“Good.” Her father strode to the door and clapped his hands and Meg, their much-abused housemaid, came in carrying a tray of tea.
Catherine looked from Meg to her father. “What is that?”
Her father poured the steaming brew into a large cup and thrust it into her hands. “Drink it, or I keep his money.” He nodded at the beefy man.
Catherine swallowed. “But, Father, this will never work. Valentine is no fool. He’ll know I’m not Elizabeth. Even if I’m veiled, he’ll know.”
Edmund Fullbright smiled. “Don’t you worry about Valentine. I bribed one of his footmen to give him the same brew you’ll take. Now drink.”
The brute shifted, his gaze never leaving Catherine’s breasts.
Catherine gulped the foul-tasting brew, not caring that it scalded her tongue.
Three hours later, she stood in the chapel. It was cool and quiet inside, but to her everything appeared hazy and blurred. She swayed, but her father’s hand on her elbow steadied her. She was glad that she could not see clearly, glad that her groom’s face was obscured, and that the tea her father had given her before the ceremony numbed her. She did not want to think what she was doing.
She did not want to think of Elizabeth at home, crying, as Catherine took her place. She did not want to think what Valentine would do when he lifted the heavy veil and saw his bride.
But perhaps he would not notice. She’d seen him sway and stumble and knew he, too, was drugged.
The parish priest was speaking, saying her name, and behind her, she heard her father cough. He’d done so each time her name was required. He’d hacked and coughed, concealing the sound of her name, so that she did not even know whether her name or Elizabeth’s was spoken.
And then she was being shaken from her lovely quiet place. She was urged to speak, and she obeyed. It seemed so much easier to obey now that she had drunk the tea.
She spoke the words required of her, listening to the voice coming from her lips in wonder. It did not sound like her, and yet she liked listening to the voice. She did not want the voice to stop.
But she was hushed, and the voice went dead, and Catherine wished she herself were dead because then her heavy veil was lifted, and she looked into mahogany brown eyes. The shock and disgust on Valentine’s face was a physical blow. And then all went black.
Catherine stretched and tried to open her eyes. They were so heavy, though, that she almost rolled over and went back to sleep. Her whole body was terribly burdensome. She could not seem to move it. Every time she did, her head ached. But she could not sleep all day. She had to go to Elizabeth’s wedding.
With an immense burst of will, she opened her eyes and tried to focus. The room was dark, the bed’s blue silk drapes drawn. She blinked. Her bed did not have drapes. Reaching out, she parted the luxurious material and peered into an unfamiliar room. The curtains, also blue, were pulled shut, so she had no idea of the time, but she felt as though she’d slept for a week.
She closed her eyes again and tried to think where she was. She’d been asleep in her bed and then—
Catherine shot awake. Everything flooded back to her so quickly that her head throbbed with the effort to contain it all. Bits and snippets of images poured over her.
Her father bursting into her room.
The beefy man’s ham-sized fists.
The cool church.
Valentine lifting her veil.
No!
She had to find Valentine. Lifting her head from her pillow, she forced herself to ignore the pain and sit. As she did so, the sheet she wore fell back. Catherine gasped, noting she wore nothing underneath. She was naked in a strange bed.
There was a groan and beside her something moved, and then a man’s arm emerged from the silk bedcovers beside her.
Catherine screamed and clutched the sheet, pulling it to her chin. She kicked at the man and scooted as far toward the edge of the bed as possible.
“What the hell?” he said. She was pulling all the sheets to cover herself and revealing him in the process, and her eyes widened as she realized he, too, was naked.
One, two, three, four…
Good Lord! She was in bed with a naked man. She pinched her arm, hoping it was a dream.
Her arm hurt, and she did not wake. Then the man rolled over, turning so that she could see his bare chest all the way to where the last vestiges of sheets barely covered him at the hips.
Catherine stared, unable to take her eyes off him. And then she jumped up, tripped over the sheets, and stumbled to her feet. She screamed again, backing away from the now-naked man and wrapping the sheets tightly around her. She had to escape, to get away from this man. But she could not go home. She could never, never, never go home. Anything but that.
“Who the devil—” Valentine was looking at her now, frowning, seeming confused. He did not appear to recognize her yet or understand what was going on, but Catherine knew. Oh, God, she knew all too well what had happened.
Her father’s plan had succeeded. He’d forced her agreement, drugged her, then drugged Valentine, too. And now Quint Childers, the Earl of Valentine, was staring at her, naked and aroused, and lying in the bed they’d shared.
Chapter 8
“Stop screaming,” Quint said, when he found his voice. “I can’t think with you screaming.”
The woman closed her mouth, her hazel eyes wide and frightened. He ran a hand through his hair and tried to understand what was going on. One minute he’d been sleeping, dreaming that a soft, warm woman was beside him. The next moment, he’d been shoved, thrust into coldness, and had his senses assaulted by a high-pitched keening. His head throbbed with a dull ache that numbed his usually quick wits.
What the hell was going on? And what was he doing in his bed? He thought back, mentally re-traced his steps, but the path was not easy. It was dark and winding, and at first all he could remember was a church. Talking to Edmund Fullbright in a church. And he’d been angry—they’d both been angry because—
Quint bolted upright and swore. Catherine yelped and jumped back, taking all of his bedclothes with her, and then he swore again. He was naked, with a morning erection he could not hope to hide.
At least now he knew why she was screaming. “Damn, damn, damn! That goddamn bastard. I’m going to have his head.”
Quickly, he rose and pulled on his dressing robe. In two strides he was at his desk, pen in hand, fumbling for paper. And then he paused. How the hell was he going to fix this with a pen? He needed a pistol. He needed to find Edmund Fullbright, shove the pistol into his mouth, and pull the trigger.
Quint gripped the desk. No, he had to be rational. He had to think.
He looked at his pen again. He would write a letter and decry the wrong that had been done to him. He’d tell how his father-in-law
had drugged him. He didn’t know how, but he knew that the deed had been done. He’d been drugged and only half-lucid when he and his bride had exchanged vows, and he’d lifted his bride’s veil and found not Elizabeth but Catherine.
And then her father had taken him aside and showed him the marriage license. There, swimming before his blurry vision, was Catherine’s name, not Elizabeth’s. Fullbright had warned Quint not to make a scene. One sister or the other, what was the difference? He was married to a Fullbright now, a niece of the Earl of Castleigh, what else did he want?
Quint had told Fullbright in no uncertain terms that he wanted Elizabeth. And then Mrs. Fullbright had come in with Catherine and tea. More tea.
Quint thought of the tea he’d drunk yesterday morning. That was how Fullbright had done it then. And he’d never thought, not until he had that second cup.
Now he pulled paper after paper off his desk, tossing the used sheets on the floor, but he could not find a clean one. Quint dropped his aching head in his hands. It was no use. He’d seen the marriage license. And he had signed it. He was married to Catherine. He’d said the vows to her, and he didn’t even remember whether the priest had said her name or Elizabeth’s. And now, to seal the deal, he had slept with her. He didn’t think he had taken her, made love to her, but he could not be sure, and what did it matter anyway? She would be ruined. Even if he arranged an annulment, she was already ruined.
He was ruined—all his hopes and dreams, his plans for the future disappeared into dust when he’d lifted that veil. He allowed his head to fall into his hands. He allowed himself a moment of mourning for what might have been, and then he steeled himself. This wasn’t over, not by far.
Slowly, he turned back to the room and faced Catherine. His wife.
She had pushed herself into a corner, her face pale and wary, as though she feared he would pounce on her at any moment. She looked afraid and confused, and with her hair down about her shoulders, very much like he’d pictured her in his fantasies. Quint pushed the image away and tried to keep his thoughts honorable.