by Shana Galen
She’d been slowly backing away, but at his suggestion, she stopped.
“I won’t touch you,” he promised. “I won’t even kiss you back, if you don’t allow it. I’ll be completely at your mercy, under your command.”
Catherine bit her lip and considered. Inadvertently, her eyes went to his lips. They were well shaped, full, with a hint of color. Last night they’d been warm and firm.
“I give you my word, Catie,” Valentine said, leaning that slim hip against his desk again. “I will not touch you.”
She stood still, considering.
“Catie, if the prime minister trusts me, surely you can.”
Oh, now he was all but daring her. As though she were afraid. As though she hadn’t been the one to kiss him last night. “Very well. I shall kiss you.” She held up a finger. “Once.”
He wrapped both of his hands around the edge of his desk behind him, then slouched so that he would be at an accessible height. “I am at your disposal,” he said, and closed his eyes.
And still she did not move. He stood waiting blindly, hands immobile, legs braced apart, a warrior at her mercy.
She took one step forward, then another. And then she stopped. She was only a few steps away, and the closer she got, the more daunting the whole task seemed. Was she just supposed to walk up and kiss the man? This had been so much easier when she was already in his arms last night.
She put her foot out to take another tentative step forward, and her shoe hovered.
He cracked one eyelid. “You’re not going to leave me standing here, are you?”
“Ah—”
He’d closed his eyes again, and she thought how uncharitable it would be if she ran away, leaving him this way. After all, he was practically helpless.
She took another step and then another until she was directly before him. She was close enough to kiss him now, close enough so that he could have reached out and grasped her, but he did not. He kept his eyes closed and his hands locked on the desk, even as she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.
She quickly withdrew, and he did not grab her and gobble her up. In fact, he still stood like a statue, eyes closed.
She frowned at him. That was all the reaction her kiss was to receive? He looked as though he were still waiting.
“Lord Valentine?”
“Quint,” he said. Then, “Hmm?”
“I kissed you.”
He cracked one eye again. “When?”
She put her hands on her hips. “Just now. A moment ago.”
“Are you certain?” He frowned. “I didn’t feel anything. You’d better do it again.” And he closed his eyes.
She frowned back at him. She might be inexperienced, but she was no fool. Of course he had felt the kiss. He just wanted her to do it again. She almost turned and left, but again, it seemed unkind to leave him thus. And so she tilted her head and kissed him once more, this time harder and lingering a bit longer. Her pulse jumped as she remembered the feel of his hands on her last night.
When she pulled back, he was looking at her and smiling. “That was better,” he said. “And you haven’t turned into an ugly toad yet from putting your lips on mine.”
“Best not to chance it further.”
“You chanced it last night. Kiss me like you did last night.”
Catherine shook her head. “No. Last night was—it was—” What was it? “I cannot, sir.”
“Why? Don’t you want me?”
“Of course I want you, it’s just that—” She slammed her hand over her mouth and closed her eyes. Oh, Lord, how mortifying.
He put his hands around hers and pulled them down. “Catie, you are free to reject me and my bed, but wouldn’t you like to know what you are rejecting first? Don’t you deserve to know?”
She turned away. Why was she listening to him? And how could she not? She did deserve to know pleasure. Everyone would assume she’d shared his bed no matter what she did. Shouldn’t she reap some reward? She wanted him. Perhaps it was a mistake. Perhaps she was a fool, but she needed him to touch her again like he had last night.
She turned back to him. “Would you”—she paused and took a deep breath—“would you kiss me?”
“Oh, God, yes.” He bent toward her then pulled back again. “But this is purely by your request. I’ll stop whenever you say.” He leaned close again. “Remember what I said about the prime minister,” he whispered. “You can trust me.”
Slowly, he lifted one hand, and she could not help but pull back.
“I’m going to cup the back of your head.” His voice was level, and his eyes never left hers. “You’ll like it. In fact, it would be nice if you did the same.” He moved slowly, sliding his fingers through her hair. “Touch me,” he murmured.
She cupped the back of his neck. The action drew her closer to him so that her body was almost flush against his. It was an awkward and heady feeling, but not a wholly unpleasant one. And she decided that she actually liked having her hand on the back of his neck. It gave her some power and some control over what he did.
Or at least the appearance of it.
Then Valentine slid his other hand about her waist, and the blood began to thrum in her ears again. She looked up at him and found she was lost in his mahogany eyes.
Three, eight, seventeen…
And then he bent and put his mouth on hers. She tensed at first, expecting an assault, but his mouth was cool and dry, as she’d remembered it from last night.
He moved his lips against hers, lightly at first and then with more pressure. He almost seemed to be nibbling at her lips, and the thought made her smile. But she wanted so much more. She wanted to feel again what she’d felt last night.
To her pleasure, the light pressure of his lips increased, and she felt the flick of his tongue. It was a jolt, and she almost stepped back, but he held her close with the hand on her back. Still, she could not help but tense up, and that was when the hand on the back of her neck began to do its work. He kneaded and worked his fingers into her skin until she relaxed again.
By then, she knew what he wanted. He wanted her to open her mouth, and she was surprised to find that she wanted the same. She was not disappointed at what she felt. His lips slanted over hers, warm and moist and making her feel sensations even more mesmerizing than she had felt last night. Her whole body seemed to come alive against his, and she couldn’t seem to get close enough to him. She pulled his head down farther with the hand on the back of his neck and ran her other hand along his back.
She thought she heard him groan quietly, but then he flicked his tongue into her mouth, and she was not sure of anything. Heat flooded through her. She knew her face was flaming, and she knew that if anyone ever saw her doing this, she would die of mortal shame. And yet she did not stop him. With each moment, the kiss grew more into a caress, his tongue probing and searching and spinning her to new heights of sensation.
His touch and his kiss sent heat flooding through her. Her hands tingled with it. Her breasts ached with it, and her stomach clenched. And then the heat reached that spot between her legs, and she felt her thighs become wet. She had the oddest sensation, and she wanted to rub herself. Even more, she wanted him to touch her there.
He’d withdrawn his tongue now, but their mouths were still fused. The sensation between her legs was growing, making her restless and excited, and when he withdrew his tongue she followed him. With a thrill of adventure, she entered his mouth. He met her there, kissing her harder, pulling her closer, showing her what to do and how.
And then, as though he knew what she was feeling, he parted her legs with his own and slid a leg between her thighs. He kept one hand on her back and the other on her neck, still kneading away her inhibitions, but she felt his thigh press against her. At first the touch was light and tentative, but she felt a jolt when his warm body caressed that inner part of her, even through her skirts and petticoats.
His touch grew more insistent. He rubbed against her ag
ain and again, the strokes of his tongue mimicking the thrusts of his thigh.
And Catherine could not take it anymore. She broke the kiss and gasped. But the gasp came out sounding much more like a moan, and not the kind of moan a lady like her would make. She sounded like a common whore.
It was all too much, and she released him and pushed her hand against his chest. Reluctantly, he allowed her to go. She stumbled back, her hand to her throat, and stared at him.
Unbelievably enough, he looked as flushed and affected as she. His hair was mussed, the dark waves falling over his forehead, his eyes were bright, and he breathed in rapid bursts that matched her own gulps.
“God, I want you,” he said on a gasp. “Please.”
She stared at this man, the only man she’d ever known who asked before taking. The only man she’d ever known who told her she was worth something, who told her she deserved more. More than anything, she wanted to yield to him. But again, if she submitted, if she let him sweep her away, allowed him to make her believe she meant more to him than she did, and then he took it all away…what then?
She took another step back. Her head was spinning, and she knew she needed time to think. She needed so much time to think these days.
“It’s still your decision,” he said, straightening. “I won’t touch you unless you allow it. But now you know how it can be. God, Catie, please trust me.”
She turned and fled to her room. She threw herself on their bed, quick to bury her head in the counterpane so that she could hide the blush from her face.
She took deep, soothing breaths until her heart slowed and she was able to count to a hundred. And then she opened her eyes and stared at the green-and-yellow-papered walls.
She could still feel the pulse beating between her legs, still feel the moist ache that begged to be quelled. Hand trembling, she put her fingers there and pressed against her flesh, hoping to staunch the feelings, but they only intensified, and the image of Valentine, his hair disheveled and his eyes hot and full of desire for her, made her want him more.
Quickly, she withdrew her hand and tried to think of banal topics: the weather, bread pudding, horses. But there again she thought of Valentine. He’d allowed her the pick of the best horse. He’d shown her his home, and she could still remember the way he’d beamed and the pride in his face when they’d ridden about the property. And then last night, when she’d been frightened, he’d held her and soothed her.
She shook her head, but she could not deny the inevitable. She had married a good man. He was nothing like her father. Quint Childers was a good man.
With a sigh, Catherine flipped onto her stomach.
And so what?
That didn’t mean she had to fall in love with him. That didn’t mean she had to trust him.
He spoke of passion, of pleasure, but he didn’t speak of love.
Because he didn’t love her. He loved Elizabeth. Catherine knew she would only open herself to a lifetime of pain if she allowed Valentine into her heart. All her life, Catherine had fought with Elizabeth—for her parents’ affection, for space in their shared room, for respect—but she would not fight Elizabeth for Valentine’s heart.
That was a battle Catherine feared she would never win.
Chapter 15
Quint sat behind his desk and tried to concentrate on the documents in front of him. His recommendation to the prime minister was due soon, he had a speech to write for Parliament, and he still had to go through piles of correspondence. Here was a letter with information on a labor law he was researching, there a request from an MP for support of a new tax bill.
Quint stared at the work for the better part of the afternoon and made no progress whatsoever. It seemed no matter which issue he turned his attention to, the only issue he could really concentrate on was that of his marriage. He was not a violent man, but at that moment he could have cheerfully murdered Edmund Fullbright.
Quint had been wrong about Catie. He could see that now. Not that he hadn’t had reason to distrust her, but no more. Now he felt nothing but righteous fury for her. Edmund Fullbright was the worst kind of scum—the kind of vermin who belittled those weaker than himself, the kind of man who made himself feel powerful by knocking down people like his wife and daughter.
Quint hadn’t lied to Catie when he’d said that relationships didn’t have to be like that. He had promised not to hurt her, and he meant it. He would protect her, cherish her. He’d give her confidence and power, all that her father had stolen from her.
Quint leaned back in his chair and scrubbed his fingers over his face. If only all his plans were as easily executed as devised. He needed to return to his political work, but Catherine, with her long black hair, large hazel eyes, and blatant mistrust of men—and him in particular—plagued him far more than the reports of American discontent on the seas. The Americans he could deal with. His wife was another matter.
Still leaning back, he linked his hands behind his head and tried to consider the issue of his marriage as he would that of a pesky foreign dispute. In many ways, his wife was similar to a rebel colony. She was submissive but willful, coarse but full of potential, beautiful but teeming with hidden dangers. Quint imagined the early settlers of the American colonies coming ashore and seeing their new home for the first time. It had probably not felt any more like home to them than his marriage to Catherine felt like the union he had hoped for with Elizabeth.
Still, the colonists had weathered the storm. They’d suffered through the cold winters and hot summers, they’d fought back the threats, and they’d carved out a niche for themselves. And look at them now. The bloody colonies were a proud, confident country in their own right. And he supposed that was what he needed from Catherine. If she were to share the political stage with him, she had to be proud and confident.
And here was Meeps, speaking of a Cabinet position. How few men were ever considered for such an honor at the tender age of thirty, and yet the opportunity was there for the taking—if Quint played his part well.
And if Catherine played hers.
But how did one take a raw, new land and mold it into a nation? Quint sat forward and made a note on a scrap of paper littering his desk. First, one staked one’s claim. He could check that off. He felt a bit like Christopher Columbus must have when he mistook the Americas for India. Quint himself had been promised India, but he was in possession of America, and he would make the best of it. Not that that would be any hardship.
He closed his eyes and felt Catherine’s warm, soft body against his. One hand had been on the long column of her neck and the other just above the sweet curve of her bottom. How he’d wanted to take her in both hands, grasp her hips, and pull them against his straining erection—his need for her the result of her innocent but oh-so-tantalizing kisses.
But that was not the way. He’d known it, and held himself back as best he could. Even when she’d met him thrust for thrust, their tongues mimicking the ancient rhythm both their bodies knew instinctively.
Quint let out a long breath and went back to his list. Yes, he had staked a claim, and he had not frightened the native away. He was wooing her and would continue to do so. But what next?
One worked to make the colony profitable. One built settlements and organized laws and—
Quint sat back again and smiled.
—and one cultivated the land. One plowed the virgin earth and planted one’s seed and hoped the endeavor would come to fruition. It was only after a successful harvest—after the settlement reaped what it had sowed—that a great nation could be born.
And Quint saw it was this way with Catherine as well. He’d bed his wife, earn her trust and her affection, and then he would begin to build her confidence and her skills until he’d molded her into the wife that he wanted. Until she was the perfect political hostess.
There was only one small problem with his colonization scheme: it took decades to forge a nation, and he needed a political hostess in a matter of weeks. The Ca
binet position would not wait. If he did not take it, his rival Charles Fairfax surely would. Fairfax had the political clout and the perfect wife.
Quint ran a hand through his hair and peered out the window beside his desk. The midmorning rains had ceased, and the sky was once again blue and clear. It was a perfect day to go for a walk or…to ride into the small village nearby.
He looked back at his work. It was still waiting for him, and he really could not justify leaving so much undone for an afternoon of pleasure.
Except that when he looked outside again, he saw Catherine as she’d been yesterday morning. She’d been walking along the copse of trees, her long, dark hair blowing out behind her, her thin dress molded to her legs and her breasts, the color high and bright in her face. His groin tightened, and he looked back at the documents, then, with a resigned sigh, he rang for his curricle and sent a note to his wife. The government of England would have to wait. Quint Childers, Earl of Valentine, had colonizing to do.
An hour later, he sat beside his wife in his curricle and drove at a fast clip toward the village. She had acted reluctant to venture out with him and had barely been able to meet his eye when she’d come down from her room, but he had seen that beneath her embarrassment and mistrust of his intentions lay excitement.
She was a colonist as well—eager to explore a new world—or at least a new village. When he’d seen her still wearing the thin, too-tight muslin gown, he’d bundled her up in his cloak, and that gave him a brilliant excuse for going into the village.
She needed new clothes. There was a seamstress there who had sewn for the family for decades, and Quint told Catherine they would call on her and perhaps have dinner in one of the pubs.
She’d protested at first, but it was not hard to convince her. But when was it ever difficult to convince a woman she needed a new dress or a hat? The village was only five miles or so, and when they’d left Ravensland behind, Quint turned to her, and said, “I wish I could apologize for my behavior this morning.”
She’d been staring at the view of rolling hills and blue skies in the distance, but she turned those hazel eyes on him quickly enough. “You wish you could apologize, sir? I wish that you would apologize. Your behavior was most…disconcerting.”