No Man's Bride

by Shana Galen

  And Quint felt the pressure. Why had he married at such an inopportune time?

  He knew why. Because he’d thought his wife would be an instant asset to his career, not force him into seclusion in the country. But if he returned to London now, what would happen to the burgeoning relationship between Catie and him? What would happen when she was thrust into his world and forced to stand on her own?

  He would have liked to keep her here forever, sheltering her from the harshness of his life in London. He would have liked to keep her safe, but he knew that path would only lead to resentment. He needed a wife who could be his political counterpart. He needed a wife who made him happy at home and in the political arena. He could not love a woman who could not give him both—at least that’s what he told himself because the truth was that she had made a muddle of all his calculated plans. He wanted to keep his emotions out of this relationship, and yet each day he felt his heart opening to her.

  He wanted to change his wife into the political savvy hostess he needed, and yet the better he knew Catie, the more he admired her for who she was.

  It wasn’t supposed to be this way. It was supposed to be purely physical, and here he was beginning to care for the bloody woman. He didn’t have time for emotions.

  He had a career to think of.

  That night, after dinner, they sat in his study as usual, and he pored over Meeps’s latest correspondence, while she sipped tea and read from a book. While she turned her pages placidly, he read line after line and became more agitated.

  “What are you reading?” Catherine asked, looking up from her book. “You are frowning as though another war has broken out.”

  He looked up at her, torn between telling her and putting all business aside and devoting the rest of the night to stealing kisses from her lovely mouth. She saw him looking at her, and her eyes darkened in a way he was coming to know well. She wanted him to steal kisses.

  Instead, he exercised the small measure of restraint he still possessed, sat back, and said, “I think the country has been good for you. You seem happy and well.”

  She smiled. “I’m both. I don’t know why I argued against coming.”

  “Because you feared you would miss your friends. Do you?”

  She set her book down and uncurled her legs from underneath her. “Yes, I suppose now that you mention it, I do miss my cousins, though I have had letters from them, and that helps. But it is nice to be away from London, to have the quiet of the country and the solitude.”

  Quint frowned. He was thinking of taking her back into an even noisier, more populated world than she had ever lived before.

  “What is wrong?” she said again. “You seem displeased.”

  In a short time, she’d become quite adept at reading his moods. Perhaps she was so intuitive because she’d had to live with a difficult and domineering father. Whatever the reason, she had read him well. “Displeased? No, not at all. I have been thinking.” About taking you back to London. Even more about taking you to bed.

  She didn’t speak, merely waited with one arched brow for what he would say next. A week ago, she would have shrunk back, fearful of his conclusions, but now she knew him better, had learned to trust him.

  “Would you like to return to London?” he asked. “Are you ready?”

  She blinked, obviously not expecting his suggestion. “We have barely been at Ravensland a week. I thought we would stay longer.”

  He shrugged. “We might.” The stack of correspondence on his desk mocked him at that. He could no more afford to stay in the country than he could afford to pay off the endless debts of the prince regent’s residence Carlton House. “Honestly, I need to get back to work. But I don’t want to rush you,” he said, allowing his gaze to lift from the piles of paper on his desk and drift back to hers. “I want you to be happy.”

  She smiled then, but her eyes were sad. “You’ve sacrificed so much for me.” She rose and came to him, walking with the graceful stride of a long-legged woman. At that moment, he didn’t feel as though he’d sacrificed at all. Politics seemed to fade into the background, and all he could think was how he yearned to see those legs, caress them, have them wrapped around him, clamped tight.

  “I am very happy here in the country.” She came around his desk. “You make me happy.”

  She stood before him and he reached out and cupped her waist in his hands, drawing her between his knees. She went without protest, allowing his touch and seeming comfortable with it.

  The color was rising in her face, and he knew she felt the thrill of being this close to him, much as his own blood began to thrum in his veins when she was within reach.

  And then she said something completely unexpected. “What can I do to please you?”

  Quint did not answer for a long, long time, fearing he’d misheard her.

  Finally, she said, “You’ve given me everything that I want and need. I want to give you something.”

  “Allow me to come to your bed,” he murmured, his voice husky as the words all but caught in his throat. “Invite me to your bed tonight.”

  She glanced away, looking at something he could not see, and then she leaned down and gave him a kiss filled with promise. A moment later, she was gone. He could hear her steps on the stairs, and then all was silent.

  Catherine stood in their room before the cheval mirror and tried to take deep, calming breaths. She had known this night would come. She had been anticipating it for days now, even wanting it to come. Since that day in the village, she had watched Valentine. No, not Valentine— Quint was his name, and she would use it. She had watched him partly out of self-protection. If he were not the man he seemed, he would do something to give himself away. But the more she watched, the more she grew to care for him. He was gentle with his horse. He was kind to the stable lads. He did not overtax his servants with labor. He was agreeable even when she knew something troubled his mind, as it did tonight.

  He was more than the ambitious politician she had initially thought him to be. Certainly his career mattered to him, but perhaps it was not all. Perhaps he had learned to care for her enough that he could accept her limitations, and they could be happy as they had been this past week. She worried now that he wanted to return to London. Elizabeth would be there. Undoubtedly, her sister had used this time to formulate a plan to snatch Quint back. But Catherine wanted to trust him. She wanted to believe he would not be tempted by Elizabeth. Catherine wanted to believe the desire in his eyes was for her alone.

  And she desired him. He’d awakened something in her that night in the village pub. Now it seemed all she had to do was look at his hands, and her whole body was aware and alive. How she yearned for those hands to touch her again, stroke her, bring her pleasure. But she had not allowed it. She had kissed him and been held by him and stroked him as boldly as she dared, but she had not allowed his hands to wander where she truly wished.

  Tonight was the end of the restraint. She had known what he would say when she’d asked how to please him. She had known what he wanted because she wanted it, too, and now, nervous as she was, she must submit.

  She glanced in her mirror again and straightened the long, flimsy nightrail she wore. It was white, and she could see the outline of her body beneath the material. She pulled the matching robe closed, but it too was flimsy and did little to preserve her modesty.

  She glanced behind her at the door to the hallway beyond. She wondered how many other skittish brides stared at doors tonight, preparing for their husbands to walk through. She wondered if they felt half the fear and exhilaration that she did. She prayed he would not hurt her—her body or her heart—and she prayed she would please him.

  A moment later, she heard his soft tapping on their door. It would have been easy then to jump in bed and feign sleep. He would not be angry. Instead, she said, “Come.”

  He’d obviously been anticipating this. He carried a bottle of wine and two glasses, which he set down on the bedside table. Then he blew
out the lamps so that the room was lit only by candlelight. When he was finished, he poured the wine and held one of the glasses out to her.

  “You look lovely,” he said, and she knew he meant it. His gaze traveled over her white silk nightgown and robe appreciatively, and Catherine made a mental note when she was next in the village to thank Mrs. Punch for sending it.

  As Valentine did not immediately leap on her when he came into their room, she took another cautious step forward. He remained where he was, holding the wineglass out to her. “I’m not going to attack you, Catie,” he said finally, still holding both wineglasses. “You are in control.”

  She frowned, relieved and annoyed at the same time. How was she supposed to be in control? She did not know what to do. She wanted him to take her and kiss her senseless so that she did not have to think about what she was doing. She wanted to step back and allow this thing to happen to her, not take responsibility for it. But he was obviously not going to allow her that luxury.

  He was still holding the wineglasses and, needing fortification, she put aside her fear and went to him, taking one of the glasses in her hand.

  Hands free, he now set about removing some of his clothing. With quick efficiency, he stripped off tailcoat, waistcoat, and cravat and opened his shirt at the throat. Her gaze trailed down the snowy white of his shirt to where it ended in the waistband of his charcoal trousers. The trousers were tight, molding to his legs in a way that made her catch her breath.

  She’d all but drained the liquid before she heard his low chuckle. She glanced up, gaze meeting his.

  “Nervous?” he said.

  “No,” she answered immediately, and then swallowed the remaining contents of her glass. She looked at the empty vessel. “Perhaps a little. I-I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” Her cheeks went hot, and she wished she had a hood so that he would not see her blushing yet again.

  But he only placed a finger under her chin and notched her gaze back up to his. “What do you want to do? Whatever you want will be right.”

  She considered this, embarrassed that she had wants at all, really. Weren’t men supposed to be the sex with wants and desires? But she was here now, and she had to do something if she ever wanted this ordeal to be over. She tried to remember the way she’d felt in the pub, and when her legs grew weak at the memory, she said, “I want you to kiss me.”

  Valentine—Quint, rather—smiled and lowered his head, obliging her. But the kiss was not what she wanted. It was quick and perfunctory. She wanted much more. He pulled back and then raised a brow. He made her insides melt when he did that.

  “What’s wrong, sweetling? Not what you’d had in mind?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then you must tell me what you need me to do.” He took a sip of his wine, and then retrieved her glass and set both of them aside.

  “I want you to kiss me,” she said again, but when he made to kiss her in much the same way, she stopped him with a hand on his chest. Oh, dear. His skin felt very nice under her fingertips.

  “No, not like that,” she managed, though her voice was low and husky. “Kiss me”—she lowered her voice, mortified at the words that were about to escape her lips—“with your tongue.”

  She saw those dark mahogany eyes grow even darker at her words, and he bent to do her will.

  His tongue entered her lips, mating with hers. She could not stop her entire body from shaking at the sensation of his lips claiming hers.

  Her hand, still on his chest, seemed to smolder and catch fire from the heat of him, but as his gentle plundering of her mouth grew more insistent, as he opened her lips and delved inside, she found her hand closing on the material of his shirt and pulling him closer.

  And then, just when she had begun to feel so warm and her body had begun to ache so that she needed to rub against him to decrease the building pressure, he stepped back and broke the kiss. She gasped from shock and indignation, but he only lifted his wineglass and drank again.

  “What’s wrong?” he said, watching her over the rim of the glass, the liquid red and fiery in his hands. “Was the kiss not to your liking?”

  She wet her lips, wanting to speak but feeling the bands of propriety choking her voice. “May I have another?” She indicated her empty glass, and he nodded and went to refill it. She watched him walk across the room, stunned to find herself admiring the way the trousers fit his backside. She remembered how his bottom had looked without those trousers. She licked her lips again.

  He turned back and, caught staring, she quickly averted her gaze. He handed her the refilled glass and then took a seat on the bed. She swallowed a good deal more of the red wine than she’d intended before she had the nerve to say, “Will you kiss me again?”

  “Is that what you want?” he asked, and she felt like hitting him. Of course it was what she wanted—that and a great deal more. Why did the obstinate man insist on playing games?

  “Yes. I want you to kiss me again. Like the last time. Only…more.”

  He grinned. “More?” Reaching toward her, his hand looped in the sash of her robe, and he pulled her closer. “I want more as well. May I see more?”

  She nodded, her throat so dry and parched, she could not speak. She watched as his hands worked the knot she’d made in front of the mirror. With patience and skill, he loosed the knot and parted her robe. Her body grew warm and liquid as his gaze devoured every inch of her. Slowly, he slipped the robe down her arms. The feel of the silk sliding off her shoulders was so delicious and the cool air such a contrast to his hot gaze that she closed her eyes to savor it.

  When she opened them again, he patted the space on the bed beside him. “Come and sit here.”

  Her heart sped up as she stared at their bed. She had slept in it for a week. It was large, far too large for only her, and it was covered with a plush velvet blue counterpane. When she had slept in the bed alone, she had no trouble imagining that it would sleep three or four people easily. But now that he sat perched on it, the bed looked tiny. Anywhere she sat on it would be too close to him to calm the pounding of her heart. And yet she wanted to be this close to him.

  He lifted a hand and caressed her cheek, then ran his fingers through her loosened hair until his fingers kneaded her tense neck muscles. She began to relax, to close her eyes and lean into his ministrations, when he pulled her to him.

  With more slow, tantalizing skill, he kissed her again. And again, the kiss was over far too quickly. This time when he pulled back to grasp his wineglass, she caught his hand in hers, stopping the glass’s progress.

  She guided his hand and the glass to her own mouth, took a small sip, but held the liquid inside her mouth. And then she kissed him, giving him the wine when he parted her lips. He groaned quietly, and she felt the low primal sound deep in her belly. She put her hand on his neck, then in his hair, wrapping her fingers in it and pulling his mouth to hers. She kissed him. Or more accurately, she devoured him, at least that was how she felt. But she needed him at that moment. She needed much more than the stingy kisses he’d given, and he seemed to sense this and abandon all games and kissed her fully back.

  At some point her hands moved from his head to his open shirt. She fumbled with the fabric, parting it further, then bending to kiss the exposed skin of his neck. His pulse beat rapidly there, and his scent was heavy. The scents she always associated with him—spring, leather saddles, and pine were there—but she smelled something else as well. Something dark and musky and undeniably him. It made her heady and drew her mouth again and again to kiss and nip and take him there, and she began to think of the scent as the smell of arousal.

  She was nipping along his throat, small quick bites with her teeth, when she heard him drop his glass. And then his hands were on her, and he lifted her into his lap. He cradled her bottom before setting her down, and then she felt the hard bulge of his manhood.

  She pulled away, suddenly afraid, but he held her with one hand just above her waist. He was ou
t of breath, and for some reason that pleased her. “What do you want now, Catie?” He gasped out. “Remember, I am in your control.”

  She certainly didn’t feel in control. Her head was spinning, and she could hardly get her bearings. But when she looked in his eyes she felt everything lock into place. “Kiss me again,” she said and leaned forward, ready to assist him from her new position, but he stopped her by leaning back slightly.

  “Is that all you want? Just a kiss?”

  “Yes, of course—” But then the image of Clare in the pub flitted across her brain, and she glanced down at her own nightrail. “Kiss me here,” she said, lifting a hand and caressing her neck from her chin to the hollow at the base of her throat.

  His hands were still about her waist, and he pulled her close so that her breasts brushed against him. And then she felt his firm, warm lips on her throat. They teased and traced and tantalized her until she let out a low moan and felt herself arch for him. His tongue darted out, and he ran it down the column of her neck, making her shiver with desire at the wet trail that cooled as his mouth moved.

  Then he pulled away and looked up at her, awaiting further instructions. They were difficult for her to give. She had never given a man orders as long as she had lived. She had feared men and their directives and feared the possibility that she would ever be in the position for a man to order her into his bed.

  But with Valentine it was different. Tonight he took orders, did not give them. He waited for her, his gaze patient and filled with desire for her. He wanted her, but she also knew with absolute certainty that if she were to stand and walk away from him, he would allow her to go.

  “What are you thinking?” he said suddenly. “I can see something going on behind those beautiful honey eyes.”

  She glanced down. “I was thinking that if I wanted to stop now, if I wanted to go, you would allow it.”