No answer.
He knocked again, harder. Still no answer. He tried the latch. Locked. Was Catherine not home, then? But where could she be? Everyone in the village was at the party.
She must have gone walking, though he couldn’t say he liked that idea. The country was safer than London, true, but even in the country a woman alone was at risk. He needed to find her, but where should he look? She could have taken off in any direction.
He turned to leave and almost tripped over Poppy.
“Blast it, cat, you nearly caused me to measure my length on that very hard walkway behind you.”
Poppy sat down, tail twitching, and stared at him.
“You don’t happen to know where Miss Hutting is, do you?” And now he was talking to a cat. If Poppy replied, he’d know for certain that he’d become completely unhinged.
Poppy blinked and then started round to the back of the house. When he didn’t immediately follow, she stopped and looked at him.
“So you want me to come with you?”
“Merrow!”
He glanced around. Thank God no one was nearby to witness this.
The cat set off again. Marcus hesitated.
Oh, hell, what do I have to lose?
He followed Poppy, who led him past a lean-to that looked like it might once have stabled a single horse and through a gate into the garden—where he nearly pitched headlong into an overgrown bush.
“Bloody ivy.” Miss Franklin had allowed the creeping plant to run amok so that it almost completely obscured the path. He made a mental note to have Emmett send someone over to tidy up as he stooped to untangle his feet. Once free, he looked for Poppy—she was sitting by the back door, grooming her paws.
He trod carefully through the rest of the tangled vegetation to join her. “I suppose you think I should knock on this door also?”
Poppy paused long enough to stare at him as though she couldn’t believe she was in the presence of such a dunderhead.
“Yes, all right. I expect that’s why you brought me here.”
The cat sneezed and moved on to grooming her ears.
He knocked. Again, no answer. Just as he’d expected.
“See? This is no better than the front door. Worse actually. I didn’t have to risk my neck to reach the front door.”
Poppy yawned.
“So do you have any other bright ideas?” Good God, he was trying to converse with a cat. What was next? Discoursing with a dog?
Poppy stared up at the door latch.
“No one’s home, I tell you.”
She meowed and stood on her hind legs, swatting at the latch with her forepaws.
“Zeus, you’re a stubborn creature.” He put his hand on the latch. “See, it’s lock—”
The door swung open.
Chapter Sixteen
June 25, 1617—Marcus is back in Loves Bridge. He came to me the moment he returned. Poor man. His dreadful mother is trying to force him to marry a wealthy duke’s daughter, but he wants no part of the match. I am the one he loves, and—I blush as I write this—he showed me the extent of his love this afternoon. I never imagined something that sounded so unpleasant could be so wonderful. I am married now in all but name.
—from Isabelle Dorring’s diary
The blackguard! The scoundrel! The bloody miscreant!
Cat paced the floor of her bedchamber. She’d come up here to throw herself on the bed and sob her heart out, but by the time she’d reached the top of the stairs, she’d moved beyond tears to fury.
The bloody rake. He’d offered for her when he’d been rolling around in the bushes with some half-naked London girl just days before. Disgusting!
Her bedchamber was too small to contain her rage. She strode into the room where she’d had Isabelle Dorring’s portrait moved.
“You were right to curse the Dukes of Hart,” she told the painting. “They are despicable.”
And to think she’d seriously considered this duke’s sham proposal for even a moment. He must have been laughing at her, amused that he’d been able to lure her into misbehavior. It would have served him right if she had accepted his offer. Where would he have been then?
More to the point, where would she have been?
She closed her eyes, remembering all too clearly the feel of his lips on hers, the hot wet stroke of his tongue, the weight of his body pressing her against the hard door. . . .
She leaned back against the big cabinet, her legs suddenly weak, her treacherous body heavy with desire. She wanted him here to—
Zeus! What was the matter with her? Had the dastardly duke turned her into such a light-skirt that she could want him even while hating him? Oh, no. If he were here right now, she’d slap him soundly and kick him in the shins. She’d strangle him with his cravat. She’d drag him into her bedchamber, tie him to the bed, and—
Lud! Where had that idea come from?
She took a deep breath. If she could get her temper under control, then perhaps this other emotion would subside as well. She forced herself to smile. Calm. She needed to be calm, to think calming thoughts. Thoughts of snowflakes drifting to the ground. Of swans gliding on a lake. Of sunlight filtering through the trees.
She hadn’t always been able to manage her anger. When she’d been younger, she’d screamed and thrown things and pulled Tory’s hair and ruined one of Ruth’s favorite drawings. But she’d worked hard since then. Now she never lost her temper, no matter what the provocation. She was quite proud of her control.
There, that was better. She’d go back downstairs. Maybe she’d even return to the party. Now she’d be able to converse with His Grace without shouting or poking him in the chest or spitting in his eye and scratching his lying face to ribbons.
Bollocks! Control could go bugger itself. She grabbed a porcelain shepherdess from the top of the cabinet and flung it against the wall, shattering it into a thousand pieces.
That felt good. She looked over the selection of other potential missiles and chose an ugly china dog. Ah, it was heavier than it appeared. Good. She heaved it with all her strength toward her room—and almost caught Marcus in the head. He ducked and the dog flew past him to crash against the far wall.
“What the hell was that about, Catherine?”
“You!” She would gouge his eyes out. She would knee him in the groin. She would tear him limb from limb.
She threw herself at him, her hands aiming for his neck. Poppy, who’d come up with the duke, yowled and darted back down the stairs.
He caught her and held her easily while she struggled to punch and kick him.
“You toad! You snake! You—”
He brought her up against him, holding her firmly.
Lud! The moment her body touched his, it betrayed her, softening and molding itself to his hard length. She inhaled his familiar scent and had to fight to keep from resting her head on his broad chest.
He’s a rogue, a scoundrel, a blackguard, a womanizer.
Her body wasn’t listening.
“Catherine, love, what has put you in such a state?”
His voice was gentle, deep, warm.
Lying.
She pushed against him, and he loosened his hold so she could lean back, but he didn’t let go of her completely.
“Don’t call me ‘love,’ you villain. Think to cozen me, did you? Well, you can take yourself back up to Town and dive into the shrubbery with whomever you like. I don’t care.”
“What are you talking about?” He leaned nearer to sniff her breath. “You don’t smell of spirits.”
His mouth is so close—
“Of course I don’t. What are you thinking?”
Oh, blast. Her anger was slipping away to be replaced by an equally hot and intense emotion.
“That someone laced your punch and you drank it too quickly. If you’re not accustomed to alcohol, it will go straight to your head, you know.”
“I have not been drinking.”
He frowned. “T
hen why did you just attack me?”
“My aunt and cousin told me the real reason you came to Loves Bridge.”
He looked puzzled. “The real reason?”
“Yes.” Hope bubbled up in her chest. Perhaps the story Juliet and her aunt had told her wasn’t true after all. “The scandal.”
“The scandal?”
She scowled. “What are you, an echo? They said you’d been caught with a girl in the shrubbery.”
“Ah.” His cheeks flushed. “Yes. Miss Rathbone.”
So it was true. Her heart turned to lead. She pushed against him again.
Marcus tightened his arms. “She was trying to trap me into marriage, Catherine.”
“Oh? Like I did?”
“No. I wish you would try to trap me.”
His hands started moving up and down her back, and she suddenly knew how Poppy must feel when someone stroked her. She wanted to purr.
She should insist he let her go. His nearness was stealing her good sense.
“Miss Rathbone hid in the bushes and jumped out at me as I walked past, Catherine, knocking me down and causing us to get tangled up.”
She couldn’t help it—she giggled.
“It does sound rather ridiculous, doesn’t it?”
“Mmm.” The heat of his body seemed to be melting hers. She wanted so badly to put her head on his chest, but she could not give in.
Wait. He’d missed a few details.
“You didn’t need to”—she flushed, whether with embarrassment or something else, she couldn’t say—“pull her dress down.”
“But I didn’t. She did that herself, as well as take all the pins out of her hair to make the scene she’d staged all the more damning.” His voice was tense, and he was holding her very tightly now, but she found she didn’t object. “I was not about to sacrifice myself for that scheming jezebel.”
“Of course not.” An odd feeling of protectiveness formed in her chest. Poor man. It must be horrible to have to watch one’s back like that.
“The devil of it is,” he said, his voice low and tight, “I’m so lonely sometimes I’m tempted to give in to the jades.” He bent his head close to hers, whispering hoarsely, “And it’s getting worse, Catherine. The loneliness is eating me alive.”
His words tore at her heart and called to something inside her that she hadn’t known was there. She wanted to hold him close, to make his loneliness go away, if only for a while.
Perhaps she could.
She turned her head and brushed her lips over his cheek.
“Catherine.” His whisper was harsh, pained.
She touched her mouth to his.
He groaned, and his hand came up to hold her head still. His tongue plunged deep, filling her with heat and need, sweeping away any remaining hesitation.
Her hands slid under his coat, roaming over his back and buttocks. She pressed closer to him, but it was not close enough.
He lifted his head, eyes desperate. “I-I had better go.”
Yes, he should go. If he stayed, a line would be crossed that could never be uncrossed. They would end up in bed, and she would give him her virginity.
What did she need it for? She’d never marry. It was a fair price to pay for a memory she would have for the rest of her life.
She would ease his loneliness and her own for a little while, just this once.
She tightened her hold on him. “Don’t go.”
Marcus froze. “Do you know what will happen if I stay?”
“Yes.”
He wet his lips, his body tense as a bowstring. “Be certain, Catherine, because once we start . . .” His jaw flexed. “I’m not quite in control.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
He looked down at her, his eyes searching hers as if trying to read her heart. And then his hands moved to cup her face so she couldn’t look away.
“I promise you that I will try to see that you do not conceive, but you must promise me that if we should make a child between us, you shall send me word the moment you know you are increasing.”
A child? She hadn’t thought of that—
Silly. There was nothing to worry about. The chances that this one encounter would result in a child were very, very small. She’d once overheard Tory telling Ruth, after Ruth had been married for a while, that it often took several months of trying before a husband’s seed took root.
“If you won’t swear it, I shall find some way to drag myself down those stairs and out of this house right now”—Marcus’s laugh was short and shaky—“even though I am certain it will kill me to do so.”
Of course he would want to know about an illegitimate child. He thought he’d not live to see a legitimate one. It was very sad. He was so good with the twins. He’d make a wonderful father.
She smiled. “I swear I will write you, Marcus, as soon as I know, if there should be a child.” And then she stretched up to touch her mouth to his again.
He stood still as a statue.
She faltered. Could she have misunderstood?
No. All at once his control shattered. His arms swept round her, crushing her against him, and he kissed her back.
At first his mouth was rough and overwhelming and a little frightening. She stiffened. Perhaps she’d made a mistake.
But even as that thought formed, his touch gentled. His lips coaxed instead of demanded. They moved to brush over her eyes, her cheeks. They paused by her ear to whisper, “Shall we go to bed?”
The words sent a shiver of nervous anticipation through her. She didn’t trust her voice, so she nodded.
Marcus swung her up into his arms. “Which room?”
“That one.” She pointed. She wouldn’t call it Isabelle’s. Isabelle had no part in what they were about to do.
Marcus carried her into the bedchamber, set her on her feet, and turned her so he could unfasten her dress.
“Damn tiny buttons.” His voice was as thick as his fingers. “How did you get into this?”
“My mother helped me.” Mama will wonder how I got out of it.
No. Mama will never know. The Spinster House is my place, my separate world.
The dress was now pooled at her feet, and Marcus’s bare hands were sliding over her shoulders.
“Your skin is like silk,” he murmured, bending to kiss her neck.
Oh! The touch of his lips sent waves of heat through her, turning her knees to jelly. Her breasts ached and the place between her legs—
This is wrong. I should stop him. We aren’t married.
If we were married, the specter of death would be crowding into the room with us.
What if I am just another woman to him?
It doesn’t matter. I love him.
And if I conceive?
I will welcome Marcus’s child. I won’t be like Isabelle.
He had loosened her stays, and as they fell away, so did her worries. She was here with him now. She was his—and he was hers. She turned to wrap her arms around him.
He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t do this. Catherine was sweet and wonderful and she didn’t understand what she was risking. How could she? She was a virgin.
I am taking what is only a husband’s right.
But she doesn’t plan to marry.
I should marry her. She should be wearing my ring before I take her to bed.
But if she wore his ring, he’d not live to see their child.
There wouldn’t be a child. He would pull out before he sowed his seed in her. And he would only lie with her this one time. Surely once would be enough to cure him of his obsession with her. It might even blunt the power of the curse for a while. He could go back to London and live for years before necessity forced him to get an heir.
His mouth covered Catherine’s, and she opened to him at once. He plunged into her warmth as his hands grabbed the sides of her shift.
He should go slowly. It was her first time.
It felt like his first time. He was as eager as he�
��d been then. But Catherine deserved more than the awkward fumbling of a callow youth. He had years of experience and discipline. He should use them.
He slipped his hands under her shift and raised it slowly, sliding his palms over the firm curve of her bottom and up the lovely arch of her back, his thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts. Her skin was so soft, so smooth.
He broke their kiss so he could pull the cloth up and over her head. And then he looked at her, standing in front of him in only her shoes and stockings, her hair still up.
She blushed and started to cover herself, but he stopped her.
“No, Catherine.” He turned her so she faced the window, the afternoon sun bathing with warm light her beautiful, round breasts, her slim waist and belly, the reddish curls between her pale thighs. “Let me see you.”
“I’m sure we should pull the curtains,” she said, her voice trembling with embarrassment and nerves. She was flushing, all of her.
“No. I want to see every curve, every shadow of your beautiful body.”
She tried to twist so she wasn’t facing him so directly.
“Don’t hide.” He touched her breast and watched its nipple pebble.
“You are the one hiding. Why don’t you take your clothes off?” Her words were brave, but he still heard the tremor beneath them.
“I will, soon.” There were many different ways to play this game, but this time—his only time with her—he wouldn’t play any games at all. They should have at least an hour before anyone wondered where they were. He wanted to enjoy every minute. “In a little while.”
“Now.”
“I am afraid that once my clothes come off, my control will, too, Catherine. Let’s wait, please? Just a little longer.”
She looked at him suspiciously, but he was telling the truth.
“At least take your coat off.”
“All right. I can do that.” He was rather warm. He struggled out of his coat.
“And your waistcoat.”
That was easy enough to shed.
“And your cravat.”
He’d never freed himself from a length of linen so quickly.
“And now, your sh-shirt?” She looked at him cautiously, as if shedding his shirt might turn him into a ravening beast.
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