Harry felt her standoffishness and frowned. ‘Catherine, are you all right?’
She nodded. ‘Oh, yes.’ Without realising that she had done so, she grabbed his hand and looked towards the exit.
Harry was concerned. ‘You don’t seem to be.’
‘It is nothing,’ she hastened to assure him. ‘It—it’s just that all this dancing has made me overheated. Come, let’s find some air.’
Together they left the dance floor, but if Catherine thought to escape her husband she was mistaken. His tall frame blocked her path to the exit. For Catherine it was like reliving a nightmare, and trying to escape it was pointless.
Resentful that he should have the effrontery to turn up at The Hague, with her head held high, as impressive as a tropical storm and a fierce challenging pride on her face, she walked towards him imperturbably, about to do battle, ready to do battle, ready for anything Marcus Reresby, her husband, would aim at her.
Tall and slender, Catherine waited for Marcus to speak to her, her very stance defiant, her exquisite features clouded with ill-disguised dislike.
Unsmiling, he looked at her seriously for a moment, one eyebrow lifted almost imperceptibly. Where she was concerned she had an aura of unattainability, which brought out the hunter in him—the conqueror. She stood straight and proud and unafraid. Her love for Stapleton shone from her eyes and Marcus recognised it and, for the moment, let it go. When the youth was no longer in the picture Catherine would be more malleable—the certainty of it was in her expressionless face.
‘Catherine. I am relieved to have tracked you down at last—although I am most displeased at the lengths to which you have gone to avoid me. Was it your intention to provoke me, to try to make me dangle and dance to your tune?’
His words scraped at Catherine’s lacerated nerves. His voice was clipped and cool, his stance relaxed, and yet there was an undeniable aura of forcefulness, of restrained power gathering force, waiting to be released on her.
‘And do you expect me to fling myself into your arms and weep tears of joy on seeing you, to tell you how sorely I have missed you? I do not know you and I do not want to know you,’ she replied tersely.
Something flickered in Marcus’s dark eyes, but his expression remained the same. ‘You will.’ His gaze sliced to the bemused young man standing uneasily behind Catherine. He felt an instant antagonism as he looked into Harry Stapleton’s brilliant blue eyes. He was too engaging, too closely linked to Catherine, upon whom his own desire was set. ‘Come, Catherine. You forget your manners. Are you not going to introduce me to your friend?’
Catherine turned to Harry. She desperately wanted to take his hand, but she dare not show such intimacy before her husband. After the way she had behaved she had imagined Marcus Reresby would be icy, angry—anything but this cold self-possession. She was the one who was shaken and covered in confusion.
Reluctantly she yielded to the formalities. ‘This—this is Harry Stapleton. Harry’s family and my own have been friends for many years.’
Marcus fixed him with a hard stare. ‘And I am Lord Reresby.’
Harry inclined his head politely, his face working with youthful emotion. ‘I am happy to meet you, sir.’
‘Catherine’s husband,’ Marcus stated flatly. ‘I must thank you for taking care of my wife.’
Harry’s colour disappeared, draining away in shock. ‘I—I beg your pardon, sir?’
‘Catherine is my wife—which is a fact I can see she has failed to disclose.’ He gave Catherine a look of reproach. ‘As a gentleman I disapprove of chastising a woman in public. I have never done so before, but I am your husband, madam, and demand your respect, to which I am entitled.’
Catherine looked at him with cold animosity, her eyes glowing like those of a spitting cat. ‘How dare you speak to me of respect,’ she was swift to reply, careful to keep her voice low so as not to draw the attention of those around them. ‘I cannot remember you showing me respect when you married me.’
‘Your opinion of me interests me not at all at present, Catherine, but I refuse to have everyone see my wife behaving disgracefully.’
Harry’s voice came from his mouth in a delirium of pain as he stared at his love in disbelief. ‘You are his wife? But—how can you be? Dear Lord, Catherine, tell me this is not true. Tell me you are not married to this man.’
Catherine could not speak. Her thoughts were spiralling away. Only her desperate hands clutching the folds of her gown and her eyes told Harry wordlessly that it was true and that she was crucified by it.
Harry’s face changed from white shock to the red of anger. ‘And you did not think to tell me—something as important as this? But why? Why, for God’s sake? You know I love you. You have always been mine. You belong to me.’
‘No, she does not,’ Marcus said coldly. ‘She belongs to me. We were married fourteen months ago.’
Harry was astounded. ‘Fourteen months? When I was here—at The Hague?’
Catherine nodded. Shame and disappointment brought stinging tears to her eyes. ‘Yes, and all that time I have tried to pretend it never happened. I—I have never wanted to marry anyone but you, Harry.’
‘And I thought you were missing me—fretting.’
‘I was, Harry. I swear I was, but I had no choice. They made me do it.’
‘There is always a choice, Catherine. You could have said no.’
‘I tried—truly I did. Do you think I would willingly commit my life to a complete stranger?’
Realising that she was beyond his reach, Harry struggled to hold on to his control.
Marcus tried to imagine how the young man felt, how deeply he must resent him, despise him, even, for taking his most precious thing. Before his eyes Marcus watched Harry Stapleton change from a happy, trusting youth to a man as he accepted the truth. The agony and the despair in his eyes matched those of the girl he loved. Marcus felt sorry for him.
Harry stared at Catherine with sick incredulity. He spoke to her slowly, with sadness coming through his anger. ‘I would never have believed this of you, Catherine. You should not have deceived me. You should have told me. I really loved you. I trusted you against everything. How stupid does that make me?’
The look in his eyes tore Catherine to pieces. ‘You are right. I have deceived you, which was wrong of me, I know and I am sorry. The only thing I can say in my defence is that I could not bear the thought of losing you. Please, Harry—’
Harry stepped back. For his own sake, the sooner he extricated himself from this nightmare situation the better. Catherine was lost to him, for ever out of his reach; no matter how much he loved her, he would not dare pursue a woman who was married to another man—a man as powerful as Lord Marcus Reresby, who happened to be an outstanding shot.
‘No, Catherine, it is finished.’ He looked at Marcus with politeness and an inbred courtesy, his face taking on a youthful dignity. ‘I apologise, Lord Reresby. Catherine should have told me she was your wife.’
Marcus felt the first thread of respect for the young man, yet when he spoke his expression was mocking. ‘I agree with you, although if I were you, sir, in the future, I would think twice before abducting another man’s wife. However, you may rest easy. I am not after your scalp—as long as you realise that your friendship with my wife is over.’
‘I do, sir. I was ignorant of the fact. I beg you to believe me when I say that had I known any of this I would not have brought her here. Please—excuse me.’ Mortally wounded, without another word Harry turned and like a sleepwalker walked away. The music and the merrymaking all around him was a cruel mockery of his tragic plight. Before he left the room he looked back at Catherine before passing through a curtained recess, disappearing from her sight and her life.
The pain that pierced Catherine was almost unbearable—it was sharp, fierce, punishing. For a moment she was leaden, unaware of nothing except that Harry was gone and would not be coming back. But then his suffering scalded her and added further hea
t to her rage. Her chest heaving with indignation, she turned on her husband, her eyes shooting sparks of fire.
‘Excuse me. I am leaving,’ she told him as the viols struck up another dance.
Marcus’s expression did not change. ‘You will not leave without me. If you had the courage to come here in the first place, by God, madam, you will have the courage to stay or leave with your husband.’
Catherine glared at him, tempted to call him names that would have set his ears on fire, but, realizing it would serve no purpose, she refrained from doing so.
‘Do you have contempt for women in general, or just me? Is it cruelty that makes you so obnoxious towards me, Lord Reresby, or are you naturally so?’
‘I do not mean to be obnoxious and nor do I hold you in contempt. You are my wife, and no matter how repugnant that is to you, that is what you are and that is what you will stay. One more thing,’ he said, taking her hand and glancing at her fingers. ‘I see you have discarded your wedding band. You will retrieve it and wear it, and remove it at your peril.’ Taking her elbow in a none too gentle grip, he said, ‘Shall we go?’
Clenching her teeth, hating him, Catherine felt her self-control slip a notch as she let him guide her through the throng of chattering people. As she went she glimpsed the swift movements of heads turning away, and realised that a good many people had been observing their tête-à-tête.
In the darkness of the carriage travelling through the meandering streets of Rotterdam, settled in the seat opposite his wife, in the dim glow from the carriage lamps Marcus watched the changing expressions on her face.
Realising they were travelling in a different direction from the Tippets’ house, Catherine’s eyes shot to her husband in alarm. ‘Where are you taking me? As I am sure you will know,’ she said scathingly, ‘I am staying with Sir Percival and Lady Tippet. They live some distance from here—in the other direction.’
‘I know. I called on them earlier and instructed them to have your things packed and sent to the inn where we are to spend the night. We shall return to England tomorrow.’
Catherine was reluctant to dwell on how horrified Sir Percival and Lady Sarah must have been when Lord Reresby had turned up claiming to be her husband, and her blood boiled at the audacity of the man. Like everyone else, they had had no knowledge of her marriage. For reasons of his own, her father had chosen to keep it from his closest friends.
‘Never. I will not go anywhere with you,’ she fumed.
‘Believe me, Catherine, you will,’ Marcus said, continuing in that same deadly voice, continuing to be dispassionately immune to the wrathful expression on her lovely face. ‘You will take up residence at Saxton Court very soon, where you will learn to behave like a good and dutiful wife.’
‘Where you intend to keep me like a creature against my will.’
‘With or without your will. It is clear to me that you have had more freedom than most—but you have gone too far with this madcap escapade of yours. I am well known in Somerset, Catherine. My family is old and respected, and you, besides being beautiful, which in itself gives rise to gossip, are my wife. Now I have seen what you get up to, I will have none of it. There will be no more indiscretions. You will have a sense of dignity for my position and your own. From now on you will concern yourself with your new home, with household affairs—and myself, of course.’
Catherine looked at him coldly, her head held high, her eyes holding the darkness of a stormy day. ‘You can go to the devil, Marcus Reresby. I dislike you intensely and I will never be a complaisant wife. I sorely wish I had never set eyes on you. You are arrogant and a bully, and I can see that my coming here with Harry has wounded your pride.’
‘How observant of you,’ Marcus drawled scathingly.
Catherine ignored his sarcasm. ‘Let me point out that I am the innocent party in all this—not you. I did not ask for any of this. I am not afraid of you.’
‘Then you should be.’ Silkily he said, ‘Listen to me very carefully, Catherine. I am treating you with more consideration than you have shown me when you took it into your head to come here alone with Harry Stapleton. Unfortunately, considering your close association with that young man, your reputation is not spotless and I have a great deal of interest in the repute which my wife bears. I cannot undo the fault you committed by coming here, but I can prevent you from committing new ones.’
‘And how do you intend doing that, pray?’
As he spoke to her he measured his words with icy precision. ‘I will, madam, believe me, in one way or another. My patience is tolerable but not endless. Do not try me too far.’
‘Then I take it that you are unlikely to react reasonably to my suggestion for an annulment or the scandalous subject of a divorce.’
His eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘You are right. I will not. You bear my name and I will not permit a breath of scandal to taint that name. It is a subject you will never raise again.’
Catherine shrugged and haughtily fixed her gaze out of the window. ‘Pity. It’s the only thing that will soften my attitude to you.’
For the remainder of the journey, Marcus avoided further conversation with her, sensing that Catherine would require a great deal of time and courtship to be lured into his arms and into his bed. Throughout his adult life he could not recall one woman he had wanted who hadn’t been ready and eager to share his bed, but with Catherine it was different. Since she had such a low opinion of him she wouldn’t be as easily coaxed, but already he was impatient to make her his wife in every way. He wanted Catherine, and he wanted her immediately, and he’d be damned if he’d take time courting her.
Chapter Three
T he inn was crowded and noisy. In every smoke-filled room men and women were eating or drinking, transacting business or discussing the news of the day. They were shown into a cosy bedchamber, in which a fire burned bright. A four-poster bed with a canopy and faced bedspread of scarlet and gold dominated the room.
‘Ah,’ Marcus said on seeing baggage other than his own stacked on the floor. ‘I see the Tippets have lost no time in having your things sent over.’ From where he stood in the doorway, seeing Catherine’s gaze sweep the room with unease, he said, ‘I can see that something disturbs you.’
‘You might say that.’ She turned to look at him with contempt, not caring that her emotion showed plainly on her expressive face. ‘It’s the sleeping arrangements. Where are you to sleep?’
Closing the door, Marcus strode into the room and approached his wife in a misleadingly indolent manner. His dark eyes smiled, but his face gave nothing away of his thoughts. ‘With you. In this bed. I thought you knew that.’ To reinforce the point an almost lecherous smile touched his lips as his eyes swept the bed.
Energised by fear, Catherine faced up to him, an expression of indignation frozen on her face. ‘Damn you,’ she hissed. ‘Have you not the decency to grant me time to come to terms with having a husband without forcing yourself on me?’
A ripple of something stirred in Marcus’s breast and he marvelled at her courage. She might be stricken and feeling at her lowest ebb over the loss of Harry Stapleton, but this wilful young woman had certainly not parted from her temper. He felt a rush of blood through his veins and a hammering in his chest. Like a dangerous illness that desires a desperate remedy, he would make Catherine his wife and force her heart to forget Harry Stapleton before this night was out.
‘Time? How much time do you need, Catherine?’ he said mildly, his voice belying the need to ease the lusting ache that gnawed at the pit of his belly. ‘You have had fourteen months to come to terms with our marriage.’
Marcus’s nearness threatened to destroy Catherine’s composure. A look had entered his eyes she did not recognise and she felt awkward. She swallowed, shrinking under his scrutiny. Anger had sustained her so far; now fear and something else, something she could not identify, began to nudge it aside. Struggling to steadfastly keep her thoughts on what was happening and aware that in her breast
her heart was thumping far too fast for her to claim a mere tolerance of him, surreptitiously she stepped away to minimise contact.
‘I do not see it as any kind of marriage.’
Marcus moved to stand behind her and ran his fingers down the shining darkness of her hair. ‘Nevertheless that is what it is. Legal and binding in any court of law.’
‘It was more an arrangement between you and my father, I’d say.’
‘You are right,’ Marcus admitted calmly. ‘An arrangement I am not ashamed to confess I entered into to destroy a man who was guilty of murder, treason and other assorted crimes. However, Catherine, despite the nature of that particular arrangement, I have a far better arrangement in mind, one that is much more in keeping with the whole idea of marriage. By any definition you are my wife.’
The heat of his stare lent the weight of truth to his words and something caught at Catherine’s heart. For a moment she wavered, but, ashamed of her weakness, she met his stare squarely. ‘Even though I love another?’ she taunted coldly. ‘Even though Harry’s face, his smile, his voice took away the dreariness of my life, because what we had, our dreams, gave me hope and made everything bearable?’
‘Yes. Our marriage is an inescapable fact.’ His eyes looked directly into hers, leaving her in no doubt of his intention. ‘Love me or hate me, Catherine, I am your husband and, be it duty or pleasure, before this night is out my will will be done.’ Raising his hand, he touched her pale cheek gently with the tips of his fingers. ‘Your father is dead and yet I see no sorrow or grief in your eyes. Not even the trace of a tear.’
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