But she would not sit still and wait for him to strike. She stared at her father’s shoes and knew if he tried to hit her, she would throw everything she had back at him. Even if she had to scrub chamber pots for a week, he would be the one sorry tonight.
And then suddenly his shoes were gone. She looked up, almost afraid it was a trick, but all she saw was his back. He was walking away, returning to the house and the ball.
Catherine tried to rise and then saw the drops of blood near the mark from Elizabeth’s slipper. Maddie’s dress was ruined. If she returned to the ball now, Elizabeth would tell everyone she’d tripped or had a nosebleed. Valentine would pity her. Elizabeth was on her guard now. Catherine knew she’d never get close to him again.
She was doomed to whatever her father had in store.
Chapter Seven
Quint paced his bedroom, listening to the clock chime four. It was the day of his wedding, early morning, and he could not sleep. Back and forth he paced, his bare feet sinking into the thick burgundy-and-blue Turkish rugs covering the hardwood floors. His bedroom was his sanctuary in an otherwise unimpressive town house in Mayfair. He’d bought the house because he did not want to live in his parents’ residence in Grosvernor Square. He’d wanted his own space. His house boasted a small dining room and study on the ground floor; a large drawing room and smaller ladies’ parlor on the first floor; and two adjoining bedrooms on the second floor, along with several smaller bedchambers.
Quint supposed those were intended for the residents’ children. But he did not plan to live here long with his wife. As soon as he and Elizabeth married, they would begin to search for a new house that would suit them both.
With that intention in mind from the start, Quint had not taken much time or effort to furnish the house in style. His wife could have charge of that duty. The one exception was his own bedroom. He’d commissioned a large full tester bed with Chinese silk hangings in dark blue and matching bedclothes. The furnishings in the room were tulipwood of the best quality. His favorite piece was his large mahogany desk with lion’s paws for feet. He had an identical piece in the small study downstairs and another in his office in Westminster. Quint liked consistency, and he arranged each of the desks in the same manner, with matching pens and inkwells. In this manner, wherever he chose to work, he was at home.
He paced to his desk now and opened a folder on a new investment proposal he was researching for the prime minister. The government and Mr. Perceval would thank him if he recommended the proposal and England prospered. Likewise, if he supported the proposal, and it turned out to be a swindle, his name would be vilified. He could not afford to make a mistake, in this or any area of his life.
He stared at the pages before him until the words blurred. Standing, he began pacing again. He was restless and impatient, and he didn’t understand why. He wanted to marry, and he knew the woman he had selected would make an excellent wife. She was a bit young at seventeen, but he was no old man at thirty, and a young bride meant a malleable bride.
Still, he felt a niggling prickle of unease on the back of his neck, just at the hairline. It was not an unfamiliar sensation. He’d felt it often before a vote on a bill in the House. Usually when things would not go his way.
Why the ominous prickle should appear right before his wedding was a mystery, but he’d felt it the last week or more—ever since the betrothal ball his fiancée’s family had given.
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.”
