The woman closed her mouth, her hazel eyes wide and frightened. He ran a hand through his hair and tried to understand what was going on. One minute he’d been sleeping, dreaming that a soft, warm woman was beside him. The next moment, he’d been shoved, thrust into coldness, and had his senses assaulted by a high-pitched keening. His head throbbed with a dull ache that numbed his usually quick wits.
What the hell was going on? And what was he doing in his bed? He thought back, mentally retraced his steps, but the path was not easy. It was dark and winding, and at first all he could remember was a church. Talking to Edmund Fullbright in a church. And he’d been angry—they’d both been angry because—
Quint bolted upright and swore. Catherine yelped and jumped back, taking all of his bedclothes with her, and then he swore again. He was naked, with a morning erection he could not hope to hide.
At least now he knew why she was screaming. “Damn, damn, damn! That goddamn bastard. I’ll have his head.”
Quickly, he rose and pulled on his dressing robe. In two strides he was at his desk, pen in hand, fumbling for paper. And then he paused. How the hell was he going to fix this with a pen? He needed a pistol. He needed to find Edmund Fullbright, shove the pistol into his mouth, and pull the trigger.
Quint gripped the desk. No, he had to be rational. He had to think.
He looked at his pen again. He would write a letter and decry the wrong that had been done to him. He’d tell how his father-in-law had drugged him. He didn’t know how, but he knew that the deed had been done. He’d been drugged and only half-lucid when he and his bride had exchanged vows, and he’d lifted his bride’s veil and found not Elizabeth but Catherine.
And then her father had taken him aside and showed him the marriage license. There, swimming before his blurry vision, was Catherine’s name, not Elizabeth’s. Fullbright had warned Quint not to make a scene. One sister or the other, what was the difference? He was married to a Fullbright now, a niece of the Earl of Castleigh, what else did he want?
Quint had told Fullbright in no uncertain terms that he wanted Elizabeth. And then Mrs. Fullbright had come in with Catherine and tea. More tea.
Quint thought of the tea he’d drunk yesterday morning. That was how Fullbright had done it then. And he’d never thought, not until he had that second cup.
Now he pulled paper after paper off his desk, tossing the used sheets on the floor, but he could not find a clean one. Quint dropped his aching head in his hands. It was no use. He’d seen the marriage license. And he had signed it. He was married to Catherine. He’d said the vows to her, and he didn’t even remember whether the priest had said her name or Elizabeth’s. And now, to seal the deal, he had slept with her. He didn’t think he had taken her, made love to her, but he could not be sure, and what did it matter anyway? She would be ruined. Even if he arranged an annulment, she was already ruined.
He was ruined—all his hopes and dreams, his plans for the future disappeared into dust when he’d lifted that veil. He allowed his head to fall into his hands. He allowed himself a moment of mourning for what might have been, and then he steeled himself. This wasn’t over, not by far.
Slowly, he turned back to the room and faced Catherine. His wife.
She had pushed herself into a corner, her face pale and wary, as though she feared he would pounce on her at any moment. She looked afraid and confused, and with her hair down about her shoulders, very much like he’d pictured her in his fantasies. Quint pushed the image away and tried to keep his thoughts honorable.
“We need to talk,” he said.
She nodded.
“Your father—”
“I won’t go back,” she said, her voice shaky but strong. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want this to happen, but I will not go back.”
Quint frowned. “Then you knew?” he said. “You willingly took part in his plan.” He tamped down the burst of anger that threatened to flare up again. Now he knew the kind of woman he was dealing with.
“No!” She stepped out of her corner, the words spoken so vehemently that he almost found her believable. “I had no choice. He-he—if I hadn’t gone along he would have . . .” She trailed off, and he watched her glance about his bedroom, then turn her gaze on him. Her hands tightened on the pile of silk bedclothes at her throat. He wondered if she realized they gaped at her side, showing him the curve of one honey-colored breast.
He looked away. He didn’t want to feel lust for her right now. He was angry, so angry, and lust would only complicate the matter. He wanted to strangle her. How dare she deceive him like this? How dare she and that bastard father of hers do this to him and Elizabeth?
She was speaking again, and he glanced at her, fury making her words hard to understand at first.
“I don’t understand how this happened,” she was saying. Catherine gestured to the bed. “How did we end up here? I don’t remember—”
“You were drugged,” Quint said without preamble. “Opium, as I’m sure you well know.”
She closed her eyes. “The tea. He made me drink it before we left for the church.”
He leaned forward in his chair and pounced. “So you were drugged, but that doesn’t change the fact that your name was on our marriage license. You stood with me in the church and said the vows.”
“I didn’t want this,” she said, her voice a mere breath.
“I don’t believe you.” He could see the shock on her face, but he didn’t care. “Tell me, why should I believe you? You all but seduced me the night of the betrothal ball.”
She curled her lip, mirroring his own disgust. “You wanted to be seduced.”
“Well, I didn’t want this marriage. I didn’t want you.”
