Finally, he ceased jouncing her up flights of stairs, and she opened one eye to see the red carpets of the second-floor hallway. He was taking her back to the bedroom. This was it. Now, he would beat her and rape her. After the way she’d acted, she knew she had it coming.
But instead of opening the last door of the hallway, the one she knew led to his room, he stopped short and walked into another room. This one was done in pastels, all muted blues and lavenders. At least she thought it was before her world spun violently, and she was dropped unceremoniously on a bed.
Immediately, she curled into a protective ball, covering her face and head. But she also fisted her hands. He might get in the first blow, but he wouldn’t have the chance at another.
Nothing happened. Catherine cracked one eye open.
Valentine was standing over her, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. “Sorry I had to do that.”
Catherine frowned and opened both eyes. He was apologizing?
“I warned you not to act rash—”
“Bastard!” she spat the word, hoping it would goad him to action. Why did he not just hit her and get it over with? She was ready to fight now.
“Ah, good. You’re feeling better already. Splendid.”
Catherine uncoiled and sat up. What was wrong with this man? She insulted him, and his retort was “splendid”?
He was backing toward the door now. “I’m have to lock the door, but I promise to send a tray of food.”
Catherine’s indignation shot her to her knees. “Don’t you dare lock me in, Valentine. I’m not staying here.”
He was already at the door. She scrambled off the bed, barely managing to preserve her modesty with the sheet.
“It’s only until you calm down, and we can talk rationally.”
“I don’t want to talk rationally!” she said. “I want out of this marriage.”
“So do I!” And he closed the door, locking it, just as she reached it and began pounding. But it was no use. The door was locked, and she was imprisoned. She went back to the bed and tried to comprehend what had just happened. She had awakened beside him, naked. They had obviously been sleeping together for some time, and yet, he had not raped her. She would have known if he had forced himself on her. Perhaps the opium had incapacitated him so much that he had not been able to take her? More likely, he found her so repulsive that he did not want her.
And then she had argued with him, fought with him, and stormed out of his house. He must have been furious. He’d gone after her, and yet, when he had her back, he didn’t beat her. Not even when she insulted him further.
She didn’t understand this man. He was not acting at all like her father would have.
Suddenly, her door was hastily opened, a covered tray shoved inside, then it was closed and locked again.
Perfect beginning. Now the servants were afraid of her.
She wandered over to the tray, lifted the linen napkin, and stared. Wonder of wonders, Valentine had kept his word and sent the food. What was wrong with this man? Why was he treating her with kindness? Did he not realize that she didn’t deserve the food? She had been defiant and rude. Shouldn’t she be punished?
She peered at the food again. Perhaps there was some punishment in it. Perhaps it was poisoned and would make her violently ill.
She ate a piece of cheese and some bread, drank a half glass of wine, waited, but nothing happened. Catherine sat back on the bed and slowly the thought occurred to her that Valentine was not punishing her at all. In fact, he was not intending to punish her.
Was it possible Valentine was a man like her uncle William, kind and even-tempered?
No, she would not let her guard down yet. It might be a trick, a ploy to lull her into complacency.
Catherine finished her meal and lay back on the bed, surveying her surroundings. If she had to be imprisoned, this was a nice enough jail. The room was small but the space well used. There were two windows, both draped with a lightweight lilac material. They seemed to overlook a small badly tended garden in the rear of the house.
The furniture was heavy but not overbearing. She allowed her gaze to rove over the tall kingwood-and-tulipwood armoire in one corner. It was a beautiful piece, decorated with parquetry and ormolu mounts. Across from the brass bed where she lay, sat an elegant combination writing desk and dressing table, also in tulipwood and also with extensive ormolu. The last piece was a washstand with a tile-paneled splash back. She stood and went to washstand, pleased to find the pitcher was full of cool water. She poured about half into the washbowl and rinsed her face, then crossed to the lovely armoire, hoping inside there might be some article of clothing she could wear.
But the three inner shelves were empty except for extra linens and a stack of lace handkerchiefs. They were embroidered, and Catherine lifted one and stared at it. In the corner, the initials EV were embroidered in script.
Catherine dropped the handkerchief. Elizabeth Valentine. This room, these handkerchiefs, were meant to be Elizabeth’s. Catherine put her face in her hands.
She was doomed. She knew that now. She was married, and no matter how much she wanted Valentine to find a way out of the union, she knew in her heart it was nigh impossible. He’d talked of scandal, and he was right. The scandal would ruin her reputation and his career.
