She cared little for herself, but she knew he would protect his career above all else.
So what now? He didn’t like her; he didn’t even trust her. He thought she’d planned this bride swap. He certainly didn’t love her. It seemed to her that a marriage without love was the worst sort of prison, especially when one partner loved another. Valentine had called her Elizabeth. He obviously loved her sister. And Lord knew Catherine was nothing like her sister.
How fitting that Catherine should be forced into marriage with a man who would spend all his days pining for her horrible, spoiled sister. Elizabeth didn’t begin to deserve this man. Not that Catherine did. If he was really as kind as he seemed—and that was just preposterous; it had to be a ruse—then Catherine knew she could never deserve him.
If she ever got out of here, she would find a way to make her father pay for this. How could anyone treat others’ lives so carelessly? How could he trick a man into marriage and condemn his own daughter to a lifetime of misery?
And what of her sister? Catherine was under no illusion that Elizabeth loved Valentine. The girl loved no one but herself. But to have the man you were betrothed to taken away, capriciously given to another, and be made a fool of before all Society.
Did her father realize what he’d done? Did he even care?
And how could he possibly get away with this? Valentine had said her name was on the license and she’d said the vows, but what of the banns, the engagement announcement, and the betrothal ball? Surely Society would notice that one sister had been substituted for the other. Valentine was so worried about sullying his reputation, but Catherine could not but believe they were already the favorite topic of the ton.
Not that she cared one jot for the ton. She had more important concerns. Her face flamed when she thought of her behavior this morning. What had she been thinking, marching through the streets in nothing but a sheet?
She could never have imagined doing anything so reckless in all her life, but something inside her had snapped when Valentine had threatened to send her home. Terror had overridden reason, and she had indeed behaved rashly, as Valentine suggested. But what did he know of rationality? Valentine had not been pulled out of a sound sleep and sold to a leering thug for less than the cost of employing a housekeeper.
She would not go home, and the more she thought about it, the more she realized that she could not allow Valentine to end the marriage. If he did so, she would have no choice but to live on the street. That, or run to Uncle William’s. She wiped a trickle of wetness from her cheek. Oh, what did it matter? She’d run before, and her father always found her. He always got her back. If she left Valentine, her father would get to her. He would sell her again or worse . . .
Valentine, with his excessive worry about scandal and his reputation, was nothing compared to her father. Why, the earl had not even struck her after her behavior this morning. She’d been impudent and insulting, and the man had done nothing but apologize. He hadn’t laid a hand on her. Yet.
She did not want to be married. She did not want to be some man’s wife—subject to his whims and his fists and his anger. But what if her marriage had actually relieved her of that life? What if this marriage to Valentine had saved her from the whims of another man, even worse than the man she called husband?
She stared at the shadows on the ceiling and considered. She might be wrong about Valentine. After all, hadn’t she always said that the devil you knew was better than the devil you didn’t? But what if Valentine was her one escape from her father?
But even this revelation did not relieve the trapped feeling in her chest. What would Valentine do with her now that she was his? What if she had misjudged him and, given time, he was no better than her father?
One thing was clear to her. She might be his wife in name, but she would not be his wife in truth. She would not share his bed or his life. As long as she was here in London, she still had her cousins, her only friends. She could run to them for protection, if only temporarily.
Sometime later there was a knock on the bedroom door. Catherine had fashioned a sort of toga from the sheets, and now she checked that it was secure.
“Miss Fullbright?”
It was Valentine. She pulled the knot at one shoulder tighter. “What do you want?” Now, he would beat her.
“May I come in?”
He was asking permission? What kind of trickery was this? She tried to forestall him. “Do you have my clothes?”
“I’m not going to stand in the hallway and yell through the door. I’m coming in.”
She heard the sound of the lock turning, and Valentine poked his head in. He peered about the room, obviously worried she’d gone on a rampage and destroyed it, then he peered at her. Catherine crossed her arms over her chest and felt her cheeks explode with heat. Now that she saw him again, her earlier escape seemed even more childish. Had she actually thought that stomping into the street wearing nothing but this sheet would solve anything?
And then he stepped into the room, and she had the impulse to run away again. Not just because she was afraid he would hurt her. The sight of him, even now that he was fully clothed, reminded her of his nakedness this morning. She hadn’t meant to reveal anything when she’d pulled the bedclothes off him. She had not meant to see the expanse of his chest, lightly furred with dark hair. She had not meant to see his bronze arms, hard and muscular. She had not meant to see those long, lean legs or to look when he’d risen to catch a glimpse of his small, tight bottom. And she had especially not meant to see that part of him that made him unquestionably male. Had he been sleeping beside her all night with it hard and ready for battle?
She shrank back from him. Was it hard now? Was he ready to use it on her?
“I’ve come with gifts,” he said.
Catherine paused and blinked. Gifts? Had she heard him correctly? Why was he bringing her gifts?
He held out a piece of cloth to her, and when she did not take it, he shook the robe open. “I can have clothes ordered, but perhaps this will do until that’s been accomplished.”
Catherine stared at the robe. She didn’t understand this man. She understood his words, but not the reasons behind them. Why was he being so kind? Where was the trap in this?
“This is very kind of you,” she said finally, taking the robe. She would have to wait until he left to put it on, and without stays or a shift, she would still be far from proper, but it was better than the thin sheet. She wondered how far his kindness extended. “Am I still a prisoner?”
“That depends on you.” Valentine eyed her directly, his gaze assessing. “Have you given up your rash ideas and begun to see logic?”
