She turned back to the window, and when she heard him leave, she picked up the robe and slipped it on. Hopefully, Maddie would send clothes before the dinner hour. And what then? She looked back out the window. Obviously, it could be scaled. She could leave anytime she chose. She would remember this, and if Valentine tried to touch her, if he drank too much and hit her or threatened her, she would know how to run away.
Maddie’s clothes arrived an hour later. She’d sent two dresses and underclothes, but none of them were Catherine’s. Catherine wondered if she would ever see her own things again. Perhaps her father had already sold them or given them away. It was growing late, and she’d received no letter or note from him, no call from her mother or sister. She felt as though she’d never existed in their lives.
She had not expected to hear from her father—had not wanted to hear from him, in any case. But what of her mother? Did she not care about her own daughter?
Catherine unfolded the dresses, shaking out the wrinkles, and as she did so, a pair of trousers fell out of the folds of one. Catherine picked them up, then shook out the other dress. It hid a shirt and an old jacket. She sent a silent thank-you to Maddie. These would be a start if she ever needed to escape. She took an extra pillowcase from the armoire and folded the men’s clothing into it, then hid it under her mattress.
Perhaps tomorrow she would be the one scaling the wall.
Chapter Ten
When Quint strode into his dining room that evening, he did not expect to see his bride. In his experience, women were almost always late, either because they were so vain that they could not leave their mirrors or because they desired to make grand entrances.
He almost wished he wouldn’t see her. Then he could pretend this whole swindle of a marriage had never happened.
But Catherine Fullbright was waiting for him. She stood at one end of the dining room, staring idly at a painting of horses grazing in a field. After the events of the long day, Quint did not feel like talking. But this was his wife, little as he liked to remember that. He supposed he had better say something. “Do you like art, madam?”
She turned, and he noticed at once that she was finally dressed. She wore a blue-and-white polka dotted calico gown that was more suited for a day dress and which was also too short and too tight. The sheet she had worn all morning revealed less of her figure. He took a deep breath and tried not to stare. She had gone to some trouble to look presentable by pulling her hair up and away from her face. In the candlelight flickering from the chandelier, her golden hazel eyes shone.
Catherine looked at the picture one last time before replying, “Actually, I care little for art. But I do like horses.”
“Do you ride?” As soon as he spoke, he regretted the words. The image produced in his mind had nothing to do with horses. But the damn dress she wore was too tight at the bosom and strained a bit at the hips. How could he help thinking of unleashing her straining body, removing her gown so she could ride him? He took a step closer, wanting to see her more clearly, to be closer to her.
“I do ride, actually.” She took a step back, and he moved forward again. “My cousin Madeleine and I often ride together.” Her voice wavered. She backed up again, bumping her shoulder on the corner. “Sir, please stand back.”
Quint stopped and shook his head to clear it of lascivious thoughts. He’d allowed his carnal impulses to guide his actions, and though he might be attracted to her, she made it abundantly clear that she felt nothing for him. This marriage was looking worse and worse.
Not that it had ever looked good. He’d been drugged and deceived. How was he ever supposed to feel affection for a woman who was part of that? And yet, there was no denying he wanted her.
Quint retreated. With a slight bow, he pulled out a chair from one side of the table and inclined his head. He saw her release a pent-up breath. So she was relieved not to be subject to his advances. The long years of their doomed union loomed before him. He had to find an escape.
She took the proffered seat, and he considered his own place carefully. He could sit opposite her and give her the space she needed. Over time, she might not find him so repulsive. On the other hand, he found the idea of yelling at her across the room as they sat at opposite ends of his enormous dining table distasteful. He pulled out the seat beside her. She would have to get used to him sooner rather than later.
He took his place, and his butler entered and began directing the footmen to pour the wine and serve the soup. Valentine inquired after her health and whether the food was to her liking. Catherine smiled and seemed pleased with the food. He waited until she had finished her soup to reveal the train of his thoughts.
“Miss Fullbright—or, rather, I should say Lady Valentine.”
She glanced up at him, eyes narrowed. “Miss Fullbright is fine.”
He frowned. He would have rather she was still Miss Fullbright as well, but she was his wife now, and as such, she’d become Lady Valentine. One day she would be Lady Ravenscroft. He tried to let that thought sink in. “Perhaps we might compromise. As we are married, why not use given names? I will call you Catherine, and you may call me Quint.”
“Quint is your name?” she said with raised brows. “I had no idea.”
“I shall be the fifth Marquess of Ravenscroft. My parents thought it appropriate.”
“I see, and I accept your compromise.”
“Good.” He lifted his wineglass and sipped. That had been easy. He did not think his next proposal would be accepted so warmly. “I have yet another suggestion, and this may be less to your liking.”
She tensed, looking as though she’d been expecting this. “Go ahead.”
“In light of the scandal news of our marriage will certainly cause, it might be best if we were to retire to the countryside. London will have too many distractions.” The image of her cousins climbing through the window flashed in his mind.
Catherine blanched, and Quint bolstered his defenses, preparing for a fight. Her eyes had turned from honey to amber, and he now recognized that as a sign of her anger. Or was it fear?
“Absolutely not,” she said, just as the footmen came in to clear away the soup bowls.
Quint waved the men away.
