Quint stared at his assistant for the space of five heartbeats. The news was too overwhelming for him to accept all at once. It took those five heartbeats to allow it all to sink in. “Bloody hell!” He jumped to his feet and slapped Meeps on the back. “Bloody hell! We did it!” With another whoop, he descended on the decanter of his best brandy and poured two overflowing snifters.
After the first few sips, Quint lit a cheroot and savored it. “And what about Fairfax?” Quint asked, referring to his rival.
Meeps raised his glass again. “No mention of the man. Not yet at any rate.”
With a smile, Quint filled their glasses again and watched Meeps drain his. Quint did not remember ever having seen Meeps drink before, but the man was keeping pace with him.
“And I propose another toats—er, toast!” Meeps said. “All hail the—”
Quint looked up and saw Catherine standing in the doorway, his letter in hand.
“Catherine!” He slammed the snifter down, feeling like a naughty child. “I mean, Miss-Lady Valentine. Meet my assistant, Harold Meeps.”
She nodded at him. “Mr. Meeps.”
Meeps held his glass aloft, toasting her. “To you, madam. Many haspy—I mean, happy—years together.”
“Thank you. Do you think you might give me a moment alone with my”—she swallowed and cleared her throat—“my husband?”
“Certainly.”
When Meeps was gone, Quint’s wife turned her golden hazel stare on full force. “Do you often smoke, sir?”
Quint stared at his cheroot, taken by surprise. Had she come all the way downstairs to complain about his smoking? He put the cheroot out. “I have had good news. But if my smoking bothers you, I—”
“May I ask the meaning of this note?” She held up the paper he had scrawled a message on and sent with the Times. He noted that her hands were shaking, but if she was afraid of confronting him, that was her only tell.
“It means we will be leaving for the country posthaste. You did read the article?” He sipped from his glass again.
She straightened her shoulders, and he saw that amber cast in her eyes again. Bloody hell. The woman had been thinking, most likely preparing her arguments. Quint was tired of arguing. Could he not have even a small measure of peace in his own home? “And don’t argue,” he added before she could speak. “You’re coming with me.”
“Am I? Lord Valentine, I am no child of seventeen. I am a woman of twenty.”
“I am well aware of that fact.”
“And I have been thinking.”
Quint clenched his hands. It was just as he’d thought.
“I’ve been bul—ordered about all my life, and I have had enough. I will no longer tolerate overbearing men telling me what to do.”
Quint set his glass down very slowly. He liked to do things slowly when he was angry; that way he kept his emotions controlled. “I am not overbearing. You are irrational.”
She blinked and said through clenched teeth, “I do not want to argue with you. Go to the country, if you will, but I stay here.”
Quint took three deep breaths, trying hard as hell not to be overbearing. It was damned hard when the chit was so frustrating. “You will not stay here. We leave for the country at first light.”
Her eyes narrowed, and she balled up the note he had written.
“Is that your idea of a rebellion?”
“Is this your idea of marriage?” She threw the paper at him, and it hit him in the chest. “I won’t be dictated to or ordered about.”
“Then be reasonable.” He picked up the paper from the floor where it had landed and placed it carefully on the desk. Then he moved slowly around the desk until he stood before her. She took a shaky breath and moved to put distance between them. “Do not make me force you to go.”
“That’s all you men know, isn’t it? Force and brutality.”
“Good God. If you knew me better, you’d know how ridiculous these statements are.”
