“It was my father!”
He shook his head. “Allow me to continue. But we are here now. We are married.” He said the word as though he loathed it more than she did. “I want to try and make this work.”
She didn’t believe him. Oh, he told the truth when he said he didn’t trust her, but he was not wooing her out of any heartfelt feeling. Catherine would have wagered all she had—little more than the clothes on her back and the ring he’d given her—everything he did, he did with his career in mind.
He didn’t love her. He loved Elizabeth.
“Fine, then try to woo me,” she said. She shrugged. If the man thought pretty words and baubles would work on her, let him make a fool of himself then.
She put her hand over her new ring, feeling its solid, timeless stones against the skin of her hand. She had no gloves, and thankfully she had worn her gown to bed, or she would probably be back in her sheet.
“Then I will start my wooing by saying that you do yourself a disservice, Catie.”
She gave him a sharp look, and he grinned again. Lord, when the man smiled at her, her stomach did quick, jerky tumbles.
“May I call you, Catie? Only when we’re alone, of course.”
“Of course,” she stammered. “You work quickly, I see.”
Suddenly the carriage seemed far too small, and Catherine looked longingly at the seat across from them. Would he comment if she moved? Would it be a sign of fear? She did not want to show more fear.
He reached out and took her hand again, and it took a vast amount of her remaining courage not to draw it back. “I see you eyeing the other seat,” Valentine said, squeezing her hand. “You want to move away.”
“I think it would be more comfortable.”
He laughed. “I fear it will be a long time before you are comfortable again, Catie.” And then he parted the curtains and peered out into the dawn. They were out of London, and the horses were moving at a good clip. Catherine wondered how long she would be forced to sit next to him. Already her shoulders and neck ached from tension.
And her whole arm tingled. He had not released her hand, and the heat of his fingers infused all the surrounding skin. He sat, holding her hand, and peering out the window for a long time. Catherine finally parted her own curtains and looked outside. She watched the low green hills roll by, the fat milk cows, and the cozy, little cottages. She smiled at the laborers in the cornfields, who raised their heads when the carriage passed.
And just as she began to relax, Valentine moved his fingers.
It was a very small movement, and she might not have noticed it at all except that his hand in hers had been absolutely still up until that point. Now she felt one finger move, tracing a small circle on the inside of her palm. She shivered and tried to ignore the sensation. But he repeated the movement, this time the circle grew bigger, his finger tracing the underside of one of hers when the circle was complete.
She looked at him, but he was still staring out his coach window, his face impassive. Perhaps he moved his fingers without thinking. She tried to loosen her hand, to free it unobtrusively, but he did not release her.
With a sigh, she went back to looking out her window, and then a few moments later, he began caressing her palm once again.
Catherine tried to ignore it, but it was difficult when each new touch made her feel hot and cold all at once. Her arm tingled, and she noticed that each new caress was different from the last. One caress was soft, that next firmer. He drew a small circle on her palm, and the next circle was so large, his touch extended over her wrist, making her pulse throb deliciously.
Catherine continued to stare out the window, but she could not believe Valentine’s caresses were unintentional. He was the devious one, not she. She had to remember he did all of this for his career. He didn’t care for her; he wanted to control her.
But what to do? Should she say something? Ask him to cease? Even as she contemplated her options, he grew bolder, his fingers actually traveling up her arm, tickling the sensitive under skin and tapping over her delicate inner elbow.
At that Catherine could no longer sit still. She was already squirming in her seat, and when his fingers glided over her inner elbow, she turned to him, eyes burning.
“Sir, I must ask you to cease at once.”
He turned from his window to regard her, brow raised. “Cease what?”
She glowered at him. “You know what. Cease touching me.”
“Am I not allowed to touch my own wife?”
“I’m not truly your—”
“And I am merely holding your hand.”
She let out a frustrated breath. “No, you’re not. You’re caressing me.”
