He gave her a look of mock-horror. “Good God. Can you ever forgive me?”
She pinched her lips at him and glared. “Stop making fun of me. You promised to respect me, and I want you to cease.”
“Very well.” He turned so that he faced her more fully. “I will cease if you tell me why.”
“It makes me uncomfortable,” she said, and felt a blush creep up her cheeks. Lord, she hated when she blushed.
“How?”
She frowned. “What do you mean? I just feel unsettled. I don’t like it.”
“Are you certain?”
She shook her head in disbelief. “Of course, I am certain. I know when I am uncomfortable.”
“I don’t doubt it. But you said you felt unsettled. That feeling is not always unwanted. Sometimes it can even be pleasurable.”
Catherine felt her cheeks burst into flame.
“Did my touch give you pleasure?” Valentine asked.
Catherine had to avert her eyes. It was a scandalous question, not fit for a discussion even between husband and wife. Certainly not appropriate for two people who were united by the merest thread. She looked down at the hand he still held and, with his words swirling in her ears, couldn’t help but imagine those fingers sliding over her shoulder, her collarbone, flitting across the swell of her breast.
She shivered and tried to free her hand, but Valentine held tighter. “What were you thinking just now?”
“Nothing. I-I—”
He placed a finger over her lips. “There is no shame in feeling pleasure or imagining pleasurable activities. Do you know what I was thinking?”
She shook her head, desperate to know while at the same time wishing he would simply leave her alone. She didn’t like the way she felt—the oversensitivity of her skin, the way her nipples hardened against the material of her stays, the dampness between her legs. She felt restless as a filly on a new spring day, and she longed for the cozy, comfortable days of winter.
But now that Valentine had awakened her, he seemed loath to allow a return to sleep.
He slipped his fingers between hers again and leaned closer. “I was thinking about you in my bedroom. I was imagining standing in the doorway, watching you slide that gown off your shoulders, down your arms—”
“Stop, sir! This is not proper.” But she could feel the heat and pulse between her legs growing.
“—baring your back,” he continued. “I can see all that honey gold skin until the dress drops to your hips, revealing the dip at the small of your back. And I want to kiss that place. Flick my tongue over it and lave it until you writhe beneath me.”
His fingers were sliding over hers once again, back and forth, up and down. And Catherine wanted to silence him, but she did not have the strength. Lord help her, but she wanted him to do all the things he described. She wanted to feel his hands on her.
And then, just when she felt she could be silent no longer, when she felt she must demean herself and beg him to touch her, he released her hand and sat back. Once again, he parted the carriage curtains and peered out into the landscape, his face impassive, his warm, strong hands immobile at his sides.
Catherine stared at him, trying to comprehend the transformation. This man, her new husband, was obviously a man of much control. And he was also a man of much passion. As she stared at his unreadable face, she wondered which side of him she liked more.
Chapter Twelve
The sun was low in the sky by the time Quint turned to his new bride, and said, “This is it.”
She sat forward and parted the curtain, letting a spill of violet-tinged twilight into the carriage.
“Look down at the top of the next rise,” Quint said, pointing into the distance. “That’s Ravensland.” As the coach topped the bank, Quint gave his bride a sidelong look. He watched her face, waiting for any telltale sign of disappointment. His family had large estates, of course. His mother and father lived in Ravenscroft Hall in Derbyshire, but this property was his own—small and simple and unassuming.
If Catherine had usurped her sister and married him for money, he’d know it in a moment.
And he did. As soon as Catherine saw the house, her eyes widened, and the first smile he had seen all day teased her lips. Without looking away from the house, she said, “Oh, it’s lovely. I was afraid it would be some monstrous thing that rambled on and on and where I’d get lost.” She turned and smiled at him, and Quint was caught staring at the full, ripe peach that was her mouth.
“But it’s not,” she said, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of his stare.
