She nodded. In the lamplight, everything seemed different. She was no longer anonymous.
She was ashamed of her actions. What would have happened if she had not stopped him?
Lord, she still wanted him. That was the most humiliating part. She looked at his bare chest and his rumpled hair, and she wanted to press herself wantonly against him. She wanted to touch him and kiss him and lick him.
Oh, Lord. What was wrong with her?
“Are you well now?” he asked.
She stared at him. No, she wasn’t well. She was thinking about licking him. That was not normal. But then she realized he was speaking of her nightmare. The faces, the closet, the rat bite and the spider. She shuddered violently.
He started for her, but she held up a hand. “I’m well. I just—” She was startled to find tears on the back of her hand when she wiped her eyes, and this time a wave of her hand did not stop Valentine from sitting beside her.
“It’s a dream I have sometimes. A nightmare,” she mumbled, trying to keep him from seeing her face.
“Perhaps talking about it will help,” he murmured. He took her hand in his and kissed her knuckles. “The room is alight. No shadows. Tell me.”
Catherine did not want to tell him. It was silly and humiliating that something from so long ago should still terrify her. She was too old to be afraid of spiders and rats.
And yet she needed to tell him. It was so hard to keep it all inside. And the dream was so real, so horrifying.
“I’m a little girl,” she heard herself say. She stared down at the bedclothes, not his face, but she was glad he did not release her hand. “I’m in a closet under the stairs. Alone. I’m there because I’ve been bad, and I’m scared because it’s cold and dark, and I can’t see. I cry to be freed, but no one comes.”
Valentine took a deep breath, and she glanced up at him. His eyes were dark. Angry?
“I’m hungry and so frightened, and I’m pounding on the door until my hands are sore. But no one comes.”
The tears were streaming down her cheeks now, and she let them fall. And she let Valentine pull her into his lap again. She’d wanted him to. She’d needed him close to say this last part.
“And then I feel something slither over me. A-a rat, I think, and I jump up and my hand is tangled in a cobweb, and I feel the spider, its furry legs all over me. And I scream and scream. But no one ever comes.”
“Shh,” Valentine said. “You don’t have to say anymore. I’m here now. You can sleep, and you’ll never have to dream that again. I’ll be right here to keep the nightmares away.”
He was lowering her on the bed again, but this time his touch was only one of comfort. She closed her eyes as he pulled the sheets up around her.
“Catherine,” he whispered just as she began to drift off, “how old were you when he locked you in the closet?”
“Ten,” she said. He began to pull away, and she reached out and caught his wrist. “But it was only a dream. You understand that?”
He leaned over her and caressed her cheek. “I understand. Now I understand.”
THE NEXT MORNING CATHERINE received three letters: one from Ashley, one from Madeleine, and one from Josephine. All three were angered that she had been forced to leave Town, for they assumed she would never leave of her own volition. Ashley seemed to take her absence as a personal affront and threatened to come out to Hertfordshire and make sure she was well. Maddie talked more of events in Town, particularly the difficulty her father was giving her about going to the orphanage every day. He worried for her safety.
Catherine wished Josie’s father would worry more for her safety. Josie’s letter was filled with tales of a Lord Westman and pirate’s treasure. As usual, it sounded like Josie was getting into plenty of trouble.
Catherine spent the morning writing letters to reassure her cousins and to give them her opinions on their various dilemmas. Maddie got sympathy and Josie a stern lecture. Ashley was instructed to stay in London for the time being.
Catherine stayed in her room as long as possible, avoiding Valentine. The events of the night before had not been far from her mind. She was ashamed of her forwardness, angry that she had told Valentine about her “dream,” mortified that when he saw her again he would pretend nothing happened and mortified that he would not.
There were so many times in the short days of their acquaintance that he had seemed to want her. He’d touched her and looked at her with desire in his eyes. Last night he could have had her. Catherine had no illusions on that score. She would have willingly done whatever he’d asked.
And yet, Valentine had not taken her. He had pulled away, preferring to lull her to sleep than into his arms. She woke in the bed alone this morning. And no wonder. He had no feelings for her. It was Elizabeth he loved.
Catherine finished addressing her letters and put away the writing materials she’d requested. She could hardly avoid Valentine for the rest of the day, or even the rest of her life, as she’d like to. She always waited for things to happen to her. Today, she was going to face the world.
She found her husband in his library. She knocked twice and opened the door. Valentine looked up when she entered. He was sitting at a large mahogany desk that matched his eyes. No wonder his eyes reminded her of that wood. He looked at home behind the desk.
Before him were a stack of papers, a pen, an inkpot, and a pot of tea. She could see the steam still rising from the pot and could almost feel the warmth of the fire in the hearth.
