He spoke of passion, of pleasure, but he didn’t speak of love.
Because he didn’t love her. He loved Elizabeth.
Catherine knew she would only open herself to a lifetime of pain if she allowed Valentine into her heart. All her life, Catherine had fought with Elizabeth—for her parents’ affection, for space in their shared room, for respect—but she would not fight Elizabeth for Valentine’s heart.
That was a battle Catherine feared she would never win.
Chapter Fifteen
Quint sat behind his desk and tried to concentrate on the documents in front of him. His recommendation to the prime minister was due soon, he had a speech to write for Parliament, and he still had to go through piles of correspondence. Here was a letter with information on a labor law he was researching, there a request from an MP for support of a new tax bill.
Quint stared at the work for the better part of the afternoon and made no progress whatsoever. It seemed no matter which issue he turned his attention to, the only issue he could really concentrate on was that of his marriage. He was not a violent man, but at that moment he could have cheerfully murdered Edmund Fullbright.
Quint had been wrong about Catie. He could see that now. Not that he hadn’t had reason to distrust her, but no more. Now he felt nothing but righteous fury for her. Edmund Fullbright was the worst kind of scum—the kind of vermin who belittled those weaker than himself, the kind of man who made himself feel powerful by knocking down people like his wife and daughter.
Quint hadn’t lied to Catie when he’d said that relationships didn’t have to be like that. He had promised not to hurt her, and he meant it. He would protect her, cherish her. He’d give her confidence and power, all that her father had stolen from her.
Quint leaned back in his chair and scrubbed his fingers over his face. If only all his plans were as easily executed as devised. He needed to return to his political work, but Catherine, with her long black hair, large hazel eyes, and blatant mistrust of men—and him in particular—plagued him far more than the reports of American discontent on the seas. The Americans he could deal with. His wife was another matter.
Still leaning back, he linked his hands behind his head and tried to consider the issue of his marriage as he would that of a pesky foreign dispute. In many ways, his wife was similar to a rebel colony. She was submissive but willful, coarse but full of potential, beautiful but teeming with hidden dangers. Quint imagined the early settlers of the American colonies coming ashore and seeing their new home for the first time. It had probably not felt any more like home to them than his marriage to Catherine felt like the union he had hoped for with Elizabeth.
Still, the colonists had weathered the storm. They’d suffered through the cold winters and hot summers, they’d fought back the threats, and they’d carved out a niche for themselves. And look at them now. The bloody colonies were a proud, confident country in their own right. And he supposed that was what he needed from Catherine. If she were to share the political stage with him, she had to be proud and confident.
And here was Meeps, speaking of a Cabinet position. How few men were ever considered for such an honor at the tender age of thirty, and yet the opportunity was there for the taking—if Quint played his part well.
And if Catherine played hers.
But how did one take a raw, new land and mold it into a nation? Quint sat forward and made a note on a scrap of paper littering his desk. First, one staked one’s claim. He could check that off. He felt a bit like Christopher Columbus must have when he mistook the Americas for India. Quint himself had been promised India, but he was in possession of America, and he would make the best of it. Not that that would be any hardship.
He closed his eyes and felt Catherine’s warm, soft body against his. One hand had been on the long column of her neck and the other just above the sweet curve of her bottom. How he’d wanted to take her in both hands, grasp her hips, and pull them against his straining erection—his need for her the result of her innocent but oh-so-tantalizing kisses.
But that was not the way. He’d known it and held himself back as best he could. Even when she’d met him thrust for thrust, their tongues mimicking the ancient rhythm both their bodies knew instinctively.
Quint let out a long breath and went back to his list. Yes, he had staked a claim, and he had not frightened the native away. He was wooing her and would continue to do so. But what next?
One worked to make the colony profitable. One built settlements and organized laws and—
Quint sat back again and smiled.
—and one cultivated the land. One plowed the virgin earth and planted one’s seed and hoped the endeavor would come to fruition. It was only after a successful harvest—after the settlement reaped what it had sowed—that a great nation could be born.
And Quint saw it was this way with Catherine as well. He’d bed his wife, earn her trust and her affection, and then he would begin to build her confidence and her skills until he’d molded her into the wife that he wanted. Until she was the perfect political hostess.
There was only one small problem with his colonization scheme: it took decades to forge a nation, and he needed a political hostess in a matter of weeks. The Cabinet position would not wait. If he did not take it, his rival Charles Fairfax surely would. Fairfax had the political clout and the perfect wife.
Quint ran a hand through his hair and peered out the window beside his desk. The midmorning rains had ceased, and the sky was once again blue and clear. It was a perfect day to go for a walk or . . . to ride into the small village nearby.
He looked back at his work. It was still waiting for him, and he really could not justify leaving so much undone for an afternoon of pleasure.
Except that when he looked outside again, he saw Catherine as she’d been yesterday morning. She’d been walking along the copse of trees, her long, dark hair blowing out behind her, her thin dress molded to her legs and her breasts, the color high and bright in her face. His groin tightened, and he looked back at the documents, then, with a resigned sigh, he rang for his curricle and sent a note to his wife. The government of England would have to wait. Quint Childers, Earl of Valentine, had colonizing to do.
An hour later, he sat beside his wife in his curricle and drove at a fast clip toward the village. She had acted reluctant to venture out with him and had barely been able to meet his eye when she’d come down from her room, but he had seen that beneath her embarrassment and mistrust of his intentions lay excitement.
She was a colonist as well—eager to explore a new world—or at least a new village. When he’d seen her still wearing the thin, too-tight muslin gown, he’d bundled her up in his cloak, and that gave him a brilliant excuse for going into the village.
She needed new clothes. There was a seamstress there who had sewn for the family for decades, and Quint told Catherine they would call on her and perhaps have dinner in one of the pubs.
She’d protested at first, but it was not hard to convince her. But when was it ever difficult to convince a woman she needed a new dress or a hat? The village was only five miles or so, and when they’d left Ravensland behind, Quint turned to her, and said, “I wish I could apologize for my behavior this morning.”
