“I would like to do that to you.” As he spoke, he spread her legs farther and worked his fingers in ever-widening circles. Catherine could not stop herself from scooting just a bit farther down the seat. She needed him to touch her there.
Valentine was saying, “I would like to take you home, lay you on the bed, and spread your legs, as I am now. And then I would delve between them and kiss you here.” As he spoke, his fingers caressed her core, and she almost jumped from the pure pleasure in it.
She glanced through the curtain again and saw the boy’s head between Clare’s legs. She leaned back on her elbows, her breasts jutting out, her breaths coming in ragged moans. Catherine moaned herself as Valentine continued to caress her, his fingers moving assuredly over her sensitive skin. And then he entered her, softly at first, with just the tip of one finger, but she almost jumped off the chair.
“Easy,” he said, as though he were calming a skittish horse. “I feel how wet you are,” he whispered in her ear when she was still again. “My fingers are damp with your excitement.”
He stroked her again, allowing another finger to enter her. Catherine tried to remain still, but she could not stop her body from writhing subtly against his hand. She prayed no one would see them, she prayed he would cease, and she prayed he would never cease.
Her gaze flicked to the couple again, and she saw that Clare’s legs were shaking now, spread far, and taut with effort. Her gasps of pleasure were far too loud, and Catherine feared the whole pub might hear. And then she realized that what she heard were her own gasps in her ears as Valentine’s fingers stroked her, bringing her higher and higher until she could not think, until she was so warm and the heat so intense that she was certain she would burn up.
And then she exploded. Her knee hit the underside of the table, but she did not feel any pain. All she felt were spirals of bone-numbing heat hurtling through her so that every muscle went limp and flaccid, and her entire body was heavy with pleasure.
And then she opened her eyes, and her gaze met Valentine’s.
One, two, three . . .
Oh, Lord, she did not know what to say, what to do. How could she have allowed this to happen? She was obviously a very wanton woman.
“I-I—” she trailed off, unsure what to say. Finally, she managed, “I didn’t know I could feel like that.”
“I spoke to you of pleasure,” Valentine said softly. “The marriage bed holds many pleasures.” She met his gaze again, and he reached out and stroked a lock of her hair back. Under the table, he righted her skirts and slowly brought his hand into view again. She stared at it. It was an ordinary hand, and yet it had given her so much pleasure.
“You’re embarrassed,” he said, his eyes full of concern. “I’m sorry. I should not have done that here. I just wanted to show you—” His gaze moved to the curtain again, and she followed. The boy was now standing, and Clare was unfastening his bulging trousers.
“I think it best we go now,” Valentine said, taking her hand. He tossed the owner a pound as they exited and then led her quickly to where his curricle waited.
It was dark by the time they left the village. They rode back in silence, Catherine barely breathing for fear Valentine would hear and mistake the sound for an opening for conversation. She could not speak to him, not because she was angry or even embarrassed any further but because she wanted to keep what she felt close to her heart.
In the space of only a few days, everything she had thought she knew about men, and especially about Quint Childers, had been turned upside down. Men were not all violent brutes who sought to hurt women. They did not all drink to excess and then launch into tirades, terrifying their wives and children. Valentine had either spent his time quietly reading in his office or with her. He cared about reform and about the less fortunate.
He treated his servants and indeed all that he met well. He treated her well. He was understanding and authoritative but not a bully. He hadn’t pounced on her, even when it was clear he wanted her. He treated her gently, with respect. When he took her riding, he had given her his best horse. He had made sure she would receive the best dresses.
And then when they had been in the pub and had seen Clare and her young man, he had not scolded her for looking or taunted, he had found it as arousing as she. He found her arousing and had awakened a passion within her she did not know existed.
She had not known it could be this way between a man and a woman. She had not known men could give pleasure as well as pain. And now she was torn. She knew, even without the physical closeness developing between them, that she was beginning to have feelings for Valentine. He was a man above men, and she feared that he was too good to be true. What if she misjudged him? What if she gave herself to him, became his wife in all things, made this marriage true and real, and then it proved the wrong decision? What if Quint Childers was not the man she hoped?
She stared at the ring he’d given her. And what if he was?
Chapter Seventeen
The next few days were painful for Quint. He felt as though he were constantly on edge, constantly aware of his wife, and constantly aroused by her.
He had not intended it to happen. At the start of this seduction, he had planned to remain emotionally detached. But every day he spent with her weakened his resolve.
They had gone riding every morning and for walks in the afternoon. They supped together and sat in his study after dinner, reading and talking. Over all that time, how could he not notice that she had a quick mind and a kind heart? Even worse, she seemed to grow lovelier each day. When the first two gowns had come from
Mrs. Punch’s, Quint had been amazed at the transformation that gowns designed for Catherine had made.
Catherine changed from a lovely young woman to a true beauty, her exotic complexion and those honey hazel eyes making her even more alluring. His desire for her reached heights he could not remember feeling for any other woman.
He watched her, even when she did not know he did, and he knew she watched him too. She was contemplating their marriage, considering— he hoped—coming to him, to his bed, becoming his wife in truth. He still slept on the chaise longue in their bedroom, and he had not pushed her to change this. He would not. He wanted her invitation, not her acquiescence.
That did not mean he did not take any liberties. She allowed him to hold her hand and to wrap an arm about her, and he kissed her as often as possible. She allowed the kisses and kissed him back, but she did not allow their embraces to go beyond a few fervent caresses. She did not allow what had happened in the village pub to happen again.
Despite his slow pace, Quint was not dissatisfied with his progress. He wanted her in his bed—rather, wanted to share his bed with her— but he wanted her as trusting, loving wife even more. She was becoming that woman every day, and he only wished he could speed the process along. The letters and documents he received from Meeps each evening increased Quint’s hopes for attaining the Cabinet seat. But Meeps also reiterated the need for Valentine to be in London. Fairfax was beginning to mount his own campaign for the seat.
And Quint felt the pressure. Why had he married at such an inopportune time?
