“Then you go back. I’ll stay here, and you can join me when the session is over.”
“I’m not leaving you,” he said, taking her hand. It would have been a sweet statement had not his eyes been hard and determined.
“Why?” she said, withdrawing her hand. His touch still evoked too many memories. “Surely, I have not become indispensable to you in so short a time. Surely, you can live without me for a few weeks.”
He stood and ran a hand through his hair, disordering his neat queue. “Why do you have to make this so difficult, Catherine? I understand your fears, but I need you. Can you not do one thing for me?”
“For you or for your political ambitions? That’s what this is really about.”
He shook his head, then suddenly turned and knelt before her. “I have a chance at a seat in the Cabinet. Do you know how long I have wanted this and worked for it?”
She looked away. Already her heart was melting. How could she resist his pleas? After last night, after the gentle way he had been with her, how could she deny him anything? Even when the one thing he wanted terrified her.
“I have worked my whole life for this opportunity, and I am so close,” he was saying. “I deserve this, but I need you. Charles Fairfax is my competition, and he’s been gathering his supporters this past week you and I have been away.”
“And he’s married to the Duke of Astly’s daughter.” She glanced at him. “I must seem a poor choice in comparison. Especially considering whom you really wanted.” And Elizabeth would be waiting for him back in London.
“Damn it!” Valentine rose and paced away from her. “I don’t have time for this right now, Catherine. I want you, you know I do, and I need you right now. I need your support.” He turned on his heel. “Do I have it?”
She gave him a long look, took a deep breath, and said, “Yes, you have it, but let’s be clear, Lord Valentine. You need a wife. You don’t need me. You’ve considered me a liability from the start.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it? And why should I believe you, when you lied to me last night?
“I did not lie—”
She stood and crossed to him. “Then look me in the eye and tell me that you did not have your career in mind last night even as you spoke of our returning to London only to make me happy.”
To his credit, he did not look away. “Catherine, I care for you. What happened between us last night—”
“Don’t speak of it to me,” she said, forcibly restraining her tears. “Do not ruin that for me as well.” A rogue tear escaped her defenses. He reached out to stroke it away, but she realized his intention too late and flinched back.
“Goddamn it, Catie. I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.
“It’s too late for that. Just go.” She turned away from him, staring at the white walls of her room. “I’ll begin packing. We can leave as soon as you are ready.”
Chapter Nineteen
Quint didn’t understand women. He didn’t understand why they had to mix everything up in their minds until everything a man said or did produced offense in one way or another.
He’d traveled back to London with Catherine a week before, and since that time, he’d exchanged barely half a dozen words with her. Not that he’d seen her very often. He’d been so busy that he could not even remember the last time he slept.
Forget sleeping with her. He supposed he could add that to his list of transgressions—deserting the marriage bed. She probably assumed he’d neglected her on purpose. Nothing could be further from the truth. He wanted her, thought of her constantly, but he did not have time to smooth her ruffled feathers.
She’d been angry, and he could understand that. The anger came from fear. He’d asked her to do something that terrified her. Naturally, she was frightened and lashed out. But he did not understand how she managed to connect one small favor with everything else he felt for her. He still cared for her. He still wanted her. Why would her hosting a ball for his political allies change anything between them?
But it had.
Now when he looked into her eyes, he no longer saw fear and wariness. He saw pain, and somehow he was the source of that pain. He supposed she saw his request for her to host the ball as a betrayal of some sort, but that was ridiculous. Why couldn’t she see that hosting the ball would actually be a good thing for her? It would help boost her confidence. The ball was as much for her as for him.
Well, that supposition might be stretching things a bit, but the ball was at least not solely for him.
As he strode into his London town house, he tried to remember the last conversation he’d had with his wife. Barring that, he tried to remember when he’d last seen her. It had been at least a day. Surely not more than that. Not two days.
The clock in the foyer struck one. She was probably asleep by now, but Quint could not afford to wait any longer to see her.
He’d mentioned the ball to the prime minister, and Quint had to be sure the plans were going according to schedule. And, of course, there was another transgression. Quint had promised to help her plan the thing, and he hadn’t lifted a finger to do so. He’d been too busy, overwhelmed by bills, speeches, and correspondence.
