Catherine expected her father to boil over with rage, but he only gave Quint a thin, malevolent smile. “Perhaps not, but I am able to speak on any great number of other topics, including this dupe of a marriage.” He tapped a thoughtful finger on his chin. “I wonder what the prime minister would think if he read the true story of how you two lovebirds were married? I wonder if the citizens of our fine city”—he gestured clumsily at the buildings surrounding them—“would want a Cabinet officer who couldn’t even marry the right woman at his own wedding? What kind of official would that man be?”
Catherine felt Quint tense. “Your concern for the welfare of our fine government is touching, Mr. Fullbright,” Quint gritted out. “But I have already dealt with your friend, Mr. Hudson. Blackmail won’t work.”
“Blackmail always works, my dear son. May I call you ‘son’ now? I hope so, as I believe you and I will have a long and profitable relationship.”
Catherine lowered her head in defeat. It seemed that she would never emerge from the shadow of her father. But, to her surprise, Quint laughed. Her head shot up, and she blinked at her foolhardy husband.
“Go home, Mr. Fullbright. You won’t get a shilling from me. Do you think that I would ever give a worthless bastard like you even a momentary glance? You’re no better than the horse manure I wipe off my boot.”
Her father’s eyes widened in shock and anger, and Catherine shrank back. She knew that look and what it meant. “Quint, be care—”
“Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Catherine’s husband, and I’ll be damned if you hurt so much as her feelings ever again. Say good night, Catie.” He put an arm on her waist and made to usher her away, but her father stepped in their path.
“You worthless—” His fist came up fast and hard, and Catherine bit back a yelp of fear for Quint. But her husband easily sidestepped.
And then, before she could react, Quint’s own fist came up, and she heard the crack when it connected with her father’s face. Edmund Fullbright went down in a heap.
Quint stared at him, nudged him with a foot, and then, turning, held a hand out to Catherine. She took it, stepping over her father’s unconscious body. “Good-bye, Father,” she said.
“Your carriage, madam.” Quint gestured to the first carriage in line.
“But, sir,” the coachman, who had been staying out of the way, stepped forward. “This is the prime minister’s carriage.”
“I’ll apologize tomorrow.” Quint placed her inside and climbed in after her. “Well, that was fun,” he said, when the carriage was under way.
Catherine stared at him. “I dumped punch over my sister’s head, you gave up the Cabinet position, had a public brawl with my father, and now we’ve stolen the prime minister’s carriage. We’re doomed.”
“We’re having fun,” he corrected her.
“Fun? But your career—”
Quint pulled her onto his lap. “I don’t care. I wasn’t only wrong about your sister. I was wrong about my work. It’s important to me, but not as important as you.”
She stared at him. “It’s not?”
He pulled her against him, and she burrowed her head in his neck, loving the way he smelled.
“I almost lost you to my obsession with work. I won’t ever do that again. I forgot what was truly important. I forgot the reason I got into politics. I wanted to help people. I wanted to do good, and I let my ambition get the better of me.” He stroked her hair, his breath warm on her cheek. “I don’t want the Cabinet position, not if it means losing you. I’ve missed precious minutes and seconds with you, Catie. I spent hours at a desk when I could have been with you. I don’t want to lose any more time together. I don’t want to lose you.”
Her heart swelled, and she murmured, “You won’t. And you never will. I love you, Quint.”
He answered her with a kiss that didn’t end until morning.
Chapter Twenty-four
Catie thought she dreamed the sound. She tried to turn over, to ignore the ping, ping, ping, but finally she opened her eyes and listened.
Beside her, Quint breathed in and out deeply.
He was asleep and his body was warm and heavy. She wanted to turn into his heat, feel his arms come around her, but she heard the ping again and forced herself to slip out of bed.
A quick survey of the room revealed clothes scattered over the floor, a tub with water that had long ago cooled, and a half-empty bottle of wine and two glasses. No shoes or a robe.
She heard the ping again, this one coming from her room, next door, and she pulled on Quint’s tailcoat to cover herself. She hurried through the dressing room and looked out the window. Below, three women had their heads together. One was blond, one brunette, and the other auburn-haired.
Catherine pushed the window up and peered out. “What are you doing here?” she hissed.
