A Little More Scandal (5 page)

Eight

Catrin pushed against William’s firm, slick chest. She wanted to see him. See his body. He was so wary, however, that she dared not push too hard. He might stop altogether.

And she would rather live the rest of her life a spinster than have that happen.

With any luck, she would never need to make that choice. As William thrust his magnificent rod and her eyes rolled shut on a wave of pure pleasure, she vowed to have him—have this. Her body had known, as had some deep, formless part of her brain. She had known they were suited, to the point where the attention she received from other men left her cold and agitated.

Only William left her wanting. Wanting more.

Was that even possible? She already felt as if he had wrung every last drop of pleasure out of her. Yet she was not slack, not satisfied. Something else awaited her, and she had no notion of what.

She wanted to ask him as much, but his rough rhythm had splintered her capacity for language. The brute strength of his hand across her mouth was its own arousal, as well as serving to keep her relatively quiet. Still, when he dragged her nearer to the edge of the desk and tipped her pelvis toward his thrusts, she could not help a low moan. The perfect spot. Beyond a few furtive, embarrassed whispers among her fellow nurses, she had not known such a thing existed. But there it was—the place deep within her that she’d needed him to find.

His fingers tightened across her mouth and on one thigh. A sheen of sweat gathered in the wells of his collarbones. She sank her nails into the hard, round caps of his shoulders. He must have liked that, because he flashed his peculiar smile. As quick and condescending as ever, it was overlaid with something very near to wonder. His quick gaze never settled. From breasts to neck to where their bodies joined, then back to her eyes, as if he tried to give his attention to each facet of her wanton display.

She was flattered that he made the attempt, sympathizing because of her own struggle. She literally could not decide where to look. To his savage face—the broken nose, striking eyes, and beautiful mouth. To the fantastic breadth of his chest, with every sharp muscle flexing in time. Or to the trail of glossy, damp golden chest hair that arrowed down to . . .

Good God, he was big.

In and out. How did she take him each time?

And yet her body was open, accepting his hard pulse with ever more greed. Again she trailed her sharp caress across his skin, this time down his chest. He arched back a little more, then a little more, until he offered the proud, arrogant picture she had wanted to see. For a moment she basked in the wonder of him. So powerful. Holding on, just for her. His labored breathing and faltering pace said as much. And still he rocked her with the most blatant weapon a man possessed.

A trapdoor in her mind unlocked. Opened. She shuddered, then shrieked behind his hand. Desperate for closeness, she hugged her legs behind his back and clung to his neck. He bowed over her, his arm wrapped low around her hips. Her bare bottom, slick with sweat and her body’s moisture, squeaked along the desk’s polished wood.

There had been a word. A word the soldiers used when they thought no woman was within earshot. A word only the closest of her friends in the nursing corps had dared utter, followed inevitably by hushed giggles.

Fucking.

William was
fucking
her.

That taboo thought and the mindless, pounding beat of his body launched her into a dark and searing realm. She screamed. All she heard was a muffled noise, but the scream echoed louder and longer within her mind. Pleasure flared outward from where they joined, hot and liquefying. She bucked beneath his hold, his big frame, his questing hips, until the screams died away, until he groaned her name. The tremendous shudder that overtook his chest and shoulders made her grin beneath his palm.

This was not her first time. But it was the first time she understood the fiery potential of man and woman.

They lay panting, reclined against the desk, for longer than Catrin could figure. William’s face was tucked along the side of her throat. She could not feel her upper thighs where they pressed against the edge of the desk, yet the slight discomfort was easy to ignore. The supper hour could be nigh for all she knew. She was so dazed, so faintly sore, so completely tousled, that she never wanted to move again.

Only on one other occasion had she felt such paralysis. Instead of revisiting those hours left strewn on an unfamiliar beach, alone, her life ebbing away, she tightened her hands around William’s hard, muscular middle. Damp skin spread beneath her restless finger.

“Would it be so terrible?” she asked against his brow.

Words.

Even her own voice sounded foreign—her accent thicker, her breath ragged. They had shared a great deal, so quickly, and without the need for words. She had known it could be right between them. A shame, then, to return to a form of communication where they wound up at odds.

After a shake of his head, he cleared his throat. “Would what be so terrible?”

“Marriage. To me.” She laughed softly. The vibrations flowed from her chest into his and back again. “We seem compatible enough.”

“Do you truly go through life thinking like that?”

“Like what?”

“In such plain terms—and so against the grain of Society.”

“Plain saves confusion, as you well know,” she said with a smile. “And don’t forget that I’ve lived among men, soldiers no less, for the past five years. I’m often surprised when I manage to keep pace with the more subtle nature of female conversation. As for Society, they already think I’m a whore or a heroic angel. Nothing I’ve done here will alter that, not when their small minds are already made up.”

William levered above her. She reached her arms overhead, feeling as contented as a cat in the sun. Her nipples remained exposed, tight and sensitive. She should cover up, but his eyes still consumed her.

“Were you in the habit of keeping company with those soldiers? Intimate company?”

A sudden chill in that overly warm room did more to encourage her to dress than did modesty. She had given him something unique among her experiences, just as she had taken so very much. He assumed this amazing moment was commonplace? It was the sort of insult against which she had believed herself immune. She had heard such accusations before. Only this time, it stung like the searing heat of cannon burst. Because it came from William.

She should have known better. In opening to him physically, she had opened other vulnerable places, too.

“Are you asking if I supplemented my nursing income?”

“Yes, that’s what I’m asking.”

She shoved his chest. “Get off of me.”

“Not yet.”

“Would you rather behave as Lady Julia believes of you?”

He scowled and let loose a guttural curse. “What would that be?”

“That you’re a barbarian in a suit. A mockery to good gentlemen everywhere.”

“Is that what she said?”

He pushed off the desk and assisted Catrin to her feet. Her whole body was stiff, wrenched into painful angles. Arranging her undergarments as he refastened his trousers put a blush on her cheeks. She should find it amusing to feel embarrassment now, after the deed was done. Instead she banked a surprising wave of sadness.

“That was her warning,” she said tightly. “A beastly Celt, she called you.”

“You wanted this.”

“I did. I
still
do. But I asked for none of your assumptions.”

“No, but you practically asked for my hand in marriage. There’s bold, my dear, and then there’s ridiculous.”

“So is giving myself to a man who doesn’t deserve such a gift.”

William visibly blanched.

Catrin dropped her skirts into place. A curious numbness eased through her limbs, from her belly outward to her fingers and toes. She welcomed it. “But this remains a matter of mutual best interests. You could have a story to Mr. Lymon by the end of the day, and I would work to make a pleasant home for you. How is this wrong thinking?”

For a moment, William had no answer. None at all. His expression softened. And she could see the wheels turning behind his luminous hazel eyes. He enjoyed her company. She knew it. Even her exasperating baiting must hold some appeal, because he gave as good as he got. Their sexual appetites certainly suited.

Yet her insult had slapped him sideways. Amazing to believe such an intimidating, carnal man had any weaknesses. Her negative opinion seemed to be one of them.

“I have a son,” he said bluntly.

Catrin blinked. Not because that was new information. In fact, she had tacitly discovered as much as she could. Her conduct spoke of questionable morals, but she was not entirely rash in having chosen William. No, her surprise emanated from the sudden change of subject.

“A son?”

“Yes. His name is Alexander. He’s not yet two and lives with my late wife’s parents.”

His hair was a mess of golden snarls, yet he spoke of a child. She could not align the two thoughts. Scratches angled up from his unfastened collar, the little streaks of pink left by her nails. Coupled with her rumpled undergarments and ruined coiffure, she likely appeared just as debauched. Yet she would let him take her upstairs and start anew.

If he proposed.

And wasn’t that the clearest example of shutting the barn door after the cow had escaped? She preferred to think of it as tempting him in ways no other woman had dared try.

“Do you think having a son would change the soundness of this negotiation?”

“Negotiation,” he spat. “You don’t know anything about the word. You stride ahead like some wild heathen. What makes you think life works that way?”

She picked up her bonnet. Numbness had been replaced by another welcome sensation: forged steel. With no weaker backbone, she had nursed hundreds of soldiers and sailors across the span of five years. “Fifty-nine men and four women died when the
Honoria
sank. The way I see it, I have my own life to live, as I please, and sixty-three others to commemorate. I won’t do so by half measures. London awaits, Mr. Christie, as do the remainder of my days. If you care nothing for sharing them with me, so be it. Tell Mr. Lymon what you like.”

Only a sharp twitch across his shoulders revealed any emotion. Perhaps surprise. Disapproval. A tremor of anger. Whatever the origin, it was nothing to the sharp grunt of his climax and the raw shudder of contentment that had rolled through his body. But Catrin had no patience to interpret subtle clues from a man who was usually so brazen—not when her thoughts boiled together in a mass of want.

When had this conversation strayed beyond the mere negotiations she claimed?

She reached for the doorknob.

“You can’t go out like that.” His brogue was thick and low.

“I’ll do what I like.” She flicked her gaze toward the desk. Papers were strewn along its surface and on the surrounding floorboards. “If the last hour isn’t proof of that, I don’t know what is.”

She needed to leave. She needed to flee. She was drowning again, especially when she pushed out of his office. Only this time, she knew nothing about the waters in which she swam.

Nine

A masked gala.

Perfect, actually, for a woman who wanted fewer eyes following her every move, and a shield from the gossip that inevitably followed. With any luck, she would not even recognize William Christie if he also accepted an invitation.

In the carriage across from Lady Julia, feeling lower than a poor relation, Catrin almost snorted at her own silliness. Of course she would recognize him. As distinct as the spires of Big Ben, his towering frame and workingman’s scowl had become her social landmarks. Failing to see him would be like surveying a field of woolly white sheep, so placid as they chewed and milled, while willfully missing the wolf prowling in their midst. When compared to mere men, he was a whole other species.

Again she stifled a chuckle.

“Is all well, Miss Jones?” asked Jonathan Talbott. A cousin of Lady Julia’s from her mother’s side, he was several years younger than Catrin and of far fewer means than the rest of his family. His love for dice, cards, and ponies surpassed his skill. Without a title to recommend him, he possessed elegant manners and little else. But if she wanted mere manners, she would have returned to her father’s parish.

Good gracious, when had she become such a hoyden? Gradually, she knew. With a stab of disloyalty, she suspected her boredom extended further back across the years. Aldith had been safe and predictable. Her grief upon his death had been genuine, as had her need to escape its aftermath. She had changed daily across five years of living for necessity, duty, and survival. Now other concerns left her bored.

And that was before William had pushed her back across his desk. She was doomed to melancholy at the very least, because no matter the man, he would need to live up to the sparkling, drugged pleasure of the frustrating Mr. Christie’s mouth. Who could match such a staggering achievement?

Certainly not the likes of Jonathan Talbott.

Her mind formed that forbidden word again.
Fucking.
What William had done to her. What she wanted again. She tightened her thighs until she needed to close her eyes. Surely someone would read the depravation reflected there. She touched the place beneath her high lace collar where he had bruised her with his ravishing, suckling kiss.

That they had quarreled afterward was a fact she decided to alter. They had . . . disagreed. He was hardly going to ignore her, not with his ambitions. And he was still her choice.

“I’m quite well,” she said, upon collecting her wits. “Excited by the prospect of this gala. I’ve never been to a masquerade.”

“There’s no trick, really,” said Mr. Talbott. “Just smile that pretty smile of yours, and keep from letting anyone know who you are.”

Although she knew that to be the point of the gala—the diversion of so-called concealed identities—she felt a measure of dread. Mr. Talbott had spoken in such a way as to suggest her identity should be hidden. Permanently. Did he disapprove of Lady Julia’s kindness? Because, no matter the woman’s motives, she had done Catrin a remarkable favor by providing a spare room and clothing, let alone keeping her close throughout the Season.

“Nonsense, Jonathan,” said Lady Julia. “She can reveal herself to whichever fine young man catches her fancy. There’s nothing more exciting than being in possession of a shared secret.”

Catrin nodded, but in the hopes of keeping her thoughts hidden, she did not smile. That was the exact thought she had entertained upon first receiving the unexpected invitation. She and William would be alone together, no matter the crowd. But she tempered that expectation. Apparently he did not want her as a wife, if he wanted any wife at all.

For being such a level-headed businessman, he was passing up quite the bargain.

The carriage came to a stop, just before the driver embarked upon the grand jostle to inch nearer the event’s entrance. Illumination from large, heavy torches along the wrought-iron fence shone through the window and caught the jewels lining Lady Julia’s crimson mask. Swan feathers, dyed to match her shimmering gold gown, spiked outward like exotic eyebrows. Catrin had never imagined such a creation, not even when perusing the tattered, mud-strewn fashion catalogs hoarded by a few fellow nurses. It was simply too far beyond her base of knowledge, and a reminder of the world’s glories she had yet to witness.

She needed a partner for that journey. Being alone held little appeal beyond privacy. The night was too long and the waters far, far too cold and dangerous.

Swimming with sharks.

Mr. Talbott, wearing an equally ostentatious mask of bright purple silk, helped Catrin down from the carriage. She followed the cousins up the wide marble steps, which glowed golden yellow beneath another dozen blazing torches. Because of the nature of the masquerade, no one announced them as they arrived. A small, quiet blessing. She had come to dread the simultaneous turn of a hundred heads when her name was bellowed across a ballroom.

Lady Julia took her arm. “This way. I know it’s all supposed to be a secret, but I wanted to introduce you to Lady Evelyn, our hostess. You want to be able to thank her for this marvelous opportunity, yes?”

“Of course,” Catrin murmured.

Ten minutes of baiting. Then she would be free to dance. A trivial exchange.

She straightened her back and told herself what she always did in such circumstances. Make it look easy. After all, the absolute worst had crashed down on her, and she had survived. Gossiping harpies were nothing but a buzz in her ear.

“Lady Evelyn, may I present Miss Catrin Jones.” The red face paint adorning Lady Julia’s lips had already started to flake.

Every woman’s mask outshone the one Catrin wore, but Lady Evelyn’s was the only one she did not envy. The giant creation must have weighed half a stone, adorned with dangling beadwork and fat crystal bobs. Catrin knew nothing about precious stones, but she suspected every rock encrusting that giant blue monstrosity was valuable. No wonder Lady Evelyn sat on a raised chair, nearly a dais, as she received guests. Few women would be able to stand for long while supporting such a creation.

“Of course! Miss Jones! How lovely to finally make your acquaintance. I’m so delighted to offer you a taste of culture after the trials you’ve endured.” Her substantial bosom pressed against the heavy restraints of her bodice as she spoke. And such an odd manner of speaking—polite and displaying perfect elocution, but breathy and rushed, as if constantly tattling. Perhaps that was all she did. “You simply must tell me what it was like. Although no one has been able to get a word out of you, I’m absolutely assured that I will.”

“I’m very pleased to be here, Lady Evelyn, but that will not be the case. I wish that you would respect my privacy, and the privacy of our fallen fighting men.”

Behind that disconcerting mask, Lady Evelyn blinked. And turned to ice. “I suppose I should not want to discuss the less flattering aspects of your profession either.”

Catrin carefully tucked her hands behind her back. She laced her fingers together and squeezed. “Pardon me, my lady? I’m afraid I’ve lost your meaning.”

“Nursing.” Roughly forty years old, the heavyset woman shuddered, which wiggled the little weighted bobs on her mask. “To be among all those men for so long . . . I’m sure protecting your virtue became most trying.”

“Most trying,” Catrin echoed. Nine minutes more. Surely Lady Evelyn would not tease her for longer.

“I think you must either be very brave or very, very foolish. Can you imagine, Julia? Living so roughly?”

Catrin bit her teeth together. Bugs, mud, rot in summer. Snow, starvation, frostbite in winter. Explosions that rocked the ground beneath her feet, and wounds so grievous as to make her doubt any good remained in the world. Living roughly had been the least of her concerns.

“But then to come home to our dear city and face such speculation about your character,” continued Lady Evelyn. “Surely that is nothing short of unjust. Especially the rumors about your condition while shipboard.”

Heat flared between Catrin’s brows, as if branded atop the bridge of her nose. “Excuse me?”

“Oh!” Lady Evelyn used a fan that matched her mask to wave away an apparent fit of vapors. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard! Please, don’t tell me I’m the one forced to bear bad news.”

The gleam in her dark eyes said that after being refused the prize of a few salacious details, she would gladly provide her own. Whether genuine rumor or an instantaneous fiction would never be revealed. When Lady Evelyn repeated them often enough, they would become fact. None of Catrin’s polite protestations or silences would fend off the damage. If they limited her chances of finding a suitable husband . . .

Perhaps even William, for all his hard edges, would not abide so many indignities.

“I’m afraid you must be that poor messenger.” Lady Julia tilted her lips at a saucy angle. Catrin had come to think of the expression as Julia’s anticipation of entertainment. She braced herself. “It appears that Miss Jones is not privy to your sources. All extremely reputable, I assure you.”

On that precipice, Catrin wondered whether Lady Julia’s aid had been worth all this fuss.

Yes. Surely it was. She would have been the object of newspaper chatter and bored gossips with or without the woman’s auspices.

She held her breath, like a prisoner awaiting a judge’s verdict.

“Well, I heard—as Lady Julia said, from a very reputable source—that you were in a . . . a . . . delicate condition while aboard the
Honoria.
Imagine! To have such a tragedy be the bringer of your good fortune.”

“Good fortune?” Catrin’s voice was nothing more than a squeak, and not just because of the indignation burning in her throat. No matter how she wanted to forget her argument with William, she could not banish the pit of dread in her stomach.

What they had done—a child was possible.

“Why, yes,” Lady Evelyn said brightly. Too brightly. “Such a fortune to eliminate any trace of your indiscretion. And here you are, a summer guest of some of London’s most influential families. For a girl like you, that must have been quite a boon.”

Lady Evelyn’s sharp smile promised more if Catrin did not acquiesce. By no means did she intend to betray the events of those last few hours before the
Honoria
sank, but neither did she relish agreeing with any detail Lady Evelyn had presented. Even her silence would be read as confirmation. All of Society would accept that preposterous, nauseating story.

She wanted to rail and scream.
Do you know what I’ve endured? What good I’ve done?
Her sacrifices hardly seemed worth the trouble when faced with such willful cruelty.

“Everyone’s generosity has been quite a boon, yes,” she said carefully. “This gown, for example, had been Lady Julia’s. She was so kind as to have it altered to suit me, and to lend me the services of a lady’s maid.”

Humility. Modesty. She had no other weapons.
Try to find anything in there to use against me, you bulbous crone.

Lady Evelyn puffed a little sigh, then waved her hand. “Out of my sight,” she snapped.

Catrin exhaled. Pure relief. She bobbed a quick curtsy and mouthed whatever pleasantries might still be expected, then turned away. Whether the woman would repeat her tale remained outside of Catrin’s control. All she could do was enjoy what remained of the party, although her stomach had knotted around a glowing red coal. She might be sick.

She had known the speculation to be rampant, but the nightmarish fantasy Lady Evelyn had crafted was simply . . .
beyond.
Was any woman capable of using such a tragedy to wipe clean a shameful slate? And then to accept every invitation to every ball, smiling as Catrin loved to smile and dancing as she loved to dance? Anyone who chose to believe that of her would believe her an exceedingly cold creature.

“I must talk to you, Miss Jones.”

Her heart stopped. Jumped. Thudded. Raced at a terribly unhealthy speed. She would’ve been alarmed for a patient with her vital signs.

William Christie leaned against one of the massive pillars that stretched two stories tall, to where ornate frescoes decorated the domed ceiling. His ankles were crossed. He held a tumbler of liquor, but otherwise his posture seemed tense. It was the line of his wide chest—so constricted as to be nearly hunched. Even as Catrin noticed that sign of fatigue, he straightened to his wholly intimidating height. She inhaled sharply.

He wore a simple charcoal suit that had been perfectly tailored. No more ill-fitting garments. This one permitted his shoulders the room to be broad and impressive and his legs the chance to show off their tight, strong bulk. His body had flexed atop hers. This suit did remarkable justice to his raw strength and long limbs. A plain, black satin half-mask covered most of his face, including his busted nose. The effect was breathtaking. He had transformed into the handsomest man Catrin had ever beheld.

Again she thought of a wolf among sheep, only he was a strapping thief among preening aristocrats. She wanted to climb him, kiss him, strip that fine suit off his glorious body.

But from somewhere in the depths of her character, where she had apparently learned to accept a great deal of insult without showing it, she found her voice. “And if I believe we no longer have anything to discuss?”

She believed no such thing, of course. Her pride had taken quite a beating. She wanted to huddle behind her defenses for just another moment.

He stalked away from the column, downing the last of his drink with a single flick of his wrist. The glass disappeared on the tray of a passing server. William stood over her, a primitive god fallen to earth. He glanced his knuckles against her cheek, then passed his thumb over her lower lip.

“Oh, but we do,” he said. Amid the dancers, the music, and the ceaseless conversations, his rumbling rasp was difficult to hear. She felt that delicious vibration just beneath her breastbone. “Miss Jones, I would like to reopen our negotiations.”