Married by Morning (8 page)

Leo feigned interest in the complex and detailed narrative, while his mind occupied itself with the question of what she would look like naked. It seemed tragic that he would never see her so. But even by Leo’s dilapidated code of ethics, a man did not take a virgin unless he had serious intentions. He had tried it once, letting himself fall madly in love, nearly losing everything as a result.

And there were some risks a man couldn’t take twice.

Catherine stared sightlessly in the darkness, kicked the bed linens away from her legs, and tried to find a more comfortable position in which to sleep. Her side. Her stomach. Nothing felt right.

After a few minutes, the baby’s crying stopped. No doubt he was being soothed by his attentive mother.

But Catherine was left awake. Lonely, aching. The worst kind of awake.

She tried to occupy herself with old Celtic sheep-counting words, still used by rural farmers in place of modern numbers …
yan, tan, tethera, pethera
… One could hear the echo of centuries in the ancient syllables.
Sethera, methera, hovera, covera
…

Her mind summoned an image of singular blue eyes, striated light and dark, like strips of sky and ocean. Leo had watched her while she had read to him, and while she had done the mending. And underneath their banter, and his relaxed façade, she had known that he wanted her.
Yan, tan, tethera
…

Perhaps Leo was awake at this very moment. His fever had dissipated earlier in the evening, but it might have rekindled. He might need water. A cool cloth.

Catherine left the bed and snatched up her dressing robe before she could think twice. Finding her spectacles on the dressing table, she placed them precisely on her nose.

Her bare feet crossed the wood floors of the hallway as she went on her charitable mission.

The door to his room was partially open. She slipped in without a sound, like a thief, tiptoeing to the bed just as she had the previous night. The darkness of the room was penetrated by a few runnels of light from the open window, as if the shadows were a sieve. She could hear the soft and steady flow of Leo’s breathing.

Making her way to his side, Catherine reached out tentatively, her heartbeat thickening as she laid her fingers on his forehead. No fever. Only smooth, healthy warmth.

Leo’s breathing fractured as he awakened. “Cat?” His voice was sleep-thickened. “What are you doing?”

She shouldn’t have gone to him. Any excuse she gave would sound false and ridiculous, because there was no rational reason to have bothered him.

Awkwardly she mumbled, “I … I came to see if…” Her voice died away.

She began to draw back but he caught her wrist with remarkable dexterity, considering that it was night and he was barely awake. They both went still as she was caught poised over him, her wrist imprisoned in his grip.

Leo exerted tension on her arm, forcing her to lean farther over him, farther, until her balance was compromised and she fell on him in a slow topple. Terrified of hurting him, she scrabbled to brace her hands on the mattress, and he used every movement to lever her more fully onto his body. She started as she encountered bare flesh tightly knit with muscle, his chest covered with a soft, crisp fleece.

“My lord,” she whispered, “I didn’t—”

His long hand curved around the back of her head, and he brought her mouth down to his.

It wasn’t a kiss, it was a possession. He took her fully, the heat of his tongue thrusting inside her, draining her of volition and thought. The masculine incense of his skin filled her nostrils. Erotic. Delicious. Too many sensations to take in at once … the hot silk of his mouth, the assured grip of his hands, the hard masculine contours of his body.

The world revolved slowly as Leo turned with her in his arms, half pinning her to the bed. His kisses were rough and sweet, kisses involving lips and teeth and tongue. Gasping, she reached around his neck and bandaged shoulder. He moved over her, big and dark, kissing her as if he wanted to devour her.

The folds of her dressing gown listed open, the hem of her nightgown rising to her knees. Leo’s mouth broke from hers to begin a luscious search of her throat, following tender nerve paths down to the place where her neck and shoulder met. His fingers worked at the front of her nightgown, unmooring tiny buttons, spreading the thin fabric.

His head lowered, his lips slowly ascending the trembling slope of her breast until he reached the tip. Taking her into his mouth, he warmed the cool bud with lambent strokes of his tongue. Ragged moans rose in her throat, mingling with the gusts of his breath. Leo settled more heavily between her thighs, giving her his weight until she felt the hard length of him press her intimately. He sought her other breast, closing his mouth over the peak and tugging wetly, creating waves of involuting pleasure.

With every movement, more sensation was uncovered, the soft edges of arousal wearing away to exquisite rawness. Leo took her mouth with long, drugging kisses, while lower down he had begun a subtle rhythm, nudging and sliding, using himself to arouse her. She twisted beneath him, desperately trying to follow that teasing hardness. Their bodies pressed together like the pages of a closed book, and it felt so right, so wildly pleasurable, that it frightened her.

“No,” she gasped, pushing at him. “Wait. Please—”

One of her hands pressed heedlessly against his injured shoulder, and Leo rolled off her with a curse.

“My lord?” She scrambled from the bed and stood there, shaking in every limb. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you? What can I—”

“Go.”

“Yes, but—”

“
Now
, Marks.” His voice was low and guttural. “Or else come back to bed, and let me finish.”

She fled.

A stupid impulse, she thought dully. A moment of madness. She should never have given in to it.

There was no one to blame but herself.

What remarkable ammunition she had given to Leo. He would torture her with this. He would take every opportunity to humiliate her. She knew him well enough not to doubt it.

Catherine’s ill humor was not helped by the appearance of Dodger, who emerged from the slipper box by her bed. The ferret pushed the lid open with his head, clucked in cheerful greeting, and tugged her slipper out of the box. Heaven knew where he intended to take it.

“Stop that, Dodger,” she said wearily, laying her head on her arms as she watched him.

Everything was blurry. She needed her spectacles. And it was awfully difficult to go looking for something when you couldn’t see more than two feet in front of your face. Moreover, if one of the housemaids found the spectacles in Leo’s room, or God help her, in his bed, everyone would find out.

Abandoning the slipper, Dodger trotted to her and stood tall, bracing his long, slender body against her knee. He was shivering, which Beatrix had told her was normal for ferrets. A ferret’s temperature lowered when he was sleeping, and shivering was his way of warming himself upon awakening. Catherine reached down to stroke him. When he tried to climb into her lap, however, she nudged him away. “I don’t feel well,” she told the ferret woefully, although there was nothing wrong with her physically.

Chattering in annoyance at her rejection, Dodger turned and streaked out of the room.

Catherine continued to lie with her head on the table, feeling too dreary and ashamed to move.

She had slept late. She could hear the sounds of footsteps and muffled conversation coming from the lower floors. Had Leo gone down to breakfast?

She couldn’t possibly face him.

Her mind returned to those blistering minutes of the previous night. A fresh swell of desire rolled through her as she thought of the way he had kissed her, the feel of his mouth on the intimate places of her body.

She heard the ferret come back into the room again, chuckling and hopping as he did whenever he was especially pleased about something. “Go away, Dodger,” she said dully.

But he persisted, coming to her side and standing tall again, his body a long cylinder. Glancing at him, Catherine saw that something was clamped carefully in his front teeth. She blinked. Slowly she reached down and took the object from him.

Her spectacles.

Amazing, how much better a small gesture of kindness could make one feel.

“Thank you,” she whispered, tears coming to her eyes as she stroked his tiny head. “I do love you, you disgusting weasel.”

Climbing onto her lap, Dodger flipped upside down and sighed.

Catherine dressed with painstaking care, putting extra pins in her hair, tying the sash of her gray dress a bit tighter than usual, even double-knotting the laces of her sensible ankle boots. As if she could contain herself so thoroughly that nothing could stray loose. Not even her thoughts.

Entering the breakfast room, she saw Amelia at the table. She was feeding toast to baby Rye, who was gumming it and drooling copiously.

“Good morning,” Catherine murmured, going to pour a cup of tea at the samovar. “Poor little Rye … I heard him cry in the night. The new tooth hasn’t come yet?”

“Not yet,” Amelia said ruefully. “I’m sorry he disturbed your sleep, Catherine.”

“Oh, he didn’t bother me. I was already awake. It was a restless night.”

“It must have been for Lord Ramsay as well,” Amelia remarked.

Catherine glanced at her quickly, but thankfully there seemed to be no arch meaning in the comment. She tried to keep her expression neutral. “Oh? I hope he is well this morning.”

“He seems well enough, but he’s unusually quiet. Preoccupied.” Amelia made a face. “I suppose it didn’t improve his disposition when I told him that we are planning to hold the ball in one month’s time.”

Stirring sugar into her tea with great care, Catherine asked, “Will you tell people that the event is for the purpose of finding a bride for Lord Ramsay?”

Amelia grinned. “No, even I am not that indelicate. However, it will be obvious that a great many eligible young women have been invited. And of course, my brother is a prime matrimonial target.”

“I’m sure I don’t know why,” Catherine muttered, trying to sound offhand, when inside she was filled with despair.

She realized she would not be able to stay with the Hathaway family if or when Leo married. She literally wouldn’t be able to bear the sight of him with another woman. Especially if she made him happy.

“Oh, it’s simple,” Amelia said impishly. “Lord Ramsay is a peer with a full head of hair and all his teeth, and he is still in his procreating years. And if he weren’t my brother, I suppose I would consider him not bad-looking.”

“He’s very handsome,” Catherine protested without thinking, and flushed as Amelia gave her an astute glance.

She applied herself to drinking her tea, nibbled at a breakfast roll, and left in search of Beatrix. It was time for their morning studies.

Catherine and Beatrix had settled on a pattern, beginning their lessons with a few minutes on etiquette and social graces, and then spending the rest of the morning on subjects such as history, philosophy, even science. Beatrix had long mastered the “fashionable” subjects that were taught to young ladies merely for the purpose of making them suitable wives and mothers. Now Catherine felt that she and Beatrix had become fellow students.

Although Catherine had never had the privilege of meeting the Hathaway parents, she thought that both of them, particularly Mr. Hathaway, would have been pleased by their children’s accomplishments. The Hathaways were an intellectual family, all of them easily able to discuss a subject or issue on an abstract level. And there was something else they shared—an ability to make imaginative leaps and connections between disparate subjects.

One evening, for example, the discussion at dinner had centered on news of an aerial steam carriage that had been designed by a Somerset bobbin maker named John Stringfellow. It didn’t work, of couse, but the idea was fascinating. During the debate about whether or not man might ever be able to fly in a mechanical invention, the Hathaways had brought up Greek mythology, physics, Chinese kites, the animal kingdom, French philosophy, and the inventions of Leonardo da Vinci. Trying to follow the discussion had very nearly been dizzying.

Privately Catherine had worried about whether such conversational pyrotechnics would put off potential suitors for Poppy and Beatrix. And in the case of Poppy, it had indeed turned out to be problematic. At least until she had met Harry.

However, when Catherine had tried to delicately raise the issue with Cam Rohan early on in her employment, he had been very decided in his reply.

“No, Miss Marks, don’t try to change Poppy or Beatrix,” Cam had told her. “It wouldn’t work, and it would only make them unhappy. Just help them learn how to behave in society, and how to talk about nothing, as the
gadjos
do.”

“In other words,” Catherine had said wryly, “you want them to have the appearance of propriety, but you don’t wish for them to actually
become
proper?”

Cam had been delighted by her understanding. “Exactly.”

Catherine understood now how right Cam had been. None of the Hathaways would ever be like the denizens of London society, nor would she want them to be.

She went to the library to procure some books for her studies with Beatrix. As she entered the room, however, she stopped with a gasp as she saw Leo leaning over the long library table, writing something on a set of spread-out drawings.

Leo turned his head to glance at her, his eyes piercing. She went hot and cold. Her skull throbbed in the places where she had pinned her hair too tightly.

“Good morning,” she said breathlessly, falling back a step. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding.”

“I came to fetch some books, if … if I may.”

Leo gave her a single nod and returned his attention to the drawings.

Acutely self-conscious, Catherine went to the bookshelves and hunted for the titles she had wanted. It was so quiet that she thought the pounding of her heart must have been audible. Needing desperately to break the pressing silence, she asked, “Are you designing something for the estate? A tenant house?”

“Addition for the stables.”

“Oh.”

Catherine gazed sightlessly along the rows of books. Were they going to pretend that the events of the previous night had never happened? She certainly hoped so.

But then she heard Leo say, “If you want an apology, you’re not going to get one.”

Catherine turned to face him. “I beg your pardon?”

Leo was still contemplating the set of elevations. “When you visit a man in his bed at night, don’t expect tea and conversation.”

“I wasn’t visiting you in your bed,” she said defensively. “That is, you were in your bed, but it was not my desire to find you there.” Aware that she was making no sense at all, she resisted the urge to smack herself on the head.

“At two o’clock in the morning,” Leo informed her, “I can nearly always be found on a mattress, engaged in either of two activities. One is sleeping. I don’t believe I need to elaborate on the other.”

“I only wanted to see if you were feverish,” she said, turning crimson. “If you needed anything.”

“Apparently I did.”

Catherine had never felt so extraordinarily uncomfortable. All her skin had become too tight for her body. “Are you going to tell anyone?” she brought herself to ask.

One of his brows arched mockingly. “You fear I’m going to tattle about our nighttime rendezvous? No, Marks, I have nothing to gain from that. And much to my regret, we didn’t do nearly enough to warrant decent gossip.”

Blushing, Catherine went to a pile of sketches and scraps at the corner of the table. She straightened them into a neat stack. “Did I hurt you?” she managed to ask, recalling how she had inadvertently pushed on his wounded shoulder. “Does it ache this morning?”

Leo hesitated before replying. “No, it eventually eased after you left. But the devil knows it wouldn’t take much to start up again.”

Catherine was overcome with remorse. “I’m so sorry. Should we put a poultice on it?”

“A poultice?” he repeated blankly. “On my …
oh
. We’re talking about my shoulder?”

She blinked in confusion. “Of course we’re talking about your shoulder. What else would we be discussing?”

“Cat…” Leo looked away from her. To her surprise, there was a tremor of laughter in his voice. “When a man is aroused and left unsatisfied, he usually aches for a while afterward.”

“Where?”

He gave her a speaking glance.

“You mean…” A wild blush raced over her as she finally understood. “Well, I don’t care if you ache
there
, I was only concerned about your wound!”

“It’s much better,” Leo assured her, his eyes bright with amusement. “As for the other ache—”

“That has nothing to do with me,” she said hastily.

“I beg to differ.”

Catherine’s dignity had been mowed down to nothing. Clearly there was no option but retreat. “I’m leaving now.”

“What about the books you wanted?”

“I’ll fetch them later.”

As she turned to depart, however, the edge of her bell-shaped sleeve caught the stack of sketches she had just straightened, and they went spilling to the floor. “Oh, dear.” Instantly she went to her hands and knees, gathering up papers.

“Leave them,” she heard Leo say. “I’ll do it.”

“No, I’m the one who—”

Catherine broke off as she saw something among the drafts of structures and landscapes and the pages of notes. A pencil sketch of a woman … a naked woman reclining on her side, light hair flowing everywhere. One slender thigh rested coyly over the other, partially concealing the delicate shadow of a feminine triangle.

And there was an all-too-familiar pair of spectacles balanced on her nose.

Catherine picked up the sketch with a trembling hand, while her heart lurched in hard strikes against her ribs. It took several attempts before she could speak, her voice high and airless.

“That’s me.”

Leo had lowered to the carpeted floor beside her. He nodded, looking rueful. His own color heightened until his eyes were startlingly blue in contrast.

“Why?” she whispered.

“It wasn’t meant to be demeaning,” he said. “It was for my own eyes, no one else’s.”

She forced herself to look at the sketch again, feeling horribly exposed. In fact, she couldn’t have been more embarrassed had he actually been viewing her naked. And yet the rendering was far from crude or debasing. The woman had been drawn with long, graceful lines, the pose artistic. Sensuous.

“You … you’ve never seen me like this,” she managed to say, before adding weakly, “Have you?”