A Brooding Beauty Read online

  “Why would I need to find a whore when there is one right in front of me?” he asked silkily, shifting his weight forward until she was trapped between his hard body and the window. His hands were the opposite of passionate now as they swept up her slender ribcage and she cried out when they closed painfully around her breasts.

  “Stop it! Marcus, what has gotten into you? Let me go this instant!”

  “Why? You let other men touch you. Isn’t this what you like, being treated like the whore you are?” he growled before he lowered his head and ravished her mouth in a kiss intended to plunder and punish. Keeping her pinned against the window with his body, he dropped one hand to cup her sex through her gown and grinded his palm against her in a grotesque exaggeration of how he had pleasured her last night. Now his fingers brought only pain, not pleasure, and when she tried to twist free he tangled one hand in her long hair, tearing it free from the silk ribbon.

  Tears born of pain and panic stung her eyes. A mewling whimper forced its way past her lips. With no other way to defend herself, she bit down on Marcus’ invading tongue as hard as she could.

  On a savage oath Marcus abruptly released her and staggered back, his eyes so dark in his pale face they looked black. His adams apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Catherine… Cat…. I never… I am so sorry… I don’t know what came over me… Please, I…” He reached for her but she darted around him and stumbled to the front door, her breath coming out in wheezing gasps and stutters.

  “You’re a monster. A monster! And I h-hate you!” she cried in anguish. Flinging the front door open so hard it slammed into the opposing wall, she fled the cottage as if the hounds of hell were nipping at her heels.

  Marcus drew in a deep, trembling breath as the front door slammed shut. He wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve, dully noting the spots of blood that stained the white cotton. Blindly he stumbled into the living room and slammed his hands down on the bar, making the bottles and tumblers jump. He stared down at his hands, regarding them as if they belonged to another, for surely it had not been his hands that had touched his wife in cruelness and anger. Not his hands that had pinched and groped and bruised her delicate skin. Not his hands that had filled her sapphire eyes with fear and loathing.

  He clenched his hands into fists. Catherine was right. He was a monster.

  The bottle of scotch was where he had left it the night before. He downed the first shot without blinking, and poured himself a second. The alcohol mocked him as he held it aloft and on a muttered curse Marcus flung the glass against the wall where it shattered upon impact. His legs shook from the weight of his guilt and he collapsed into a leather chair to bury his face in his hands.

  Where had it all gone wrong? They had been so bloody happy. So certain of their love for each other. He had never imagined he would ever find someone like Catherine. Someone so sweet and loving. Gentle and kind. But he had found her, and then he had left her. Left her when she begged him to stay, only to return and promptly leave her again. He had driven her into the arms of other men. She had been young and naïve, an innocent bride of eight and ten. He abandoned her to the wolves to pursue his bloody fortune, and what had that gotten him? How did his cursed riches serve him now? His money did not keep him warm at night. It did not kiss him good morning. It did not put a child in the nursery. He was a fool. A selfish, arrogant fool.

  Abruptly Marcus stood. This was his chance, he realized with a sharp intake of breath. His chance to make things better. To repair the damage he had caused. He needed Catherine in his life. Even with her temper and her flair for the dramatic and her silly moods she made his life better. Hell, she made him better.

  He wanted to see her nose crinkle again when she laughed. To catch her against him and kiss her senseless in the middle of the day for no reason. To carry her upstairs when she fell asleep reading in front of the fireplace and use only his tongue to wake her. He wanted his wife back… and come hell or high water, he was going to get her.

  Chapter Five

  It was well past noon by the time Marcus found Catherine behind the cottage curled in the shade of a large oak tree. He had searched everywhere else he could think of first: the stables, the small apple orchard she used to spend hours trying to paint – unsuccessfully, he had recalled with a rueful smile; Catherine was many brilliant things, but an artist was not among them – and he had even started down the road thinking she may have left Woodsgate all together, but had turned around when he remembered the towering oak in the wildflower meadow she had often napped beneath during their honeymoon.

  He thought she was sleeping now as he approached, until her head lifted with the alertness of a skittish deer. Quickly she climbed to her feet and brushed a few errant pieces of grass from her long skirts. When she finally lifted her chin the accusation in her cool blue eyes was like a slap to the face. Marcus reeled back as a cold, clammy sweat broke out across his temple. Suddenly winning his wife’s affections back did not seem like such a simple task.

  “Cat, I am so sorry –” he began hoarsely, but she cut him off with one raised finger.

  “Do not waste your breath in an apology, Lord Kensington. If anything, I should be the one to apologize. I never should have come here. I have sent word to the nearest town that I shall require a carriage to take me to Kensington. From there I will pack my things and return to London with all post haste.” Her voice was level, her expression serene. She might have been telling him about the weather, and Marcus was taken aback by her calmness.

  He had expected her to rage at him. To yell and throw things as she always did when she was in the midst of one of her tempers. Or at the very least give him the silent treatment, which she had deemed necessary only once before when he had inadvertently forgotten her birthday. He deserved those things and more for what he done to her, but this… He didn’t know how to react to this.

  “What about the divorce?” Bloody hell. Infuriated with himself, Marcus swept a hand through his dark hair and cupped the back of his neck, pinching the muscles that ran taut beneath the skin. He had not intended to mention the damned divorce. Nothing was going as he had pictured it in his mind. Catherine was supposed to be weeping and he was supposed to take her in his arms and beg for her forgiveness before confessing his undying love. Instead she stood before him perfectly composed without a shimmer of a tear on her beautiful face, and he was the one acting like a hysterical female.

  “I no longer require a divorce, Marcus,” she said. A half smile tipped her mouth to the side, making her appear faintly sheepish. “It was childish of me to ask for one in the first place and for that I do apologize. Our marriage is convenient for both of us. It was selfish of me to try to change that.”

  Something tightened in his chest. “You wish to remain married then?” The question came out in a rush. He held his breath, knowing his life rested on her response. His dear, sweet Catherine. Love for her surged through him like a wave and it took all of his self control not to close the distance between them in one mighty stride and gather her in his arms. They had years of lost time to make up for. A second honeymoon was in order, of course. They could even spend it here, at Woodsgate. Explore the fields and forests by day, make passionate love by night. It would be like it was before, when they first fell in love and he had the entire world at his fingertips. He imagined her heavy with his child, and –

  “Yes, of course I wish to remain married.” Catherine looked at him oddly, and too late Marcus realized his expression must have revealed some of the longing he was desperately trying to contain.

  Her winged eyebrows drew together over the bridge of her nose, and a frown captured her mouth. “But it will be as it has been, Marcus. I shall maintain my residence in the city during the Season, while you conduct your business from Kensington. Surely you did not think we would live together?” The musical sound of her laughter sliced through him like a knife.

  “Do not be foolish,” he scoffed, even as he wondered if this is how it felt to d
ie from the inside out. “I simply wanted to make certain my wife would not be underfoot should I choose to entertain someone of the… female persuasion.”

  For the first time her veneer of aloofness cracked. He waited for her to do something, to say something that would give him reason to hope she still felt for him as he did for her, but she drew in a deep breath and the anger that had temporarily brightened her eyes dimmed into acceptance.

  “No, we wouldn’t want that,” she said softly, dropping her gaze to the wildflowers that bloomed at her feet. Bending down she picked a large daisy and started to systematically pluck the white petals off one by one. They began to spiral towards the ground in slow, lazy circles. “As I said, I will only be at Kensington for as long as it takes Hannah to pack my things. When I am gone you may entertain your… guests as often as you like.”

  “Just make certain you hurry,” he said. He wanted to hurt her, hurt her as badly as she had him, and a dark sense of satisfaction settled over his shoulders when he saw her flinch from his cruel barb.

  Still keeping her eyes averted, she shrugged. “Yes, well, I will do my best. Now if you will excuse me I must return to the cottage to change into a dress more suitable for traveling. The carriage should be here soon.” She dropped the flower and brushed her palms against the sides of her skirt.

  When she swept past him he did not try to stop her, nor did he turn to watch her go. Instead he knelt to pick up the mangled daisy she had carelessly discarded and shoved it in his pocket. It still had one petal left.

  Catherine made it halfway to Kensington before sobs overwhelmed her petite frame and she cried out her heartache inside of the small bouncy carriage with its musty velvet interior and one squeaky wheel.

  It had taken all of the strength she possessed to keep from falling to pieces in front of Marcus. She had kept waiting for him to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless. To erase from her mind the hateful things he had said and done with words of love and adoration. She even thought she had seen something in those gray, stormy eyes… a flicker of compassion, a seed of yearning, but she had been mistaken. Marcus did not yearn and he had no compassion. Not for her. Not for anyone or anything. He was a cold man, a man incapable of basic human feeling, and she was well rid of him.

  A fresh torrent of salty tears poured down her pale cheeks as she remembered how he had flung his paramours in her face. She had drawn so far into herself by that point she hadn’t even known what she was saying, only that she had to find a way to leave before she crumpled at his feet and begged him to love her. The knowledge of how close she had been to doing just that terrified her. Catherine would never humble herself to anyone, let alone her own husband, a man who held her in such low regard he could not look upon her face without contempt gleaming in his eyes.

  The carriage reached Kensington just as the sun was setting. When Catherine emerged her tears were gone, but her face was unnaturally pale and her eyes lined with red. The sight of her lady’s maid waiting at the side of the carriage drew a wan smile from her, and she clutched Hannah’s arm as they made their way up the cascade of marble steps and into the dimly lit mansion.

  “You looked exhausted, mum,” Hannah observed, her wide set brown eyes narrowing in suspicion. “You did not go to visit your cousin in Edinburgh, did you? You went to him instead. Oh mum, why would you do such a thing?”

  Under normal circumstances Catherine would regale Hannah with tales of her journey over steaming cups of hot chocolate, but not tonight. Tonight she just wanted to crawl into bed and never come out again.

  “Please draw a hot bath,” she said tiredly. “And begin packing my things. I will be returning to London in the morning.”

  “London?” Hannah repeated, her plump lips parting in dismay. “But you have only just arrived here, mum.”

  “Yes, and now I wish to return to London,” Catherine said, more sharply than she had intended.

  Hannah’s face fell, and her shoulders drooped as she walked away after mumbling a quick ‘yes mum’.

  Catherine had never been so short with her maid before. She hesitated, uncertain whether to go to Hannah now or later, before deciding she was in no shape to make amends. Tomorrow would serve just as well to apologize for her atrocious behavior, after she had had a good night’s sleep and her emotions were back where they needed to be: locked up tightly where no one – least of herself – could get to them.

  She slowly climbed the winding staircase and went directly to her room. Adjacent to the master bedroom it was her favorite room in the entire mansion, mostly because it was the only room that showed a female influence. She had designed it herself, choosing shades of blues for the walls and cheerful yellows for the curtains.

  The room had been decorated with the intention of becoming a nursery, and Catherine’s mouth fell into a flat line of regret as she perched on the edge of the bed to unlace her boots. What plans she and Marcus had had together. First to marry, then to raise a family and live happily ever after. How simple everything had seemed then, when their hardest decision had been how many children to have. He had wanted four, she six. As long as they are all girls with blue eyes and golden hair, we shall have as many as you want, he always used to tell her.

  How naïve I was, she thought with a bitter smile. Naïve and hopelessly foolish, to think fairytales came true. Now she knew the truth of it. Fairytales existed to soothe fretful children. They were not real, and they certainly never came true.

  When her bath was drawn she slipped readily into the hot water. Her body ached in places it had not ached in for three years. Marcus had always been so considerate after they made love. He would draw her a bath and carry her to it, washing her body and rubbing away any lingering soreness from their arduous lovemaking. Often he would climb into the tub with her and she would languish against him as his hands became intimately reacquainted with the places they had just touched. Before the water grew cold he would carry her back to their bed and lay her down ever so gently, and his lips would press against her –

  Stop it, Catherine ordered herself fiercely. She sat upright in the tub and her skin puckered where it met the cool air. Stop it right now. Marcus does not love you any longer. You will think of him no more.

  Hannah reappeared to fold a towel beneath her head so she could recline all the way back in the claw foot tub, but flitted away in an angry huff before Catherine could thank her. Forcing herself to draw in a deep, calming breath she closed her eyes and relaxed down into the rose scented water, letting it glide in a silky caress over her knees and shoulders. Within minutes, she was fast asleep.

  Lips traced a tantalizing path down her neck and between her breasts. They closed around her nipple and drew it into a hot mouth with a tongue that swirled and teeth that nibbled. Catherine writhed beneath the delicious onslaught and arched her spine, offering herself with the wild abandon of one who desperately craved more.

  She was rewarded with hands that swept down her body to her thighs, before they slid between her knees to pull them gently apart. She yielded easily to the quiet pressure and when a finger slipped into the soft velvet core of her she couldn’t help but moan. The first finger was joined by another. They began to slide in and out in a sensual rhythm that had her crying out before her mouth was captured and devoured with bold, sweeping strokes.

  Fire licked through her, burning her from the inside out, and she began to move in wild, mindless abandon… spurred on by the crude, naughty, utterly imaginative things her lover was whispering huskily in her ear as his fingers continued to plunge and stroke.

  It was too dark to see the face looming above her but she knew who it was. No one had ever touched her like this, kissed her like this, loved her like this but her husband. A throaty moan shot up from the depths of her throat as she hovered on the brink of surrender. The fingers inside of her intensified to a frenzied tempo that had her hips bucking and begging for more. She cried out her lover’s name as release washed over her like a wave, sending her s
pinning into dark, tumultuous waters.

  Catherine woke with Marcus’ name on her lips. She blinked and shot upright, sending cold water sloshing over the sides of the tub and onto the floor. Shivering, for the bath water had long ago gone cold, she climbed out and wrapped herself in a soft cotton robe. The covers of her bed had been drawn back and without bothering to comb the tangles from her hair or even dry herself off, she crawled beneath the heavy quilt and let the pillow dry her tears.

  Chapter Six

  Five Months Later – London

  For the first time since her debut, Catherine was not partaking in any of the balls, elaborate charity events, or intimate dinner parties that made up the Season. Surprisingly she missed nary a second of it, instead finding a quiet kind of comfort and joy from reading in front of the fireplace late into the night, taking strolls through Hyde Park with her friends, and spending time with her parents who had a residence only two streets over from her own.

  From Marcus she had heard not a word and as the weeks turned into months she began to think of him less and less, until he only entered her thoughts once or twice a day. Despite her fervent attempts to the contrary she could not help but wonder where he was and what he was doing. Had he returned to Kensington? Was he spending his nights with someone else? Were they happy? Did he ever think about his wife?

  “You are doing it again,” Grace chided gently, bringing Catherine back to the present.

  The two friends were walking slowly through the middle of Hyde Park, their hands burrowed in fur muffs and their bodies layered in thick wool cloaks. It was late January in London, and winter had not been kind to the city. Their boots crunched over snow as they stepped to the side to let a sleigh pass and Grace teetered on a patch of ice before regaining her balance with a rueful smile and shake of her head.