In the corner, the initials EV were embroidered in script.
Catherine dropped the handkerchief. Elizabeth Valentine. This room, these handkerchiefs, were meant to be Elizabeth’s. Catherine put her face in her hands.
She was doomed. She knew that now. She was married, and no matter how much she wanted Valentine to find a way out of the union, she knew in her heart it was nigh impossible. He’d talked of scandal, and he was right. The scandal would ruin her reputation and his career.
She cared little for herself, but she knew he would protect his career above all else.
So what now? He didn’t like her; he didn’t eventrust her. He thought she’d planned this bride swap. He certainly didn’t love her. It seemed to her that a marriage without love was the worst sort of prison, especially when one partner loved another. Valentine had called her Elizabeth. He obviously loved her sister. And Lord knew Catherine was nothing like her sister.
How fitting that Catherine should be forced into marriage with a man who would spend all his days pining for her horrible, spoiled sister. Elizabeth didn’t begin to deserve this man. Not that Catherine did. If he was really as kind as he seemed—and that was just preposterous; it had to be a ruse—then Catherine knew she could never deserve him.
If she ever got out of here, she would find a way to make her father pay for this. How could anyone treat others’ lives so carelessly? How could he trick a man into marriage and condemn his own daughter to a lifetime of misery?
And what of her sister? Catherine was under no illusion that Elizabeth loved Valentine. The girl loved no one but herself. But to have the man you were betrothed to taken away, capriciously given to another, and be made a fool of before all Society.
Did her father realize what he’d done? Did he even care?
And how could he possibly get away with this? Valentine had said her name was on the license and she’d said the vows, but what of the banns,the engagement announcement, and the betrothal ball? Surely Society would notice that one sister had been substituted for the other. Valentine was so worried about sullying his reputation, but Catherine could not but believe they were already the favorite topic of the ton .
Not that she cared one jot for the ton . She had more important concerns. Her face flamed when she thought of her behavior this morning. What had she been thinking, marching through the streets in nothing but a sheet?
She could never have imagined doing anything so reckless in all her life, but something inside her had snapped when Valentine had threatened to send her home. Terror had overridden reason, and she had indeed behaved rashly, as Valentine suggested. But what did he know of rationality? Valentine had not been pulled out of a sound sleep and sold to a leering thug for less than the cost of employing a housekeeper.
She would not go home, and the more she thought about it, the more she realized that she could not allow Valentine to end the marriage. If he did so, she would have no choice but to live on the street. That, or run to her uncle William’s. She wiped a trickle of wetness from her cheek. Oh, what did it matter? She’d run before, and her father always found her. He always got her back. If she left Valentine, her father would get to her. He would sell her again or worse…
Valentine, with his excessive worry aboutscandal and his reputation, was nothing compared to her father. Why, the earl had not even struck her after her behavior this morning. She’d been impudent and insulting, and the man had done nothing but apologize. He hadn’t laid a hand on her. Yet.
She did not want to be married. She did not want to be some man’s wife—subject to his whims and his fists and his anger. But what if her marriage had actually relieved her of that life? What if this marriage to Valentine had saved her from the whims of another man, even worse than the man she called husband?
She
Catherine dropped the handkerchief. Elizabeth Valentine. This room, these handkerchiefs, were meant to be Elizabeth’s. Catherine put her face in her hands.
She was doomed. She knew that now. She was married, and no matter how much she wanted Valentine to find a way out of the union, she knew in her heart it was nigh impossible. He’d talked of scandal, and he was right. The scandal would ruin her reputation and his career.
She cared little for herself, but she knew he would protect his career above all else.
So what now? He didn’t like her; he didn’t eventrust her. He thought she’d planned this bride swap. He certainly didn’t love her. It seemed to her that a marriage without love was the worst sort of prison, especially when one partner loved another. Valentine had called her Elizabeth. He obviously loved her sister. And Lord knew Catherine was nothing like her sister.
How fitting that Catherine should be forced into marriage with a man who would spend all his days pining for her horrible, spoiled sister. Elizabeth didn’t begin to deserve this man. Not that Catherine did. If he was really as kind as he seemed—and that was just preposterous; it had to be a ruse—then Catherine knew she could never deserve him.
If she ever got out of here, she would find a way to make her father pay for this. How could anyone treat others’ lives so carelessly? How could he trick a man into marriage and condemn his own daughter to a lifetime of misery?
And what of her sister? Catherine was under no illusion that Elizabeth loved Valentine. The girl loved no one but herself. But to have the man you were betrothed to taken away, capriciously given to another, and be made a fool of before all Society.
Did her father realize what he’d done? Did he even care?
And how could he possibly get away with this? Valentine had said her name was on the license and she’d said the vows, but what of the banns,the engagement announcement, and the betrothal ball? Surely Society would notice that one sister had been substituted for the other. Valentine was so worried about sullying his reputation, but Catherine could not but believe they were already the favorite topic of the ton .
Not that she cared one jot for the ton . She had more important concerns. Her face flamed when she thought of her behavior this morning. What had she been thinking, marching through the streets in nothing but a sheet?
She could never have imagined doing anything so reckless in all her life, but something inside her had snapped when Valentine had threatened to send her home. Terror had overridden reason, and she had indeed behaved rashly, as Valentine suggested. But what did he know of rationality? Valentine had not been pulled out of a sound sleep and sold to a leering thug for less than the cost of employing a housekeeper.
She would not go home, and the more she thought about it, the more she realized that she could not allow Valentine to end the marriage. If he did so, she would have no choice but to live on the street. That, or run to her uncle William’s. She wiped a trickle of wetness from her cheek. Oh, what did it matter? She’d run before, and her father always found her. He always got her back. If she left Valentine, her father would get to her. He would sell her again or worse…
Valentine, with his excessive worry aboutscandal and his reputation, was nothing compared to her father. Why, the earl had not even struck her after her behavior this morning. She’d been impudent and insulting, and the man had done nothing but apologize. He hadn’t laid a hand on her. Yet.
She did not want to be married. She did not want to be some man’s wife—subject to his whims and his fists and his anger. But what if her marriage had actually relieved her of that life? What if this marriage to Valentine had saved her from the whims of another man, even worse than the man she called husband?
She
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