“This is going to be a very long day…” she taunted softly.
“An acute form of torture for sure,” he replied. “I look forward to every moment.”
Catherine looked down as her face heated, and she beamed at his open flirtation. Gathering her scattered wits, she replied, “So do I.”
Thirty
It was surprising how one could be driven mad with desire by the most innocent of touches. Quin’s afternoon with Catherine had been a devilish mix of need and restraint, a push and pull that nearly had him coming apart at the seams. Holding her while they waltzed hadn’t been nearly enough to satiate his intense desire and had only served to make him far hungrier. He had bided his time, waiting for the perfect way to make their arrangement public, but he was growing more impatient by the minute.
They had spent hours touring buildings that could host children and caretakers for an orphanage.
Catherine’s queries and perceptions about the buildings, as well as the operations of the potential orphanage, gave Quin a deeper understanding into how her mind worked, and more importantly how it affected her heart and actions. So many people would say the right words and feel pity, but that wouldn’t produce any action. But Catherine? She spoke best by her actions, and he loved her all the more for it.
He’d come to admit that it wasn’t just fascination with her or even deep friendship or something as shallow as lust. It was love—real, abiding, feverish, and consuming in its purest form. When he dreamed at night, he welcomed the fantasies, planning for when they could be not a dream but his reality. But certain obstacles had to be overcome first.
His greatest concern was that his attachment to Catherine might be construed by some as her own mercenary attempt at his title. Unsure how he could address such a heresy, he had approached his mother regarding the topic earlier that day.
The Duchess of Wesley had given a knowing nod at his words.
But she was expected at a luncheon soon, so they had postponed their conversation till later in the evening. Quin was certain that the long afternoon of reflection his mother could do on the subject would be both helpful and detrimental. Helpful because she’d likely come up with a grand solution, and detrimental because she’d never let him hear the end of it. Though that conclusion could be drawn regardless.
Quin regarded Catherine as they made their way back to her residence after evaluating the buildings.
“Have you made progress?” Quin asked, swaying with the movement of the carriage over the uneven streets.
Catherine turned from her study of the passing scenery. “Not as much as I’d hoped. I spent this morning at the theater. Good mercy, Quin, I can’t wait till the next performance. I have a box now, you know.” She blushed, and Quin’s mind immediately went to all the delightful touches and flirtations they could experiment with in a secluded box.
“I can’t wait.”
“I didn’t say you were invited.”
He chuckled. “Turns out I don’t need your invitation. I have my own box.” He shrugged indifferently.
Catherine gave him a mock glare. “I won’t bother you with it then.”
“I could invite you,” he returned.
“It’s a bit much for us each to have a box.” She all but rolled her eyes, and then, apparently realizing how her words could be taken, she cast a furtive query at Mrs. Burke.
Quin ignored the chaperone and whatever disapproval she wished to convey with her expression and leaned forward. “It is a bit much. We’ll have to share. Think you can manage that?” he challenged, implying so much more than sharing a box at the theater.
Like sharing his name. Because as man and wife, they wouldn’t need two separate boxes but one. Catherine’s words had implied as much, and Quin wasn’t about to let her get away with such an implication without pouncing on it.
Catherine regarded him flirtatiously. “I find I can share when motivated.”
Quin remarked with a pleased tone, “Challenge accepted.” He crossed his arms and pressed back against the carriage seat.
Mrs. Burke huffed loudly beside him, and he turned to see her disapproval in the thin line of her lips. But being a duke had its benefits; he knew she wouldn’t dare reprimand him.
He turned again to Catherine. Certainly, he had no doubt Mrs. Burke would chastise her later, but Catherine could hold her own. Hadn’t he seen it so many times before? It was one of the many aspects of her character that he loved.
She was more than just a lady. She was a great lady, in action and in word.
She was his own Catherine the Great.
“You know…” He leaned forward again. “You’re doing your name quite the service.”
Catherine frowned. “How so?”