Twice a Rake

Catherine Gayle

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Twice a Rake

Copyright © 2011 by Catherine Gayle

Cover Design by Catherine Gayle

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

For more information: catherinegayle.author@gmail.com

Dedication

To Tyler, for all the hugs.

Chapter One

29 March, 1811

Oh, dear good Lord. Tonight will be another ball. While Father views it as another opportunity to find a gentleman who might make an acceptable match, I view it simply as a means to obtain the newest gossip. Rebecca promises she will have something worth my while when she arrives—something involving a reclusive, and potentially rakish, new gentleman. I can only hope he is something worth writing about. At present, the subjects for my journal entries are rather slim. Or boring. Or both.

~From the journal of Miss Aurora Hyatt

“I still maintain it is a shame that Lord Dodsworth did not live long enough to uphold his agreement,” Aurora Hyatt’s aunt, the Marchioness of Sedgewick said in her nasally voice. “Aurora ought to have been married and widowed years ago. There would be no need for this farcical hunt, wherein she finds every gentleman of good ton unworthy for some confounded reason or another.”

Neither her father nor her aunt could hold Aurora to task for Lord Dodsworth’s demise, however, despite the manner in which she had celebrated her freedom from impending marital doom. The earl had been stricken in years (to the point of being more than twice her age—even older than Father himself) when his face had landed squarely in his bowl of porridge. On that equally horrid and delightful morning only a fortnight before their planned wedding day, bits of gruel had spattered on both his balding head and the worn, royal blue superfine of his overcoat. How could a girl—for that is what Aurora must truly have been considered at the time, having not yet reached her majority—have been enamored of the prospect of a lifetime spent beside a man more akin in age and temperament to her father than to the beaux of her friends?

Regardless of the degree of sheer and utter relief she had felt over the untimely passing of her betrothed, Aurora had been absolved in the matter.

Various other matters, however…well, truth be told, a touch of blame may rest upon her shoulders from time to time. She preferred not to think on them overmuch. Certainly, the present did not provide an opportune moment for such reflection. As her father’s crested carriage drew before Southmont Manor, she bit the inside of her lower lip in order to refrain from telling her aunt just how fortunate it was that she had not married Dodsworth. Indeed, she would not have done, if given the choice. Thankfully, soon after his death, she reached her majority and earned the right to choose for herself.

The coachman came around and set down the steps, handing first her aunt and then Aurora down from the carriage. After making their way through the receiving line, Aurora slunk away from her aunt to find someone more pleasant with whom to converse. Just then, her dearest and most especial friend dashed to her side, skirting through the lines of dancers, pots of flowers, and tables filled with drink, all in their proper and precise places for this particular ball.

“They tell me,” said Rebecca, nodding across the way to a group of matronly gossips, her honey-gold ringlets bobbing over her head with a force only fresh on-dit could provide, “that Lord Quinton cuts a most dashing figure, though his appearance is more pirate-like than genteel.”

A pirate, now, was he? Aurora’s imagination took over without her full consent, painting an image in her head of a swashbuckling hero, with long black hair whipping about an unshaved jaw, black eyes with just a hint of a devilish gleam over a knowing smirk, and etched muscles of a perfectly sculpted frame threatening to burst free from the clothing that kept them confined.

Rebecca leaned in closer. “His hair is sun-kissed and almost as long as mine.”

And just like that, the image fizzled out from beneath her like the smatterings of fireworks at Vauxhall smoldering and settling from the sky. Sun-kissed hair? Surely he must be too—too—well, too pretty to fit her dream of a dark and dangerous pirate, swaggering his way to sweep her up onto his ship and away from the more lamentable reality of the marriage mart and the depressing conversation and the beau monde.

“It is odd, though,” Rebecca continued, glancing over her shoulder at her father, the Duke of Aylesbury, who stood well on the other side of the ballroom and completely out of earshot. His Grace would certainly not be pleased to discover his youngest daughter discussing the less-than-illustrious details related to a rakish-appearing newcomer to the London scene. “No one has ever seen the man wearing anything but black. Might he be in mourning? Or do you think, perhaps, he simply doesn’t realize how divine he would look in blues or greens?”

Aurora frowned. “You’ve not seen the man. How could you possibly know that he would look divine in anything, let alone the particular hues?”

“Well, why should he not look anything short of spectacular in any color?”

Why, indeed? The more Aurora learned about this elusive Lord Quinton, the more she desired to know. And anyone who knew Aurora Hyatt remotely well at all could attest that if she desired something, she found it.

Even if only in her imagination.

Which, at the moment, was burning to be set free. Highly irritating, that.

She needed details. Ample details. “Since they seem to be so knowledgeable on the subject of this enigmatic Lord Quinton, what do they have to say about his sudden appearance?” In all the Seasons she had spent in Town, never once had Aurora ever heard mention of a Lord Quinton—not even in terms of his participation in the Lords. It was possible, she conceded, that he was merely heir to a greater title, so wouldn’t have taken up his seat in Parliament yet.

But Aurora needed to know. Her general need-to-know grew more insatiable with each suitor’s dismal attempt to woo her favor. It was pathetic, really. Her curiosity was like the cat that returned to chase the fish in a pond, even after having fallen in countless times.

Thankfully, Rebecca had ferreted out at least a smidgen of information to satisfy her burgeoning need. “Well, no one is quite certain who he is, though many seem to recall his name for some confounding reason. Lady Fitz-Henry is most unequivocally convinced he is a rakehell of unparalleled measure.”

“Is that so?” Aurora mused aloud. Despite Lady Fitz-Henry’s certainty, Aurora held tight to her doubts on that particular claim. The old marchioness was the busiest of all the dragons in the ton, and frankly was certain that nearly every gentleman she came across was a rakehell or worse. For that matter, nearly every young lady’s name she mentioned must clearly be a wanton, destined to become Haymarket ware if not, in some other manner, ruined beyond repair.

Except, of course, Lady Rebecca Grantham. Somehow, Rebecca had finagled herself into the position of favorite amongst virtually all of society’s matrons. They treated her almost as a pet. Which, at the moment, was proving to be most useful to Aurora.

“Yes, quite.” Rebecca lowered her voice as a group of debutantes drew within earshot. “And Lady Midwinter claimed that this Lord Quinton is the most shocking flirt to dare to take part in society in her memory. Why, he has all but stumbled over himself in his attempt to gain introductions.”

Of course, Aurora already knew more about that than Rebecca did. The man had reputedly requested (and had been indubitably denied) an introduction to no fewer than six debutantes at the Bythewood ball, in all their varying shades of pastels.

“No chaperone worth half a farthing would dare to grant such a request, of course,” Rebecca rushed on, “but no sooner had the last of those chaperones denied him than he turned to Lady Kislingbury and flirted with her most outrageously, in the plain hearing of twenty or more guests. The man was so bold as to compliment the countess on her décolletage.”

“Indeed!” Now that was new information if Aurora had ever heard it. And quite the scandalous bit of it, as well. He just might actually be the scoundrel the gossips of the ton would have all the unmarried innocents believe.

Scandalous enough, even, to set her mind to work. Oh, dear good Lord. She could feel the story brewing in her mind already, and she most certainly was not in an appropriate place for such an occurrence. The regrettable shade of Lord Quinton’s hair no longer mattered, since far more intriguing elements of his character had floated to the surface.

Quashing her imagination, at least until she returned home and could set quill to parchment, became of dire import.

Especially since she could feel herself flushing, imagining Lord Quinton making just such a statement about her own décolletage. That part would most emphatically have to be written. There was nothing else to be done for it.

“Aurora,” Rebecca said, with the tiniest hint of admonishment coloring her words. “You’re doing it again, aren’t you? I can see it all over your face, with the way your eyes look like they’re staring at still water in Father’s pond.”

“Poppycock. Doing what?” Goodness, she couldn’t even convince herself with such a pitiful excuse for a denial. This story must have an even firmer hold on her than usual.

Clearly, Rebecca remained unconvinced as well. Her creased brow indicated she would suffer none of Aurora’s cheek.

Further denial would serve no one. “Fine, yes. I have a story going in my head. Are you satisfied now?”

“Almost. I’ll be far more satisfied when I can read it.” A gleam of mischief flashed in Rebecca’s brown eyes. “Do tell me, will this story be more invigorating than the one about Lord Ilbury?”

“Most decidedly so.” Aurora couldn’t stop the shudder that coursed through her body. Lord Ilbury’s story was drab and tedious and somber—much like the man himself.

And as with all of Aurora’s previous suitors, since the story depicted what their lives together would undoubtedly entail, she had seen no reason to further entertain Lord Ilbury’s attentions once she had the picture mapped out in its entirety in her journal.

She could not bear the thought of such a marriage. It would be altogether too much like the marriage her parents had lived. Unhappy. Loveless. Insipid. Utterly and totally calamitous.

Such would never be Aurora’s fate.

Not even if she lived to be an old maid, forever alone. Being alone scared her far less than being trapped in a marriage so sad and so wrong.

She need not fear for her own provision, after all. Aurora would become Viscountess Hyatt suo jure after her father passed, inheriting all of his properties and his fortune as well. She would never want for anything. For that one small favor, she was very thankful, indeed, that Queen Elizabeth had been a bit eccentric in the way she handled her affairs.

Still, even though Aurora needn’t take a husband, some small part of her wanted one. Just not the wrong one.

A tiny voice at the back of her mind screamed that Lord Quinton was most egregiously and odiously the wrong one.

But a much louder voice at the forefront of her mind had already set to work, plotting out how exciting their lives would be once they were together.

Gracious. Deciding which of those two voices to obey might be the death of her.

~ * ~

The curtains were ripped back to a blinding sun. “You’re making an arse of yourself. And of me. I don’t like it.”

Quin groaned at the throb building behind his eyes and pulled the counterpane up higher. It couldn’t be noon yet. There was no call for him to be out of bed. Or for his friend to be barging in on him when he was clearly still recovering from a rather unproductive evening about Town, followed by a stop at a lovely tavern where he had proceeded to spend a touch more coin than he had intended on whiskey and women, and perhaps on a mite of gambling.

Much like he had always done.

Niles Thornton, Baron Quinton was nothing if not predictable. He followed the pattern laid out before him by his father, to the point that he’d now perfected it.

All of which Sir Jonas Buchannan clearly knew. His friend had never been the fiendish sort before now. What in bloody hell had crawled up his prick and died? “Sod off, will you?”

In answer, Jonas stripped the bedclothes from the bed, dragging Quin off with them.

Quin landed with a loud thud on the floor. “Christ, what do you want?” he bellowed. Every inch of his backside now burned like the clap, somewhat diminishing the pain in his head. But only somewhat.

“You. Up. Now.” Jonas bit the words off then left, dragging the bedding behind.

Blast. He’d either have to get up or catch his death from the cold.

Quin stumbled to his feet, steadying himself at the bureau before taking a fleeting glance in the mirror. Two days’ worth of stubble. Not too bad. He could go another day or two before dealing with that. His eyes were as red as that vixen’s dress, though. What was her name, again? Lady Kingston? Lady Kennelly? All he could remember her as was Lady Kiss-Me-Down-There, with a bosom designed to send men directly to either heaven or hell. Quin didn’t particularly care which one he was sent to, either, just as long as he could bury himself inside her for a bit.

So he had.

And it had been heaven.

At least it had been heaven until Lord Kiss-Me-Down-There walked into Bythewood’s library and found him kissing her down there. Then it had most decidedly turned to hell.

Which might explain the swelling he’d just discovered over his rather blood-shot eye. Had her husband hit him? He couldn’t quite remember. Everything became a bit muddled after the heavenly bit.

Enough with wondering what happened. If it was truly important, someone would remind him. In fact, Jonas might just be preparing to do precisely that. Quin pulled on a pair of breeches and did up enough of the buttons to keep the flap in place, then grabbed his overcoat from the previous evening, shrugging it on as he left the chamber to join his friend in the study.

The doors had been left open, so Quin didn’t bother with knocking. A few platters of meats and baked eggs were laid out by the window, but the smell of them sent his stomach to churning. Instead, he went to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy.

“A little early for that, don’t you think?” Jonas called out. He sat behind his desk, reading some missive or another.

Good God, it was too early in the day to be reading missives. It was never too early for a brandy, though. In response, Quin downed it in one swill, then poured another.

“Would you care to inform me what is so imperative that my presence is required at this ungodly hour?” Quin’s voice sounded rough even to his own ears, making his tone even surlier than he had intended.

“Would you care to inform me what, precisely, you said to Lady Kislingbury about her bosom at the Bythewood ball yesterday evening, within earshot of at least a dozen other people?”

Kislingbury. That was it.

Kiss-Me-Down-There had a distinctly more appealing ring, though.

“I would love to. But I can’t recall. At least, not the precise words.”

“So you admit to it?”

“I admit to nothing. Not until I know what I’m being accused of. There are a number of things I could admit to, and even more that I likely should admit to—”

“Bugger off, Quin.” Jonas raked a hand through his hair and let out a ragged sigh. “Just tell me the truth. Me. The one person in this world you claim you can trust.”

Jonas always had to go and ruin the fun, didn’t he?

“You commented on her bosom?”

“I did.”

Jonas gave a wry grin. “Care to elaborate?”

“I believe I mentioned that her rather generous décolletage was one of the loveliest sights to be seen last evening, and that she had displayed it to exquisite advantage. Then I asked if I might view it a bit closer.”

“Devil take it.”

“She was kind enough to allow me to do just that. Amongst a few other things.”

Jonas’s gaze burned. “Is that what you’re here for? To make a cuckold of other gentlemen? You had better find a new entrée into society, if that’s the case.”

“You know me better than that.”

“Do I? If that’s not it, why are you here? You owe me an explanation, Quin. Something more than ‘Let me stay with you for a while so I can attend some balls.’ You’ve been scaring the young ladies and their chaperones. Not a man I know trusts you. And now you’re going after their wives.”

“Lady Kiss-Me…er, Lady Kislingbury was just a distraction.”

“From what?”

Quin shot up from his chair and paced. “From this bloody nonsense Rotheby has set for me!” Well. Blast. That wasn’t quite the way Quin had intended to go about all of this.

Jonas raised an eyebrow but withheld his questions.

“Rotheby sent for me a fortnight ago. Said it was urgent, that I must attend to him at once. When I arrived at Roundstone Park, he threatened me.”

“Your grandfather threatened you. His heir.” The baronet had perfected the art of the dubious expression.

“I couldn’t make this up if I tried,” Quin said. “The old codger said that if I don’t change my ways, if I don’t marry and produce an heir, he’ll cut me off. Take Quinton Abbey from me. Leave me to fend for myself until such time as he dies and can’t keep me from everything anymore. Hell, I think he’s already decided to leave Roundstone to someone else. It isn’t under entail.”

“Is that it? All of this is because your grandfather wants you to secure the line?”

“He spouted off some other excrement about needing to learn to manage my estate, about not being a ‘wastrel,’ but the bulk of it was about the damned heir.”

“Well, if that’s the case, you’re not going about any of this in a very intelligent manner. Lady Kislingbury cannot fill your nursery. And the ladies who could do as much will all be running for the hills, based on the recommendations of their chaperones. You need a new strategy.”

Didn’t he know it? “Any suggestions?” Quin drawled.

“A few.”

No surprise there. Jonas may be his best friend, but he was never slow to tell Quin when he needed to change his ways. Which was often. Almost perpetually.

Jonas pierced him with a solemn stare. “To start, you must stay away from married ladies.”

“Noted.” He could easily find a whore or two willing to slake his needs. In fact, he might have already done just that last night. Damned if he could remember them though.

Jonas continued to spout off his list. “You must make yourself presentable to the unmarried ladies and their chaperones—mothers, sisters, aunts. They have to believe you are a worthy gentleman, not a scoundrel.”

“But I am a scoundrel.”

“I know. And therein lies our problem.”

If Jonas didn’t get to the solution before Quin took two more breaths, he might just throttle him. “So…?”

“So you have to change your ways. Present a good image. Play the part.” A cheeky grin spread wide across Jonas’s face.

“Meaning what, precisely?” Quin wished he hadn’t asked. He didn’t want to know.

“Meaning no more drinking and gambling and whoring. Meaning you must seem like a perfect gentleman, even if you aren’t one.” Jonas took a long look at him, spending more time than necessary on Quin’s overlong hair, his unkempt jaw line, the wrinkled and disheveled clothing. “Meaning dressing and grooming according to the current fashions.”

“You’re joking,” Quin said. He liked having his hair long. He hated shaving. And he bloody well could not abide the thought of primping himself like a blasted dandy.

Jonas barked with laughter. “I’m not. I assure you, I am quite serious.”

“Damned cur.”

“A damned cur who will help you find a bride and keep your fortunes.”

Blast him. “Fair enough. What else must I do?”

“Well, I would suggest we try a different tactic for gaining introductions to the marriageable young ladies. Perhaps I should go with you to some functions, introduce you around. If you are seen alongside me, maybe your reputation will begin to change.”

Quin imagined being shackled to Jonas’s side, only talking to those who the esteemed baronet deemed worthy of his company. “So you’re going to be my deuced escort?”

“Not exactly. But you need someone to soften your image. And you need me for another reason, too.”

“What, pray tell, might that be?” Quin asked, unable to hide the droll tone.

“Rotheby wants an heir within a year. That means you needed a bride yesterday. You should already be working toward filling your nursery, but instead, you haven’t even begun the search for the lady to do just that.”

“And how are you involved in all of this?”

“I’ve spent several Seasons in Town. I know which ladies are most likely to be in desperate need of a husband. Which I’m afraid you’ll need. Desperation, that is. Why else would a young miss be inclined to hitch herself to the likes of you?”

Why, indeed?

Chapter Two

31 March, 1811

Aunt Sedgewick’s voice can be dreadfully nasally and high-pitched at times. Perhaps it is because she always speaks with her nose turned high in the air. I daresay if more people followed her example, we might live in a country full of nasally-sounding speakers. I should hate to live in such a country. It would be rather awful enough to keep my attentions from where I would prefer them to be at the moment—imagining what Lord Quinton must be like, should I ever be afforded the opportunity to meet him. However, I would be stunned to my core if the man would ever make any statement at all related to Aunt Sedgewick’s décolletage.

~From the journal of Miss Aurora Hyatt

The dinner party seemed interminable. Baffling. Boring. And, as the hostess alongside her father, Aurora simply could not escape early.

Try as she might to focus on the conversation around the table, her thoughts kept drifting back to her story—which was rapidly becoming the most delightful, and admittedly risqué, story she had ever written.

This fact did not surprise her overmuch. Aurora’s typical story fodder revolved around the gentlemen who paid her court. Gentlemen much like the ones currently around her dinner table, discussing the lovely fireworks they had seen at Vauxhall the previous evening, the soprano who had performed an aria at Lady Pendleton’s concert the prior week, and the likelihood of continued sunshine over the next fortnight.

Humdrum, all of it.

Lord Norcutt, a perfectly amiable, perfectly attired, perfectly boring marquess who had recently begun to show signs of a developing tendre for her, turned and asked, “Miss Hyatt, if we are so lucky as to enjoy sunshine tomorrow afternoon, might I take you for a drive in Hyde Park? My horses are raring to get out for a good ride, and my curricle has been sorely lacking in spirited companionship of late.”

Spirited companionship? Had he failed to notice her slightly less-than-animated participation that evening?

“She would be delighted,” Father said.

Aurora wished her eyes were bows and her glare was arrows. Her aim rarely failed, and at the moment, it was pointed directly at her father’s head. He raised an eyebrow in reply, then gestured toward Lord Norcutt.

Blast him. “Yes, of course,” she finally ground out. “That would be splendid.”

Aunt Sedgewick slurped up a spoonful of her soup and a few drops dribbled off her chin. “And Aurora, do be a dear and try to smile for once. You have enough working against you already with your mother’s coloring. You make yourself ever so much more unappealing by constantly frowning at the gentlemen who do bother to pay you attention.”

Rebecca barely concealed a snicker from her position across the table. They would definitely be having a conversation about that later.

“If Lady Rebecca is not otherwise occupied,” said the Earl of Merrick, “perhaps she would grant me the honor of escorting her to accompany you, Miss Hyatt.”

Oh, dear good Lord. As if spending the afternoon with one of them weren’t bad enough, now they would both be present. Merrick and Norcutt were virtually as identical in temperament as they were opposite in appearance. Where Lord Merrick was tall, lanky, and balding, Lord Norcutt was more short, stocky, and bushy-haired. But both wore the colorful evening coats so popular amongst the gentlemen of the ton and spoke in monotonous tones of lackluster subjects.

An entire afternoon spent in their company following an entire evening spent in the same manner might be enough to convince Aurora to leap from a cliff, should one present itself to her for such a purpose. Thankfully, Rebecca must suffer the same afternoon.

That, at least, gave Aurora some small comfort. And a touch of revenge for Rebecca’s snicker from a moment before. She granted herself a small, victorious smile. Then a larger one, after seeing Rebecca’s mounting despair.

“Oh, that would be lovely,” Aurora said. “Do say you will join us, Lady Rebecca.”

Rebecca’s eyes flashed for only a moment, not long enough that anyone else would have noticed. “Well, I suppose if it is all right with Mother…” She actually looked to the duchess as though perhaps she would be saved from such a terrible fate, even though all and sundry knew how very much Her Grace wanted a match between her daughter and Lord Merrick. Silly, silly Rebecca.

“My dear daughter,” the Duchess of Aylesbury said, “your father and I are delighted for you to have an excursion with Lord Merrick, as always.” She sent Merrick a knowing glance across the table before turning the same look on her husband. His Grace merely grunted.

“Well, it seems that is settled,” Lord Norcutt said. He turned the conversation to the new play being performed at Drury Lane.

Needless to say, Aurora soon lost interest in their drivel and thought instead of the upcoming section of her romantic adventure with Lord Quinton. When she had left off in her journal that afternoon, her hero was just preparing to draw her in for a kiss—a most devilish thought, but one she could hardly wait to finish writing. Her skin turned to gooseflesh just from the thought of his lips on hers, his arms around her, her hands fisted in his long golden locks.

Somehow, in the two days since she’d learned so much about him, the shade of his hair now seemed irresistibly handsome, and his penchant for wearing only black grew continually more intriguing.

After he kissed her, Aurora was certain Lord Quinton would take a moment to hold her close. She imagined his scent—male and clean and expensive—and shuddered in exquisite, illusory bliss.

“Miss Hyatt? What are your thoughts?” Norcutt looked upon her with great expectation.

Oh, drat.

She hadn’t heard a spoken word in close to ten minutes whilst she thought about her imagined secret lover. Nothing came to mind as a response, particularly since she knew nothing of the current topic under discussion.

She thought, perhaps, Rebecca would give her some hint. But a look across the table at her dearest and most especial friend revealed nothing.

Rebecca looked expectantly at her. “Oh, yes, Miss Hyatt,” she said. “Do enlighten us.” Clearly her friend knew where Aurora’s mind had been and was enjoying her current suffering. Wicked, devilish girl.

If only she could take this opportunity and excuse herself to her chamber. Alas, Father would be furious if she attempted any such escape. He still held out hope that she would eventually accept a gentleman such as Lord Norcutt or Lord Merrick, ridiculous though the notion may be.

The footmen entered and began to clear away the place settings.

Perfect! “I think,” she said finally, “it is high time for the ladies to excuse ourselves to the drawing room while the gentlemen enjoy their port. Aunt Sedgewick, would you not agree?” She stood and made her way from the room without further ado.

She might possibly have escaped a talking to from Father over her horrid inattention. Probably not. But she could hope.

~ * ~

Finally, after two more hours of what to most would be agreeable discussion, but to Aurora was rather more repellent discourse, their guests all took their leave and she was free to retire to her chamber.

She rushed her lady’s maid through her nightly ritual of undressing and preparing for bed. Too many ideas were pouring through her mind. She needed to get them down before they floated into the air, never to return.

Once she was alone, she lit two more candles and placed them on her escritoire. She slipped her inkwell out and placed it just so, then took her quill in hand and opened her journal.

Aurora reread the last thing she had written: Lord Quinton drew dangerously close to me.

Oh, yes. Yes indeed, he did. Gooseflesh covered her arms again, spreading all the way down her body to her toes. A story about Lord Norcutt or any of her other potential or past suitors with such a statement might perhaps elicit gooseflesh, but for an entirely different reason.

Enough with thinking about Norcutt. She had a far more pleasant task ahead of her that evening, and he held no place in it.

Aurora dipped her quill in ink and placed it to the parchment of her journal. Then the story took over.

Lord Quinton drew dangerously close to me, so close I could smell his expensive cologne and feel the warmth of his skin. Then closer again, until his eyes burned down into mine, filled with a yearning sort of ardor, and his sun-kissed locks shone bright in the pale moonlight. “My dearest Aurora, I cannot live without you any longer. I must have you for my very own.”

Before I could react, Lord Quinton’s lips fell upon mine, soft and supple and wantonly delectable. He pulled me into a closer embrace and our bodies touched in an intimacy I’d never before experienced. Slowly, gently, his hands moved from my arms to my back. Then they slid lower, close to my derrière. I could almost feel them there. Despite my better judgment, I even wanted to feel them there. I wanted him to touch me. I wanted to feel his strength against me. Never before had I felt so shameless, so uninhibited. So wanted.

“My lord,” I cried out, not fully wishing his attentions to cease but knowing they could scarcely continue, though I desired nothing more than to become his very own. “We cannot. My father—”

“Kiss me now, sweet Aurora. I will go to your father in the morning. Surely he cannot deny our love. Surely he will favor our union.”

“Our union? Oh, dear good Lord.” It was about to happen. He would make an undying and irrevocable promise to me, right at that moment. I could feel it. I could even taste it—sweet, like an ice.

“Yes.” He sank to his knee and pulled my gloved hand into his own. “Please, my dear, do me the very great honor of becoming my wife. Allow me to lavish my love upon you for the rest of our days, and to bask in the glow of your beauty. Aurora, marry me.”

My heart sang out “Yes, yes, yes!” Perhaps my voice did as well, because in an instant Lord Quinton again rose to his full height and pulled me close to his body where I could feel his strength and gentleness. Again, his lips touched to mine in a loving embrace. I was the happiest woman in the world.

~ * ~

Aurora failed to sleep. Her fascination with Lord Quinton kept her up until the last ember of her candlelight snuffed itself out, leaving her with no alternative but to rest.

Still, her mind raced. Just before losing her light, she had written The Wedding. She wrote it so clearly, her mind had nowhere else to turn but to The Wedding Night.

Frequently over the years since her debut, Aurora had wondered just what, precisely, took place between a husband and wife on their wedding night. Her mother had died when she was only eleven years old, and she had no older, married woman willing to share intimate details such as these.

Well, there was Aunt Sedgewick, but the old biddy would never dream of discussing anything of the sort with her. Her responsibility to Aurora lay solely in introducing her to society and playing the part of chaperone at balls. She felt no need to discuss anything save Aurora’s good reputation. And what unmarried lady who knew the details of the marriage bed could possibly expect to hold a good reputation? None, in the eyes of Aunt Sedgewick. Her aunt frequently remarked with disdain that she should like Aurora to cease her close friendship with Lady Rebecca, whom she felt to be fast, yet neglected to demand as much due to her husband’s relationship with the Duke of Aylesbury. The crotchety old bag.

Not that Rebecca knew anything of the goings-on between a husband and wife, anyway. But that was beside the point.

The point was that Aurora’s imagination was running away with her, and she doubted she would sleep a wink the entire night, even though she no longer had light by which to write.

She thought of him, lean and muscular and strong, in his sleeping gown and waiting for her.

Rush to him. That’s what she’d do.

She would rush to his side and dive beneath the bedclothes and give him a kiss on the cheek. A very chaste kiss, one that spoke of her love and undying devotion. And then he would tell her he loved her and she would say the same, and they would sleep side by side, feeling the warmth of the other across the bed.

It sounded magical. Delightful. Scandalous, even—the idea of sharing the same bed for the entire night. Particularly since most husbands and wives slept in separate rooms, not just in separate beds. Or so Aunt Sedgewick would have her believe. It was quite possibly the truth, since Aurora’s parents had kept entirely separate suites in opposite wings at Fairfax Priory, where they had lived when Aurora was just a girl.

She felt warmer, just imagining his body mere feet from hers.

Yes, this was a splendid manner of falling asleep. She would have to convince Lord Quinton they should share a bed once they were married. In the morning, she would be certain to write that particular detail in her journal.

Almost before she fell asleep, though, her maid barged into her room to wake her. “Good morning, Miss Hyatt,” Rose said. “Up with you and off to your breakfast, now. The Marquess of Norcutt will be here before you know it to collect you for your outing to Hyde Park.”

Blasted chipper chit. Had she no respect for the fact that her mistress had scarcely slept a minute the entire evening? The reason for her lack of sleep was unimportant, but the lack of sleep itself was of dire consequence.

But then Rose handed her a cup of chocolate, surely the most divine creation known to man. All must be forgiven.

“All right, then. Up we go.”

Aurora attempted to slough off the Sullen Sally mantle she had woken up wearing long enough to allow Rose’s assistance in preparing for the day ahead.

By the time she had dressed, had her hair properly coiffed, and breakfasted, she sat at the writing table in the main parlor, hoping to get a bit more written before the dreaded man arrived. Scarcely half a moment later, a knock was already sounding at the door. One o’clock, on the nose. Good Lord, the man was punctual. Not to mention rather dicked in the nob for planning something at this indecent hour of the day.

She ought to return her journal to her chamber. It certainly couldn’t remain where it was, because one of the maids might stumble upon it and have to open it to determine what to do with it. No, that simply would not do.

Aurora dashed out into the hall, hoping to accomplish her task and be back downstairs before Hobbes came looking for her to inform her of Norcutt’s arrival, only to have to stop short in order to avoid smacking head first into the man in question himself. “Oh, Lord Norcutt,” Aurora mumbled. “I did not realize you had already arrived.”

He executed a low bow. “Miss Hyatt. Good morning to you. I trust you are well rested and ready for our jaunt through the park.” His eager smile abruptly became an irritant. She should just write their story and be done with him, send him on his merry way to some other, less interesting miss who could suffer his attentions with more decorum than she.

But that, she must admit, would require focusing less of her efforts and imagination on Lord Quinton’s story. Not what she had any intention of doing, at least for the time being.

Still, stringing Lord Norcutt along behind her was not terribly becoming.

It wasn’t as though she was setting her cap for him, though. She just wasn’t discouraging his attentions. Not yet.

She would.

She must.

“Quite, my lord,” she finally responded. “I have been so looking forward to our afternoon.” She prayed God would not smote her down for such an impudent lie as he placed her gloved hand in the crook of his arm and he led her to his curricle.

She only remembered she still had her journal with her when she realized her other hand was forced to hold both her journal and her parasol, thereby making the task of opening and holding the parasol aloft impossible. Aurora tried.

And failed.

And tripped in the process, nearly falling down the steps in front of Hyatt House, and landing flat on her face on Berkeley Square in front of everyone out for a walk, ride, or for any other reason, and pulling Lord Norcutt with her in the process. It would have happened, as well, if not for the fact that his rather staunch and sturdy frame pulled back against her and saved them both from utter catastrophe.

But at least her journal was safe.

Norcutt took the parasol from her hands at that point. “Might I be of some assistance, Miss Hyatt?” He opened it and held it above her head, shading her already-too-dark complexion from further darkening.

It just would not do to look any more exotic than she already did, or at least that is what Aunt Sedgewick continually reminded her. Aurora didn’t care one whit about the demands of society. The shade of her skin, the darkness and waviness of her hair, the slight bend in her nose—all of this reminded her of her mother. For that purpose alone, Aurora was tempted to sit out in the sun as often as possible, watching her skin brown as other misses ducked to hide from its rays in fear of random freckles peppering their perfect English rose complexions.

But Father continually reminded her how it would not do to flaunt her mother’s Greek heritage in the faces of the ton, that she already suffered a dearth of suitors possibly due to just such a cause. Never mind the fact that her scarcity of suitors might have something to do with her habit of running them off before they could make an offer.

Instead, she turned her most gracious smile on Lord Norcutt. “Thank you so very much, my lord. I daresay I would have made an utter cake of myself if not for your heroic efforts.” She tried not to gag on the words as they left her mouth. It proved difficult, but she achieved success.

Then he assisted her up into the silly contraption (one that men only owned in order to show the ladies they escorted off to the best of their ability—for she could think of no other practical purpose for the blasted things), followed along behind her, and they were off.

Supposedly.

Never in her life had Aurora experienced a horse walking so slowly, let alone two of them together. “Are your horses feeling quite the thing, my lord?” They had to be as old as Moses to be moving so slow. A group of toddlers could pass them by, circle the park, and come back to them before they reached the end of the street at this rate. She would clearly be well into her dotage before he returned her to Hyatt House.

“They are doing rather well. Thank you for inquiring.” Lord Norcutt held the reins so tightly she imagined his knuckles must be whitening beneath his gloves. She wasn’t entirely certain he was still breathing.

He started to say something, then stopped himself to fidget with the reins. Again, he opened his mouth and took a massive breath of air, only to close it again with a “Hmm.”

His nervous energy could be due to any number of things—none of which Aurora presently wished for.

By the time they reached the end of the street and the horses began to turn, Norcutt turned to face her. “Miss Hyatt, I hoped to speak with you today before we are joined by Lord Merrick and Lady Rebecca. You see…I…” His grey eyes filled with tears that threatened to spill over.

She had to stop him. She couldn’t allow him to go through with this. It would make them both terribly uncomfortable, and there was little in the world Aurora detested more than to be uncomfortable.

But he continued before she could cut in. “I am in love with Lady Rebecca,” he said with a violence she had never expected possible from such a staid and stoic man.

Not to mention a statement she never expected to be uttered by him. Was he not attempting to court Aurora? Lord Norcutt had shown every indication of a growing attachment to Aurora, not to Rebecca.

She was, to be plain, stunned.

And relieved and delighted and thanking every god known to every civilization in her history books that he would not be offering for her that day.

Because really, throwing out gentlemen’s hopes and dreams like they were used bathwater was not now and would never be her chosen manner of spending an afternoon.

Sometimes it did prove to be a necessity. But not today.

“I see. And does Lady Rebecca know of your tendre?”

“No, she does not.” His typically monotone voice had become animated and lively. In fact, Aurora feared he might burst into either tears or song at any moment. Neither of which was an appealing option. How terribly sad for him, since Rebecca would never entertain his offer.

“Yet, when you could have invited Lady Rebecca to ride with you through Hyde Park this afternoon, instead you offered such an invitation to me. Not only that, but you sat by and watched as Lord Merrick issued just the invitation you ought to have done to Lady Rebecca. That all strikes me as a bit odd, my lord. How might you think Lady Rebecca will react to a faux pas of that caliber?”

“I’ve come to you, Miss Hyatt, because I’m in desperate need of your assistance. His Grace, the Duke of Aylesbury has granted me permission to pursue an attachment with his daughter. But I am uncertain how to proceed.” He delivered his impassioned plea with the most ardent eyes she had ever seen. It almost broke her heart.

Almost.

“That is a most lamentable predicament, my lord. And you believe I can assist you how, precisely?”

“It is common knowledge amongst those in the know that Lady Rebecca is your most especial friend. I was hoping…I wanted to ask you to give me some hope. To speak with her about me, and discover if my feelings might be returned.” In his enthusiasm, he took both of her gloved hands into his own and squeezed them tightly before remembering himself and dropping them to her lap just as suddenly. “Lord Merrick agreed to aid me in my cause. He invited Lady Rebecca to ride with him so that I might at least catch a glimpse of her during our excursion today while I courted your favor in my endeavor.”

“Indeed.” She wasn’t quite agreeing to his suggestion. It was more that she could not fathom what else to say.

Her intentions didn’t matter, though, as Lord Norcutt took her response to mean what he wanted it to mean. “Oh, thank you, Miss Hyatt. I am certain that once you have spoken with her, and perhaps softened her toward me, she will be quite delighted to accept me. With your favor, how could I go wrong?”

How, indeed? Oh, dear. Now she might truly end up crushing this man’s hopes and dreams, even though they had nothing to do with her.

This afternoon was most decidedly not working out in the manner she had either expected or envisioned.

Blast it all.

With his concerns appeased, Lord Norcutt no longer seemed inclined to force his team to walk at a snail’s pace. He nudged them with the reins, and they took off at a canter. Before much time at all had passed, Aurora and Norcutt arrived at Hyde Park and saw Lord Merrick’s curricle near the Serpentine.

Norcutt raised a hand in greeting as he drew his vehicle closer. “Good afternoon to you both.” His face beamed brighter than a full moon in a cloudless sky. Pure joy etched itself across his visage. Such a pity that he would be devastated when Rebecca rejected his attentions.

That, she reminded herself, was none of her concern. If he wanted to get his hopes up and think he could possibly receive her favor, then so be it. Lord Norcutt was a grown man. He could look after his own heart.

They all exchanged various pleasantries and the gentlemen discussed the lovely sunshine they had been granted that day, and Aurora generally lost interest in the entire matter. The only matter she wanted to focus her attentions upon was the story in her journal, which felt like it might burn a hole straight through the muslin of her afternoon dress if she didn’t get back to it soon.

There were scenes that needed to be written, by gad. Namely, the wedding night.

“A race it is, then,” said Lord Norcutt. “First to the end of Rotten Row wins, and the loser buys the ladies an ice at Gunter’s.”

Oh, blast. A race? She really ought to object. Her hair would fly free of its pins, because she had prevented Rose from securing it properly, and then the wavy mass of it would be tangled into knots, and it would be pure and utter torture to have it all brushed out. No, a race just would not do. She turned to her escort, prepared to protest—but she was too late.

The curricle shot forward like a cannonball, tossing her back against the seat.

Her bonnet strings began to work loose beneath her chin. She grabbed hold of the bonnet to keep it atop her head and give her hair some chance at decency once it was all over.

In holding to her hat, she was forced to let loose the parasol and her journal. The parasol caught a gust of wind and whipped away from them, floating back to the ground and settling beside a tree next to the Serpentine. “Oh, my.” Her voice floated away in the wind, as well.

Trees and horses and riders whisked by, turning into a blur. Aurora looked down over the side of the curricle. Bad idea. Very, very, very bad idea. She gripped the brim of her bonnet tighter to her head and prayed that nothing would cause the silly contraption to capsize.

Lord Merrick drew up alongside them and gradually slipped ahead. Norcutt whipped the reins again, and his horses somehow gained more ground. The trees at the end of the Row were coming upon them so fast it seemed hazardous.

And finally they reached the end, with Lord Merrick and Rebecca’s curricle drawing up just a nose ahead of Lord Norcutt’s.

Aurora breathed a sigh of relief.

“Excellent race, my lords,” called out a laughing Rebecca. Her hat had blown off her head and her hair and cheeks were windblown, and she looked simply delighted at the afternoon’s proceedings.

“Ices, it is!” called Merrick. “But first, shall we collect the ladies’ bonnets and parasols and such? And I suppose our own hats as well.”

“Yes, and in a hurry, my man.” Norcutt had already turned his team around to make their way back to the grove of trees where Aurora’s parasol lay. “I should not wish to lose anything entirely.”

Nor would she. Aurora straightened the bonnet atop her head and smoothed her hands over her dress and pelisse.

And her heart almost stopped beating.

Her journal. It was gone. She stood in the curricle and searched beneath where she had been sitting, but it was nowhere to be found.

Norcutt looked upon her like she belonged in Bedlam. “Miss Hyatt? We shall fetch your things immediately. There is no cause for concern.”

“My journal. Have you seen my journal?” She tossed up the tail of his greatcoat where it lay on the bench beside her. “I must find my journal. It is a matter of dire importance, sir.” Life and death importance. Oh, dear good Lord, the things she had written there. If anyone were to come across it…

“I believe it must have gone missing with your parasol. Surely it will be here along the way.” He hurried the horses at the urgency in her voice.

“Oh, it simply must be.” If someone found it, if word got out, if Father learned… She was doomed.

When they arrived at the trees where her parasol lay, she leapt down from the curricle without waiting for his assistance and dashed to look under the foliage.

It wasn’t there. Nor was it tucked neatly into another nearby grove of trees. Nor could it be found alongside the Serpentine. It was nowhere.

Gone.

Aurora got down on her knees to look behind a row of bushes. Lord Norcutt followed suit soon after. Lord Merrick came along with Rebecca, still laughing gaily with her hair flying freely at her side.

“I say, are we still missing some items?” Merrick’s flippant tone set Aurora’s blood to boiling.

“Miss Hyatt seems to have misplaced her journal.”

Rebecca’s gasp underscored the gravity of the situation. She flung herself to her knees as well, to assist in the process. Soon, all four of them were scrounging around upon their knees, most decidedly ruining their clothing and making utter fools of themselves as half the ton watched in combined shock, curiosity, and horror.

After nearly half an hour, they had all given up the search except for Aurora.

“I think,” said Rebecca, “it is time to stop, Miss Hyatt. Clearly, the journal is not here. We must assume that it has landed in the Serpentine and been washed away.”

Yes. Washed away. Perhaps that was the case. Perhaps her world would not crumble in all around her.

She slowly rose to her feet and brushed the grass and dirt from her gown. All the life had been sapped out of her in the search. She felt weak. Numb.

Perhaps no one would discover her secret.

Chapter Three

1 April, 1811

Life as I have known it is now over. It was nice to know you. Please remember me kindly.

~From the new journal of Miss Aurora Hyatt

“Today, my friend, is the first day of your future as a true gentleman.” Jonas stood before him as the picture of the London gentleman, with everything in precisely the proper place. Top hat, angled just so. Pantaloons, waistcoat, greatcoat, cravat. Check, check, check, check. Sheer elegance and perfection.

Devil take him.

Standing next to him, Quin felt like a buffoon. His breeches fit more snugly than he liked, his greatcoat hardly allowed him any free movement, the bloody cravat threatened to strangle him, and he’d be damned if he’d enjoy wearing a blasted beaver hat.

Jonas had tried to convince him to cut his hair along with the shave, but there were some things a man just simply couldn’t allow.

He attempted to stretch out his legs and arms, hoping to find a way to function in the fussy attire. “Can we get on with it already? I don’t know how long I can pass as a dandy.” At least not without swooning like a woman.

Jonas smirked. “Not very long.” He gave Quin’s appearance a final examination. “You really ought to have worn one of my coats. Something with some color. Something less funereal, sans the look of…well, death.”

Color. That would be the day. “I feel like death. Death agrees with me. Besides, we’re hunting for a bride. Isn’t that much the same as attending my own funeral?”

“How do you intend to catch a bride if you scare all the young ladies away? You look as dour as a gravedigger preparing to bury his father.”

“Excellent. That is just the look I had hoped for when I dressed this morning.” Quin failed to understand why his appearance was of such import.

Jonas heaved a sigh. “Well, I suppose there is nothing to be done for it. Shall we away?” He headed for his stables without waiting for Quin’s reply.

It was about time, too. While Quin wanted nothing less than to find a bride, the matter was no longer up for debate. And clearly his tactics had been dismal failures, at best. He might as well try what Jonas suggested, even if he thought it a ridiculous notion.

Honestly. Riding through Hyde Park and hoping to meet young ladies there? Impressing them with his posture on a horse? Making small talk? Making himself affable to their chaperones and escorts? None of this sounded like a good method of convincing a young lady that she was madly in love with him and needed to marry him at once. If anything, it sounded like a good method of landing himself in Bedlam.

But what did he have to lose? Only his sanity (which some might claim he’d already lost) and an afternoon.

He followed along behind Jonas, mounted his horse, and they were off. They reached the park well before the fashionable hour, but still several groups of walkers strolled along the Serpentine, and Rotten Row was filling with people on horseback and in a variety of carriages. As one group came upon another, they would all bow and curtsy and stop for conversation.

Bloody hell. He’d never felt so confined, so trapped, whilst out of doors. Perhaps he would toss himself into the Thames before they were through. Or maybe he’d toss Jonas, instead.

Yes, now that he thought about it for a moment, most assuredly Jonas.

“Ah, wonderful,” Jonas said. “Lord and Lady Tyndall and their daughter, Miss Tyndall, are headed our way on foot. Perhaps we should start with them.”

“Perhaps we should gouge out our eyes with dull, rusty daggers,” Quin responded. “That might be equally as pleasant.”

“Coward.”

“Degenerate.”

But Jonas afforded him no opportunity to hesitate. He lifted his hand and called, “Lord and Lady Tyndall. Lovely day today, is it not? And how delightful to see you out as well, Miss Tyndall.”

The baronet rode to the family’s side before Quin had a chance to stop him, leaving Quin with no choice but to join them or look the part of the cad. Which, of course, he was, but he was supposed to be mending his ways.

He had half a heart to toss his grandfather into the Thames now, instead of anyone else. Then he could just inherit and be done with it. Devilish old codger.

So he rode over to the oh-so-delightful Tyndall family and joined his friend.

“Have you all had the pleasure of meeting my good friend, Lord Quinton? He has finally come in from the country to give life in Town a try.”

Tyndall seemed interested and started to speak, but his wife shook her head furiously at him with a forbidding glare in her eyes. “I believe,” she said, “we must be on our way, Sir Jonas.” She tugged on the arms of both her husband and her daughter, whispering loudly to her husband, “Lord Quinton is the one. We must not associate ourselves with him.” They walked at a much faster pace than their previous stroll and were out of earshot within moments.

“I told you this was a bad idea.” Quin watched the trio move along the Serpentine and stop at another group of walkers. They talked for a moment and then turned and pointed in his direction. The second group changed directions and walked away with the Tyndalls. “Are you ready to give up on this bag of moonshine yet? We need another plan. This will never work.”

Jonas spurred his horse forward. “Not yet. We’ve only talked to one family! There are easily a dozen more groups we can try. If we stay long enough, the park will be full of fashionable opportunities.”

“But if they won’t even let me speak…”

“We’ll worry about that when we come to it.” Jonas had spotted another group, this one with two gentlemen and two ladies who were heading for them.

“We’ve already come to it!” Blast. He should turn around. He ought to go back to Jonas’s bachelor lodgings and prepare himself for that evening, and then return to his original plan. It would work. Eventually. Somehow, he would stumble upon a young lady desperate enough to be married that she would marry even him. She had to exist. He merely had to find her. Weren’t balls the most likely place for a young lady to be in search of a husband?

The sound of galloping horses and out of control carriages barreled down on him from behind. Quin had only just leapt to the side and out of the way before they were upon him: two curricles, each carrying a gentleman and a lady, racing along the path, headed for Rotten Row. He had to stop himself from cursing them for their audacity.

One of the ladies screamed and grabbed hold of her bonnet. A book flew out of the curricle and landed only a few feet from him. Up ahead, parasols and bonnets and top hats flew out behind the two vehicles, landing in a decidedly haphazard fashion as they went.

Quin dismounted to collect the book so he could return it to its owner, even if she did pose a dangerous risk to society by racing at full speed through a park without regard for the other people who might happen to be there. Out of curiosity, he flipped through the pages to see what she’d been reading. But this was no printed book—it was her journal.

Before I could react in any way, Lord Quinton’s lips fell upon mine, soft and supple and wantonly delectable.

Damnation!

One of those chits had been writing about him. And not writing about how fiendish he was, or what a cur he was, or any other reasonable thing for a young lady of good ton to believe of him. But she was writing about kissing him. And liking it. Which was no surprise to him, but seemed it might be a bit of a surprise to her.

He was fairly certain he hadn’t kissed either of them. Not yet, at least.

But he’d be damned if that remained the way of things.

“What have you there, Quin?” Jonas asked as he returned. “A book? I never took you for the reading sort.”

“I’m not. Or I wasn’t until now.” His life was on the verge of a momentous change. He could feel it. Granted, part of that change included marriage, but that couldn’t be avoided any longer.

At least that marriage would be to someone who might keep him interested. Because how could a woman who wrote such a thing about him be uninteresting?

He felt invigorated. Alive.

Quin had just discovered his bride. Now he simply had to discover her identity and convince her to marry him.

That couldn’t be too difficult.

~ * ~

“Aurora. There couldn’t possibly be very many Auroras to choose from.” Quin sat at a table at White’s with Jonas, reading through the journal he’d found at Hyde Park.

“I know of only one in the beau monde. But keep your voice down. You’ll ruin her before you even meet her, if anyone hears.”

Only one. Excellent. “She’s the one.”

“What the hell are you after? How can you know she’s the one? You’ve never met her. You know nothing about her.” Jonas threw up his hands in disgust. “All you have is this…this…book that she’s written.”

“Precisely. I have this book in which she’s written a cornucopia of brazen and lascivious ideas. About me. And her. About us. That means she already thinks there is an us.” He couldn’t have dreamed up an idea more perfect if he’d tried. “Listen to this: ‘Lord Quinton pulled me into another embrace and I felt my body come alive. The energy between us thrummed with an electricity I never knew existed. I looked up into his eyes, beckoning, begging. Before I could speak the words to ask, his lips crushed down against my own again, far more insistently than before.’ She’s practically begging me to come and ravish her. How can I deny the minx the joys of my infinite skill in that area?” He turned to another page. “And here! Here she writes of us marrying.”

Jonas glared at him across the table and placed a finger over his lips. “Be quiet. You can’t know that it is really about you. Be realistic, Quin. She could just have an overactive imagination.”

Blasphemy. “What other Lord Quinton would it be about, hmm? What other Lord Quinton is there with long, sun-kissed hair, who is clad in all black and is dashing and daring enough to kiss a young lady so boldly?” He waited a half a second for Jonas to answer him, but no more. “None! Besides, look through here at these other stories. Granted, none are nearly so exciting as the one she wrote about me, but they certainly are here.” He flipped through the pages until he found the one he was looking for. “Like this one, about Lord Vickery. Would her description of him be accurate? ‘More round than tall, more on his head than in it, more bleak than London fog in November.’”

“Well, yes, but”

“But nothing!” Quin flipped back a few more pages. “Try this one, about Lord Padbury. ‘So portly he must have filled his pockets with cakes and tarts, because no man could possibly take up such a great amount of space without such assistance.’ How accurate is that assessment?” As his certainty about this Aurora grew stronger, so did his voice.

Jonas shook his head in defeat. “Entirely accurate.”

“Then how, if these other gentlemen are portrayed as they actually are in real life, might this Lord Quinton be anyone but me?” He raised an eyebrow at his friend. “Precisely. He cannot. So, who is this Aurora? Tell me what you know.”

“What I know is on the side of meager. Her name is Aurora Hyatt. Her father is Viscount Hyatt. She’s been on the marriage mart for a number of Seasons. I seem to recall a wedding announcement at one point years ago, but I believe her betrothed came to an untimely end before such an occurrence came to pass.”

A prior engagement he could handle. And if she had been on the hunt for a replacement for a dead fiancé for years, surely she was close to the point of desperation. Precisely what he needed. “So no scandals? Nothing Rotheby could use to disqualify her as a potential match?”

“I believe there might have been some minor controversy over her mother. She was not born of the ton, if memory serves—but from somewhere exotic.”

Exotic? That sounded promising.

“But her father has always had an upstanding reputation. Rotheby could use the very journal you’re holding in your hands, though. That bit of bound parchment is enough scandal to keep the gossips in ceaseless supply for months.”

Quin waved a hand through the air. “He can’t use it if he doesn’t know of its existence. Surely, no one knows of it but the two of us and Miss Hyatt. I can’t imagine any young lady in hopes of finding a reputable match would reveal its contents to anyone else, in fear of the damage it would cause to her reputation. She can’t announce it as missing without facing the possibility of its discovery.”

“Someone else will know if you don’t keep your voice down.”

Blast. He just couldn’t quite seem to contain his enthusiasm. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was. This Aurora Hyatt was exactly the miss he needed to convince to marry him. She already thought herself in love with him, the silly minx. And to top it all off, she was a scandal waiting to happen.

A scandal waiting for him to play his part and rescue her from her own folly.

As long as he did just that, Rotheby would be entirely unable to find any fault with her—a young society miss, daughter of a viscount, clearly (based upon her writing) well educated, if just a mite on the opinionated side of things. Quin would have to work on that last part. But there should be plenty of time for her to learn her new position.

Now he just needed to meet her. “Find out what ball she’ll attend tonight, Jonas. It’s time I meet my bride.”

Chapter Four

1 April, 1811

I am no longer entirely certain I am still alive. There appears to be some feeling in my extremities, yet my heart has gone utterly and completely numb. I cannot believe I was so foolish as to lose my journal. I can only hope that Rebecca is right and it is floating away down the Serpentine even as we speak. At least then, even if someone were to find it, the ink would have smeared. Then no one would be able to read the things I’ve written. No one would know that I called Lord Endicott a bloated old toad with the warts to prove it. Except Endicott himself, of course. But he is far too gentlemanly to ever reveal such a thing. If only I were too ladylike to have refrained from voicing such a thing.

~From the journal of Miss Aurora Hyatt

Seething was hardly a forceful enough term to describe Lord Griffin Seabrook’s mood as he left White’s that afternoon. Furious might be more apt. Or murderous—aye, that term held particular appeal.

Time Quinton meet his bride, indeed.

Griffin had heard the word spreading through the ton of Lord Quinton’s arrival in Town, almost always accompanied by descriptions of his vulgar attire, his indiscreet flirtations, his lewd behaviors. He’d done his best to protect Phoebe from the news, lest she again suffer shame and degradation.

It was enough to make a gentleman either violently ill or violently enraged.

Particularly when the gentleman in question happened to be an older brother of Quinton’s true bride.

The bastard had a lot of nerve.

He even had the audacity to speak of his plan, of his secret, sitting out in the open in the middle of White’s. And to make matters worse, he hadn’t bothered to keep his voice down, despite repeated reminders from his companion. Griffin half expected the bastard to place a bet in the books on how soon he could convince Miss Hyatt to capitulate and agree to his dastardly plot.

He had to wonder about the why of it all. Not why this pitiable Miss Hyatt seemed so preoccupied with the monster, per se, seeing as how Griffin’s own sister had once fallen into Quinton’s trap. But more the why on Quinton’s end: why the need to marry, and particularly, why the need to do so in such a rush?

But one thing was certain—he would not suffer Quinton’s success. He would not sit idly by and watch the lecher ruin another young lady. He would not bite his tongue and let the plans in motion play out.

He turned down Piccadilly from St. James Street, thankful for the time and space to stretch his legs while he ruminated over his options.

Griffin could take the matter straight to his father, the Marquess of Laughton, and let him deal with it. But Father already had enough to deal with at the moment, between the departure of his longstanding mistress and the impending arrival of yet another by-blow.

He could confront Quinton about his treachery. Call him out. Settle the score once and for all—something he’d been itching to do now for years, but had been unable to do with the cowardly scoundrel on the Continent—but there remained the slight problem of the illegality of dueling, and the rather more pronounced problem of Quinton’s esteemed marksmanship.

Griffin could take the more backhanded approach of enlightening the gossips as to Miss Hyatt’s journal and its contents. But in so doing, he would be lowering himself to Quinton’s standards—permanently and irrevocably ruining a young lady. Such an approach might also have unintended consequences, such as merely rushing the two into marriage. No, that method was clearly out. None of those options seemed to fulfill Griffin’s purpose.

He needed something else. Something better suited to the problem at hand.

Quinton could not get away with this.

Before he had come up with a solution to the problem, Griffin arrived at his bachelor lodgings. Blast, he needed an idea.

Perhaps he could… No, Griffin had no acquaintance with Miss Hyatt. He could not take such liberties as paying her a call to explain the situation. But wouldn’t allowing Quinton to carry out his devious plan be the more egregious sin?

Griffin changed directions. He suddenly felt a need to visit a new destination.

Cavendish Square.

~ * ~

“Drawn and quartered. That’s what Father will do to me.” Aurora threw herself face down on her bed.

“It might not be so bad as all that. He could just strap you to the rack for a while.”

Aurora turned her head to frown at her friend. What a dismal attempt to cheer her mood! Rebecca needed to try harder with the next one. This was, after all, a disaster of momentous proportion.

“It is your own fault, after all. Why on earth would you have thought it a good idea to bring your journal with you?” Rebecca plopped down beside her on the bed. “You couldn’t very well write in it while we were out. I daresay you would never have read to Lord Norcutt from it.”

“Oh, dear good Lord, no.” She shivered at the thought of reading such a thing aloud to a gentleman. “I was writing in it when Norcutt arrived, and…well, somehow I ended up bringing it along instead of stashing it upstairs in my chamber. And since I had it with me, I thought perhaps you and I would have a few moments to ourselves, and that you could read a bit from it.”

After all that had come to pass, even Aurora recognized her excuse sounded at the very least ludicrous, if not altogether naïve. But even that couldn’t excuse Rebecca’s lack of support. Certainly not now, when she needed it most.

“I’ve never heard anything so preposterous in my life. I know you, Aurora, and I know how your mind works.” Rebecca’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I can clearly imagine the delightful and devious things you wrote. And you know I would never take such a chance as to read something like that anywhere but in the privacy of this very chamber. And speaking of that…would you care to share any of it with me? From memory, of course, since your sinful words are currently sinking to the bottom of the Serpentine.”

Aurora scowled. She prepared to deliver a scathing retort—something along the lines of since you find it prudent to tease me in my distress, I shall find it prudent to withhold such delightful morsels in future (oh, dear—that seemed more wounded and pathetic than scathing and retort-like, even to Aurora’s sensibilities)—only to change her mind mid-thought when a knock sounded at the door. “Enter.”

One of the downstairs maids moved inside the doorway, holding out a silver salver with a calling card upon it. “You have a visitor, miss.”

Of course she did. Whoever it was had inconsiderate timing, blast them, even if it was the middle of the afternoon. Aurora took the card and frowned. Lord Griffin Seabrook. The name was only slightly familiar; she was certain she had no acquaintance with him.

“Please inform Lord Griffin I am out from the house, Eugenia.”

The maid bobbed a curtsy and was on her way. Once the door closed firmly behind her, Aurora turned back to Rebecca. “Well, I suppose I could recall a few details. Just last night, I wrote our wedding. You may go ahead and refer to me as Lady Quinton now, if you like. I think that should be rather fitting.”

Thinking about the lovely tidbits written in her journal felt decidedly better than thinking of her impending torture and death when her father discovered her blunder.

Rebecca’s eyes widened. “And the wedding night?” She leaned in across the bed, taking one of Aurora’s hands into her own.

And yet another knock sounded at the door.

“Blast. Enter!”

Eugenia ducked into the room yet again. “Lord Griffin is very insistent, miss. Hobbes already let it slip that you are, indeed, at home.”

“Well.” Drat. Aurora looked to her friend for help. If there was one thing she could always count on Rebecca for, it was coming up with an excuse for something. Anything. Lady Rebecca Grantham was a virtual encyclopedia of excuses.

“Eugenia, pray tell Lord Griffin that Miss Hyatt is indisposed at the moment and cannot be imposed upon to receive callers.”

Lovely. She had no intention of becoming ill in order to escape this interruption of their afternoon, but she would do anything necessary to have the impertinent man leave her in peace.

The maid nodded and left, yet again. Aurora was hesitant to resume their discussion, dreading yet another interruption.

Which, of course—since she had been dreading it—arrived in short order.

When Eugenia entered this time, she rushed to apologize. “I am terribly sorry, miss, but it seems Lord Griffin is disinclined to leave without speaking with you. His lordship says he must see you this afternoon, regardless of your current state of health. He refuses to leave, miss.” The maid flushed with embarrassment.

“How dare he! I have never been introduced to the man. To think that he can come to my home and demand to see me…” Aurora had never heard the likes of it.

Rebecca stood and straightened her afternoon gown about her legs. “Let me handle this. I should be on my way home, anyway, to get ready for the ball tonight. I’ll speak with Lord Griffin on my way out.” Her deep brown eyes flashed and turned almost black. “I can promise you, Aurora, Lord Griffin will rue the day he made any demands upon you.”

Aurora loved it when Rebecca became impassioned about something. She almost wished she could sneak down to the parlor to witness the scene about to take place.

Instead, she vowed to write about it.

Thank the good Lord Rose had gone out to fetch a new journal already.

~ * ~

Aunt Sedgewick’s nasally voice assaulted Aurora’s ears like an entire flock of geese being drowned together in the Serpentine. “My dear, you must accept a dance with Lord Hingham, if he should ask. Preferably a waltz, of course. He would make a lovely match for you. And he does not seem to mind about your mother’s regrettable origins.”

Aurora bit her tongue—literally. It just would not do to lash out at her aunt in the midst of a London ball. At least not now, before everyone had arrived and the dancing had begun. Perhaps she could get away with it when the crowd had thickened and the orchestra was playing, when the level of the din was up to a full roar. At the moment, the din rested at a mere kitten’s mewl.

She’d never understand her aunt’s necessity of arriving at such events so early in the evening, before anyone interesting had descended upon the scene and made their presence known. Particularly since it just wasn’t done. “Yes, Aunt,” she replied as submissively as she could muster.

The old dragon then had the audacity to raise her quizzing glass (for that was what it was, despite Aunt Sedgewick’s propensity for calling it a lorgnette) to her eye and giving Aurora’s gown a thorough inspection. “I must have another discussion with your father, and the sooner the better. It is a travesty he allowed you out of the house in that dress. The scandal! Why, even a married lady might be thought fast in such a color.”

Oh, dear good Lord. Aurora closed her eyes and counted to ten in her head. Still seething. Perhaps she had better make it one hundred.

Yes, it was true. She had dared to wear a lovely, rich blue silk to the ball and not some insipid pastel. In truth, it was almost turquoise. She’d never found a lovelier length of fabric in her life, so of course, she had to purchase it and have a ball gown made from it. The hue brought her clear, blue-green eyes to life in her looking glass in a manner no other gown had ever done. She could only imagine how her eyes must look in the candlelight of the ballroom.

With her almost-black hair and the deep tone of her skin, she looked downright sickly in almost any pastel. Particularly in pink. Yellow and peach were hardly better. Only the light blues and greens did her any favor at all, but she could hardly wear those two colors and only those for the remainder of her unmarried life.

Besides, Aurora was only weeks away from being four-and-twenty. Certainly not a debutante. If anyone looked down upon her for wearing a touch of color, then they could go and rot, for all she cared—Aunt Sedgewick included. She’d even cast Father in with the lot, should he side with his sister over his daughter.

She could discern no suitable response for her aunt. If she argued her side of things and pointed out the flaws of Aunt Sedgewick’s thinking, she would be an ungrateful child. But she most certainly would not agree with the woman.

Thankfully, Rebecca and her family arrived, working their way through the receiving line. An unfamiliar young lady accompanied them, wearing a silver gauze gown.

“Oh, pardon me, Aunt. Lady Rebecca is here, and I simply must speak with her.” Which was the truth. With all of the interruptions that afternoon, Aurora had neglected to mention Lord Norcutt’s dilemma. She left her aunt’s side before the old biddy could stop her, fairly bounding across the ballroom.

Rebecca motioned her over. “Lady Phoebe, have you met Miss Hyatt? Aurora, Lady Phoebe Seabrook is the daughter of the Marquess of Laughton, whom Father has only today befriended.”

Seabrook. For some reason, the name was familiar. But Aurora could not fathom why, since she’d never laid eyes upon the woman before in her life. She’d remember her, if not for the shade of her eyes, then for the shape of her face. It was rather more oblong than could be considered attractive. She’d apparently attempted to fluff her bland brown hair out at the sides to distract from the length of her face, but its effect was quite the antithesis. Lady Phoebe’s face reminded Aurora of a horse. Still, she smiled and nodded at her new acquaintance.

“Lord Laughton requested that we bring Lady Phoebe along tonight,” Rebecca continued, “since he had other obligations and she would otherwise be forced to stay in their townhome alone all night.”

“How lovely to meet you,” Aurora said. “Have you been in Town long?”

Lady Phoebe’s grey eyes ought to have sparkled like her gown did in the candlelight, but instead seemed flat. Distant. “I’m delighted to meet you, as well. Only a few days, Miss Hyatt. We tend to stay at Harrogate Palace during the Season—Father comes alone to serve in the Lords and then returns home. But this Season, he felt it would behoove me to take part in the marriage mart. There are few suitable prospects in Yorkshire, anymore.”

“Indeed,” Aurora responded. Her eyes followed a group of gentlemen on the opposite side of the ballroom. “One might say the same of the whole of England.” If one were rather picky about said prospects, as she tended to be.

“One might also say,” Rebecca countered with a twinkle in her eye, “that one who said such things might need to broaden one’s horizons.”

“And who are you to talk of such things?” Aurora retorted. “You’ve been on the marriage mart almost as long as I have, with no beaux to show for it. Not for a lack of their attempts, either.”

“Phoebe!” said Miss Iris Leggett, working her way through the growing crowd, her fan at the ready in one gloved hand. “I had no idea you would be in Town this Season. You should have called on me.”

Oh, dear good Lord. Iris Leggett had always grated on Aurora’s very last nerve. If she wasn’t a busybody gossip-in-the-making, Aurora didn’t know who would be. And that was who Lady Phoebe chose for a friend? She couldn’t stop her eyes from rolling to the ceiling upon the arrival of this newest member to their little grouping, so she hoped only Rebecca had seen it.

“Miss Leggett, are you and Lady Phoebe dear friends?” Rebecca asked, somehow masking what should be scorn in her voice to the general ear, but Aurora could still make it out. “I was unaware. You both must greatly desire some time to yourselves, in order to catch up on old times.”

“Oh, but we do not wish to be churlish,” Lady Phoebe said, despite the fact that her eyes were already scanning the room for a spot they could sneak off to.

“Nonsense,” Rebecca said. “Miss Hyatt and I are more than happy to allow dear friends some time to themselves.”

Not to mention the fact that it would give the two of them some time alone. “Indeed,” Aurora chimed in, almost too abruptly and with a nod of her head that was more forceful than necessary for a simple agreement. She really needed to get a grasp on herself. It must be from all the afternoon’s worry over her missing journal.

Miss Leggett gave a shy smile. “Well, if you’re certain…”

Aurora took hold of Rebecca’s arm and led her away before anyone could say anything else. “We would be delighted to catch up with you both later this evening,” she called out over her shoulder. She really oughtn’t to lie like that. But since no one would know other than Rebecca, was it all that horrible?

She shook her head as though to clear her mind once they had escaped to an alcove overlooking the veranda.

“Thank goodness,” Rebecca said. “I don’t know that I could handle both of them at once for very long.”

“I know very well that I could not,” Aurora said with a shudder. “Besides, there is something I meant to talk with you about this afternoon, before we were cut short.”

“You want to tell me about your story here?” Rebecca looked around, then pulled her deeper into the alcove. Her eyes frowned as she whispered with a goodly amount of force. “I do not imagine that is the wisest course of action, Aurora, even if we are somewhat secluded.”

“No, no. Not my story.” She waved a hand through the air. Some day, she really needed to learn to speak without gesturing so very much. “Lord Norcutt,” she hissed.

“You have a story about Lord Norcutt already? Oh, dear.”

Aurora sighed. Rebecca could be quite obtuse, at times. “Do be quiet and listen for a moment. I do not have a story about him. Well, not one I wrote, at least.” This was not going according to plan. She took Rebecca’s hand and directed her to sit at a table by the window, covered in pots of daisies in every color.

Rebecca scowled and looked back into the ballroom. “The dancing will begin soon. We haven’t much time. If we aren’t out there in a few moments, we will be without partners for the first set. Father will be highly displeased.”

“Hush and this will only take a moment. I hope.” Aurora bit her lip, debating if there were a better way to bring the matter up at all. Nothing came to mind. “Lord Norcutt asked for my assistance while we were on our way to Hyde Park. You see…er, well, he seems to have developed a bit of an attachment. To you. He wanted me to see if you might be amenable to his advances. He’s already spoken with your father…”

Aurora cringed and waited with her eyes closed for the appalled gasp that was sure to come—unless Rebecca was so horrified she could do nothing but laugh inappropriately.

Neither event occurred.

Oh, dear. Rebecca must be taking it worse than she thought. Granted, Lord Norcutt was not a man Aurora would ever consider, but he was not a warty toad. Surely the idea of his pursuit was not quite so repellent as to warrant this reaction.

She peeked through her eyelashes, prepared for the worst from Rebecca. Bawling. Gagging. Screaming. Dashing to the window to toss herself off the ledge.

Instead, Rebecca merely looked back at her, a serene expression in her eyes. They weren’t even glazed over.

Oh.

“Might I encourage him to proceed, then?” Surely not. Surely Rebecca was jesting. This could be nothing but a joke.

Rebecca smiled. “Yes, that would be acceptable.”

Acceptable? What had happened to her friend? Her friend who always encouraged her to hold out hope for the right gentleman to come along. Her friend who read her suitors’ stories with equal parts disdain and horror, demanding that Aurora must never even consider accepting their offers or else risk losing her friendship, since they were clearly unworthy of her. Her friend who rejected more gentlemen’s pursuits in a single Season than the average young lady of the ton received in a lifetime.

Aurora’s jaw gaped open. She forced it closed. “Very well. I shall pass the word on to him this evening. Unless you would like me to wait?” She should wait. Perhaps Rebecca just needed a little more time to realize what she was doing.

“No, that will not be necessary. This evening will suit.” Rebecca stood and straightened her shimmering pink silk gown. “We should return to the ballroom now, before anyone misses us.”

Aurora followed along behind her, wondering how Lady Rebecca Grantham seemed to almost be floating along the floor ahead of her.

How very peculiar.

Chapter Five

1 April, 1811

The moment of truth has arrived. If, perchance, someone did happen upon my journal, surely the scandal will be revealed tonight. After all, no one could hold such a juicy bit as all of that secret for more than a few hours. I know gossip, and I know the purveyors of gossip. I’ve just never really been gossip before. Should one feel substantially different when one is the subject of rumor and innuendo? All right, I agree. Rumor and innuendo would not quite apply to me in the present circumstance. I really, truthfully wrote the words. Lord help me.

~From the journal of Miss Aurora Hyatt

Jonas stopped Quin just before they entered the ball at Eversley Hall, blocking his entry to the grand event. “Don’t forget your promise to me.”

Quin couldn’t keep his eyes from rolling. “Soul of discretion. That’s me.” He scowled at Jonas’s dubious expression. “Can we get on with it? I have a bride to meet.” When his friend made no move to get out of the way, he continued with: “And woo.” It took a sincere amount of effort to refrain from shivering at the thought.

Jonas stepped aside and swept his arm toward the open door. Quin grumbled beneath his breath as he walked past the baronet and into the house, “I still say this is not a good idea. Not at all.”

The temptation to ram a shoulder into Jonas’s side proved too great to escape, though Quin did somehow restrain himself from knocking the bastard entirely off his feet. At the sound of Jonas’s grunt, he silently congratulated himself for that one small victory. He would have a more substantial celebration later that evening—after he met his bride.

Waiting in the receiving line to be greeted by Lord and Lady Eversley, Quin had difficulty in keeping his mind focused. His damned cravat was too tight about his neck, but if he tugged it loose, Jonas might back out. And without his own invitation to the ball…well, suffice it to say that Quin had no intention of climbing up balustrades or sneaking in through servants’ entrances that evening. Particularly not while wearing such dandified attire.

“I feel like a bloody peacock.”

“Imagine that,” Jonas drawled. “I’ve never seen a black peacock in my life.”

“You said I didn’t have to wear colors tonight. Black for evening.”

Jonas scowled at him. “I thought you had your valet shave you today. You look to have gone for days without a razor touching you. Have you scared it off as well?”

Quin ran a hand over his stubble-covered jaw. “Shaved this morning. Before the park. Sod off, already.”

“Watch your language. There are ladies present.” Jonas looked at Quin’s appearance again. “Tomorrow, have your valet shave you in the afternoon.”

Quin glared. “I could focus more on using appropriate language if I could breathe. As if it wasn’t enough to have a cravat cutting off my air, then we had to add a blasted coat so tight it took two servants to put me in it.”

“Complaining will get you nowhere. Now shut it, we’re almost to the front of the line.” Jonas’s eyes held a triumphant look.

Quin might as well stop talking until he found Aurora Hyatt. Fresh air seemed to be in rather short supply. No point wasting any more of it on Jonas.

When they finally reached the inside of the ballroom, he really couldn’t breathe. The entire room was awash in a sea of gardenias, roses, and daisies. The scent was enough to block out the more expected smells of London, but whoever decorated apparently didn’t recognize when enough was enough. He thought he would drown in the horrid floral fragrance.

Quin attempted to block the thought from his mind. He had more pressing matters to think of that evening. “Do you see her?” His eyes scoured the crush, despite the fact that he’d never seen the bloody minx before, so he had no earthly idea what he was looking for.

“Not yet. Be patient.”

“Patient. That’ll be the day,” Quin muttered beneath his breath.

Everywhere his eyes fell, some silly debutante smiled back at him, flouncing her fair ringlets or fluttering her eyes from behind the cover of a fan. Blasted innocents, all of them, with their pale gowns and blushing cheeks. Did they not realize a man like him was dangerous? Lucky for them, he did have at least a small amount of honor. Debauching innocents had never held any appeal for him. Quin preferred his women willing and experienced.

Based on the story she wrote, Aurora Hyatt lacked the experience part of the equation. But she was definitely willing.

One of his two requirements would have to suffice.

“Do be a chap and try not to look like such an ogre,” Jonas said, startling him out of his rumination.

Quin raised a single eyebrow in question.

“You’re scaring the chaperones.”

“They should be scared.” Why should he care? There was only one lady present that mattered. If they ever found her, at least.

Jonas merely frowned and sighed.

“Have you found her yet?” Quin asked.

“Just now.” Jonas made a slight gesture to his right. “Look across the way, coming in from the veranda.”

No, that was all wrong. A small, fair-haired woman was headed their way, wearing some soft, shimmery gown that floated about her slight figure. “I thought you said her mother was from somewhere exotic. She looks like any ordinary English chit to me. Pretty, yes. But”

“Not that one. Behind her.”

Good Christ in heaven. Quin nearly stopped breathing.

Somehow, the goddess Athena had dropped into the middle of London. Long and lean, with curves begging to be touched. Lady Kiss-Me-Down-There’s bosom blanched in comparison to the ample display before him now. This was no shrinking English rose, destined to be a wallflower all night. Aurora Hyatt had dark, rich hair and eyes as clear as the sea, which stood out all the more because of her darker-than-acceptable skin and the bold shade of her gown. Her skin probably tasted darker, too. Richer. Quin was almost salivating, just thinking about it.

Well. He certainly could do worse for himself. Being leg-shackled to this temptress might not be terrible, after all. “I’m going to ask her to dance.” Quin started across the room, only to be hauled back by Jonas.

“You can’t. Not yet. We need to find her chaperone, gain an introduction.”

If they weren’t surrounded by half of England, he would have planted Jonas a facer. “Bloody hell.” These delays would land him in either Bedlam or Newgate, not at the altar.

“Be patient. Go find a lady you already know. A reputable one.” Jonas lifted an eyebrow in warning. “Dance a set or two. I’ll locate Miss Hyatt’s chaperone.”

Quin made a gesture that could have been a nod of agreement, but wasn’t anything, really, and Jonas left him. When had patience ever been a virtue he possessed? Never. Wasn’t likely to become one at the moment, either.

He crossed his arms over his chest and glared. Dancing was the last thing on his agenda. Christ, he didn’t even know any reputable ladies. Not in Town, at least. No, he would stand where he was and wait for Jonas to locate the minx’s bloody chaperone, and then somehow get an introduction. And then…then what?

Then his life as he knew it would end. A chill washed over him.

A gentleman he had met at the first ball of the Season and then promptly forgotten walked over in his inflexible attire and opened his mouth to speak.

Quin’s icy glare had just the effect he desired. The dandy snapped his jaw closed, turned on his heels, and scurried in the other direction.

Jonas had better hurry. The longer Quin had to sit and wait, the more uncomfortable he grew. And when he was uncomfortable, Jonas knew as well as anyone that Quin was capable of doing downright anything, including any number of things that he shouldn’t.

He continued to watch Miss Hyatt. Perhaps stare would be a more accurate term. Or devour.

Her eyes fairly shone in the candlelight. She leaned in and whispered something into the smaller, fairer young lady’s ear, and then they tittered and faced his direction. Two other ladies sidled up alongside them and divulged what he could only imagine to be some delicious piece of gossip before moving on.

Miss Hyatt and her companion looked boldly across at him. Quin inclined his head to them. He thought—nay, he was certain—Miss Hyatt bobbed a tiny curtsy back in his direction.

Very promising, indeed.

Could that gossip have been warning them to stay away from the blackguard across the way? This might be easier even than he’d anticipated.

A group of men he’d never seen before moved in his general direction. One of them, a tall and lanky fop with prettier eyes than most women, bowed to him. Quin gave no response at all. He had no intention of being distracted from Miss Hyatt. Finally, they took the hint and left.

A squat man with hair in desperate need of being tamed moved in front of Miss Hyatt and her friend. He bowed low to them and spoke for a few moments. Probably some suitor asking for a dance. Possibly even one he’d read about in Miss Hyatt’s scandalous journal.

The orchestra started to play a reel, and couples moved to the dance floor, taking up their positions. The bushy-haired gentleman led Miss Hyatt out, and another cad went over to collect her companion.

Regardless of the short man’s identity, he couldn’t pose much of a threat. Aurora Hyatt would never give him a second thought, based on the reactions she wrote to the men of her acquaintance. Besides, she was in love with Quin. He was more certain of that fact than ever.

Granted, he’d only known of her existence for a few hours. But that was beside the point.

Since Jonas still had not returned, Quin made for the card room, at least for the remainder of the set. Perhaps he could find a decanter of brandy. Surely Eversley kept some spirits about. He was in luck. A well stocked sidebar sat just behind the Vingt-et-un table. He poured a glass, motioned to the dealer to deal him in, and played away the next hour or more.

Until Jonas found him. “What, pray tell, are you doing in here and not in the ballroom dancing?”

Quin took another sip of his brandy before answering. “Enjoying myself. You’d do well to do the same. If anyone is in need of a drink to loosen up, it would be you. Care to join me?” He moved to get up and pour Jonas a drink.

Jonas appear somewhat less than amused. He turned to the dealer. “Deal him out.”

When everything had been settled at the table, Jonas took hold of Quin’s arm and rather forcibly pulled him from the room. When they were out in the hall and away from eavesdropping ears, Jonas faced him and wrinkled his nose. “Devil take it, Quin, you’re well into your cups. I’ve just spoken with Miss Hyatt’s aunt, Lady Sedgewick, and she had agreed to an introduction after dinner. But now…”

“Now what?” He’d be damned if anything or anyone was going to ruin his plans that evening. Especially some crabby old biddy.

“She’ll never agree to it. You’re completely ape-drunk. She’ll smell you from halfway across the ballroom.” Jonas shook his head. “I think you’ve gone and done it this time.”

Quin didn’t like his friend’s tone. Like he’d given up. Just like everyone else. “Gone and done what?” His words were slow, even.

When Jonas finally looked up at him, his eyes were pained. “I can’t rectify everything for you. Not when you keep throwing everything I’ve done away.”

“No one asked you to rectify anything. You did this.” Quin pushed away and ripped at his cravat, tossing it to the floor. “You insisted on making me presentable, honorable. You put me into these blasted clothes and dragged me all over Town.”

How could this be happening? His one friend. The one person in the world that was always on his side. It was almost unbelievable.

Quin wanted to run. He wanted to throw his bloody coat in Jonas’s face and leave. Like he always had. Like he always would.

He had to get out of there. Before…

“Don’t run away. For once in your life, be a man.”

No. No, Quin wouldn’t be that bastard. Not tonight. He had a purpose tonight. A mission. He’d be damned if he let anything stand in the way of finishing what he started, at least this one time. Least of all himself.

He shoved past Jonas, almost knocking him over with the force of his shoulder.

“Stop, Quin.” Jonas tugged on his arm, but Quin shrugged it off.

“Go to the devil.”

But instead of going out the front doors and leaving, he turned at the grand hall. Quin plowed into the ballroom, daring anyone and everyone with his eyes to try to stop him. No one did. They all scurried out of his path like rats in sudden light, clearing his way to the one thing he would stop for.

Aurora Hyatt.

~ * ~

“Oh, dear good Lord.”

Lord Quinton was walking toward her and looking positively murderous. Not to mention looking straight at her.

He was devilishly handsome. Her imagination had done the man no favors at all. His black overcoat pulled sinfully tight across his chest and arms, revealing muscles taut as leather. And that hair—it had to have been streaked by the god of the sun. It was long enough to fall loose around a rough, square jaw, dipping even lower to brush against the open neck of his shirt.

She’d never seen anything like it in all her life. As he barreled closer to her with fluid and purposeful strides, Aurora noticed a few dark hairs peeking out above the open shirt collar. Good gracious, where was his cravat? The gossip rags would rip him to shreds in the morning. And then—then—her eyes moved lower, to the ripples displayed above his Hessians. Lord Quinton’s thighs looked to be as big around as her waist.

Everything about him seemed so formidable. So dangerous. So possessive. His eyes were trained upon hers, blue so dark it nearly matched the midnight sky. Hungry. Piercing.

“This is not good. Not at all,” Rebecca hissed in her ear, all the while tugging at her arm.

But Aurora couldn’t move. Her slippered feet were stuck in place, like the roots of a giant oak that had been growing for so long they nearly reached the Orient. “He’s going to kill me. Why is he going to kill me?”

“Don’t worry about that. Just come with me right this instant or your father will most certainly do it instead.”

But it was too late.

Her heart felt like a thousand frogs trying to leap up through her throat. If she wasn’t careful, she might cast up the contents of her stomach all over those gloriously polished boots.

“Miss Hyatt?” He bowed low to her, taking the tips of her gloved fingers into his hand and bringing them to his lips for the most chaste of kisses. “Might I request the honor of the next dance?”

A dance?

He wanted to dance.

Not string her up by her toes and drag her behind his horse for miles in order to drop her from the side of a cliff. Not send her out to be trampled by a sea of frenzied cattle. Not burn her alive at the stake.

Thank God.

She breathed, for the first time in what must have been almost a minute. But then again, he also didn’t want to grab her by the knot in her hair and drag her bodily back to his cave.

Too bad.

“Aurora,” Rebecca said firmly at her ear. “This is madness. My lord, this is entirely inappropriate”

“Yes, I’d love to dance with you.”

His eyes, which she had yet to look away from, flashed with what could only be described as satisfaction. He took the whole of her hand into his own. The scandalous heat of palm against palm threatened to burn straight through her glove to her very soul. Finally, her feet moved beneath her and she fairly floated alongside him, dislodging her other arm from Rebecca’s grasp.

“I believe,” he said to her softly, “this dance shall be a waltz.”

A waltz.

She was bound to burst into flame if any more of their bodies touched. Even with the small distance between them, his warmth engulfed her. Somehow, her body wanted to be closer, as though it had a mind and wants and needs of its own.

He turned her to face him and placed her hand against his shoulder, pulling the other more fully into his. And then his free hand was at her waist, drawing her into the inferno of his arms.

Aurora heard no music. She saw nothing but him, Lord Quinton, staring down at her with an intensity she’d never experienced. He smelled of brandy and heat. She was nearly intoxicated just from his sheer proximity.

After moments or hours, she would never know, she finally found her tongue. “My lord, how did you know who I am?” What a foolish, silly question. She was a ninny. What did that matter? Not a whit.

“I would imagine in the same manner you knew who I am.” His eyes bored into her. “You do know, do you not?”

She would be perfectly content to never take another breath so long as he never stopped looking at her like that. Aurora tingled everywhere he touched her, with the delicious gooseflesh spreading through her limbs, up to her head, and then plummeting all the way down to her toes—which somehow curled beneath her.

“Yes. You are the mysterious Lord Quinton.” And he would think her an utter dolt if she did not manage to remove the derisible grin from her face. There was also the rather embarrassing problem of a blush spreading over her cheeks and all the way to her bosom. The heat flowed like gauze in the wind. She looked down to see how bad it was, only to realize too late she had drawn his gaze to that very same place.

“That I am.” He stared at the low bodice of her gown, or rather at the display just above it, for an inordinately long period of time. Finally, his eyes moved slowly up her chest to her neck, to her chin, to her lips—where they paused yet again.

She felt parched. She needed something—something—something to calm her nerves and to cool her off. Yet all she wanted to do was move closer, still.

Aurora licked her lips.

Lord Quinton’s hand at her waist flinched and grew tense, pulling her in as though on command.

“I am also, Miss Hyatt, not the kind of gentleman a proper young lady should have anything to do with—not if she wishes to keep her reputation intact.”

“I am aware of that.” Too aware. But that was the last thing she wanted to think of at the moment. She preferred to focus on the day’s growth of stubble lining his jaw and to imagine how it might feel if she drew her hand across it.

The corners of his lips quirked up in the slightest hint of a rakish grin. It looked lascivious. Fiendish. And entirely too appealing. “Then you must also be aware, Miss Hyatt, that every eye in the room is trained upon the two of us. Including those of your chaperone. Perhaps even your father.”

“Yes,” she said, with a slight tremor in her voice. Blast him for reminding her of all the reasons she should run screaming from him. And blast her for not doing as she ought.

Lord Quinton’s eyes smiled at her then, a smile only a true rogue could muster. “And yet you remain with me. Dancing.” He twirled her about so fast she would have lost her feet, but for his strong arm at her waist pulling her ever closer. “Waltzing.”

At this new distance she smelled his cologne, much like she had imagined it in her story. “Yes,” she whispered, no longer trusting her voice not to fail.

He stood still and held her steady before him. “Lovely,” Lord Quinton growled just before his lips descended upon hers in a kiss. A kiss nothing like what she imagined.

This was nothing tender or chaste. It was needy and possessive and hot.

He pulled her closer until her body was melded into his, her curves tucked neatly into his angles and planes like they had been made just for that purpose. One hand moved up into the chignon at the nape of her neck, fisting and tugging and drawing her ever closer.

His lips were hard and demanding. The stubble along his jaw assaulted her tender skin in a way that left her panting for more. He bit her lower lip and she cried out, but it was muffled against his tongue as it moved inside her mouth.

Aurora tasted his brandy—smooth and dark.

Lord Quinton moved his tongue in and out and around. When he suckled, her toes sang and the tips of her fingers trembled and something both terrible and wonderful happened between her thighs.

She wanted more.

She wanted to do the things to him he was doing to her, to make him feel these wanton feelings.

She wanted it never to end.

But then he pulled his head back, the absence of his lips leaving hers aching for their return.

Lord Quinton stepped away from her. Removed his hands from her. He bowed his head briefly. “Miss Hyatt. I bid you good evening.”

And he left.

Chapter 6

2 April, 1811

Oh, dear good Lord, I only thought my life had ended yesterday. Now I know it has. But oh, what a way to die. I wonder, can one still kiss in heaven? And would a kiss in heaven feel as fiendishly sinful as that kiss? If not, perhaps I would prefer not to go to heaven when I die later today. Perhaps somewhere else would be preferable.

~From the journal of Miss Aurora Hyatt

“Up. You must get up now, Aurora.”

From Aurora’s position fully buried beneath her bedclothes, Rose’s voice sounded eerily like it belonged to Rebecca. And since when did the maid think she could use her first name, anyway?

“What’s the point in getting up only to march to my funeral? Kindly inform Father he can handle such matters in here. I’ll not assist him.” Truthfully, she’d already done enough.

What on earth had come over her last night? She’d flirted outrageously with Lord Quinton from across the ballroom, danced with him without being properly introduced (and a waltz, at that!), ignored her dearest friend, and become totally and irrevocably smitten with the scoundrel (for what else could he be considered?). All right. Fine. The totally smitten part occurred the moment she heard mention of his existence and then intensified when she heard he had a pirate-like demeanor. But the irrevocable part did only just occur last night. And to cap off the utterly disastrous night, she had allowed the rogue to kiss her.

In the ballroom.

In front of half the ton.

With her stupendous luck, Father had returned to the ballroom just in time to see the kiss. He had been too stunned by what he saw to confront Lord Quinton as the blackguard made his escape.

Instead, it seemed he intended to take out his wrath upon Aurora.

She, however, intended to remain precisely where she was until the moment of her impending death. Never in her life had she felt such sheer, utter mortification as she did when Lord Quinton had walked away from her last night, leaving her alone on the ballroom floor with the entire world reveling in her social demise.

Perhaps the entire world was a bit of an exaggeration. Still, Aurora noticed: their slack jaws; their bold stares, followed by a deliberate turning of their backs; the matrons shooing their daughters away from her presence; the sudden lack of gentlemen hoping to place their names upon her dance card; the forced, heavy silence gradually being overwhelmed by a calamitous medley of whispers, most all of them containing her name.

The look of bewildered defeat upon Father’s face.

The derision and disgust in Aunt Sedgewick’s voice as she ushered Aurora from Eversley Hall.

More hurtful than all the rest combined—the pity in Rebecca’s brief and gentle grasping of her hand as they parted.

The blankets were ripped back with fervor, and she was blinded by the sun just starting to rise outside her window. Sure enough, Rebecca held the untidy remnants of Aurora’s warm bed, not Rose.

Rebecca frowned down at Aurora from her exalted position as the angel of death, with the rays of the sun lighting her frame. “I sincerely doubt there will be any funeral today, and if there is I suspect it might be for Lord Quinton and not for you, so do please cease your moping.”

Aurora rolled over and buried her eyes in her pillow. “Go away. It is ungodly early in the morning. Why are you here? I don’t want your pity.”

“You’re doing a poor job of showing that.” Rebecca took a seat on the edge of the bed. “But you’ll get none of it, whether you want it or not.”

“Humph.” Aurora rolled over again to show her scowl to its fullest effect. “Some dearest and most especial friend you are proving yourself to be. Abandoning me in my darkest hour?”

“I’m hardly abandoning you. If you hadn’t noticed, I’m here. At sunrise. Good gracious, this is early. How is that an act of abandonment?” Rebecca pulled on Aurora’s hands until she reached a sitting position. “There is much to discuss.”

“Such as?” Aurora drawled. She hardly cared. What did anything matter, now that she was condemned to death? Or at least to a life alone. Regardless of how much she abhorred the idea of a loveless marriage, in truth, the thought of loneliness terrified her far more. She couldn’t bear to end up like her mother.

Proving herself a true friend, despite Aurora’s complaints to the contrary, Rebecca ignored the pathetic tone of her question. “Such as the possibility of Lord Quinton calling upon you today.”

“I don’t care to see him.” The lie even rang hollow to Aurora’s ears. She’d lost her touch.

It had to be his fault.

“Well, if he has even the smallest pinch of decency in him, he’ll be here this afternoon to offer for you.”

“Father will call him out. Quinton will be dead before he can make a declaration of his intentions.” At least, she thought Father would. Blast, what if he didn’t?

Rebecca raised an eyebrow. “Your father will not kill Lord Quinton. The man is your only chance at retaining any shred of respectability.”

She hated it when Rebecca was right.

“He won’t come. You saw him last night. He just kissed me and left. Besides, he was as drunk as a wheelbarrow. He probably doesn’t remember any of it.” If he remembered it even half as vividly as Aurora did, she wondered that he had not burst into flames from the intensity. She closed her eyes and tried to push the memory down. It would not do to think of such things. Not now. Not when everything was falling apart. “No, he’ll stay far away. I expect I’ll never see him again. The scoundrel.”

The perfectly delicious scoundrel who had stolen her heart. And, clearly, her wits.

A wry smile lit Rebecca’s features. “I expect he’ll be here not long after luncheon. And I expect that means we have a wedding to plan, and precious little time to do it.” She moved to a basket near the window, pulling out lengths of cream silks and ivory lace. Her usually deep brown eyes glowed an almost honey-gold with her excitement. “Let’s get started.”

~ * ~

Quin cringed at his grandfather’s berating. Rotheby knew full well how deep in his cups he’d been only hours before (the curmudgeon had read it in the damned gossip rags, after all), yet he refused to lower his voice to a tolerable level.

As was his right. Mansfield House was his London home, so he could do as he pleased. Which, of course, the earl never seemed to forget.

“This?” the old man bellowed, his often creaking voice coming fully to life. “This is how you think a man behaves when he is attempting to become a gentleman? How one comports oneself when trying to regain my favor?” Rotheby’s eyes blazed as bright as the fire in the hearth, left burning despite the stifling heat in the room.

Bloody hell. The man hadn’t let him get a word in edgewise since Quin joined him at breakfast. Rotheby started in before he’d sat down, brandishing the morning’s society papers in his face.

“I oughtn’t to have”

“You oughtn’t to have done a great number of things. I oughtn’t to have given you this opportunity to turn yourself around, because you’ve only gone and mucked everything up.” Rotheby shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth, continuing before he had them chewed and swallowed. “The unforgivable part of all of this is what you did to that girl. You’ve ruined her. She’ll have no chance at a decent match now.”

Didn’t he know it? None of the prior evening’s events had gone according to plan. Quin had intended to gain an introduction, dance with her, perhaps charm her with a hint of flirtation…and then convince her she should marry him, since he was now in possession of her little secret.

Alas, everything went awry when he poured himself that blasted brandy.

If he would have just stuck with his plan, they could have a nice little wedding after waiting for the banns to be called. There would be no urgent rush. No immediacy. No drama. Well, no more than there was simply because of Rotheby’s requirements.

But since he’d neglected to control himself, now he would have to pay the piper. “She will not be ruined. She’ll marry me.”

Even with his paper-thin skin, Rotheby’s face filled with heat. “You’d better hope she will. There will be hell to pay if”

“She will,” Quin interrupted. He despised the vitriol coming through in his tone. He needed to turn his frustration with both himself and the situation into fuel for persuasion. “When we are married she will make a perfectly acceptable baroness. And, someday, she’ll fill the role of countess.”

“How are you so certain of her suitability?” his uncle asked. “You’ve not spent enough time in her company to know anything of her character. Frankly, I’m not convinced. She proved last night she is rather more wanton than respectable.”

The old bastard would just not quit. After all Quin had gone through in order to find this potential bride—someone beyond reproach—now, he’d gone and sullied her character himself. Rotheby had to approve of her. “You would do well, my lord, to watch what you say of my intended in my presence.”

“As you would have done well to have chosen a bride who is not also a shameless hussy!”

Quin’s eyes widened, but he held himself back when Rotheby waved him off.

“But we cannot have everything, now, can we?” The earl sighed and lowered himself into a chintz armchair near the fire. “What do you know of her family?”

He doubted his grandfather would like the true answer: nothing. “Her father is Viscount Hyatt.”

Rotheby nodded and steepled his hands. “Her mother…I seem to recall the viscountess was from Greece, is that right?”

Blast. How on God’s green earth was he supposed to know anything like that about the minx, let alone about her mother whom he’d never met? He’d only danced with Miss Hyatt for a few minutes—while utterly foxed—and then kissed her. The finer details of her heritage remained a mystery. “Yes.” He hoped. Quin didn’t want to lie to the old man, not overtly so at least. Aurora certainly looked like Athena incarnate. The thought of her being half Greek suited her. Much as she suited him.

“That aspect of her heritage will not help your cause with me,” Rotheby said. He looked up at Quin, seeming to gauge his reaction. “I want a proper heir to this title.”

Quin bit the inside of his lip to calm himself. It didn’t work. It only hurt like a bee sting—which only served to make him hotter than he was before.

“You will bloody well have a proper heir,” he bit off. “The chit is good ton. Her father is a viscount. What more do you want?”

For long minutes, Rotheby stared into the fire in his hearth. “Do not fail at this, Quinton,” he finally said, not bothering to raise his eyes. “You cannot afford it.”

With a flick of his wrist, Quin’s grandfather dismissed him.

~ * ~

The door to the front parlor of Hyatt House slammed closed a mere thirty seconds or somewhere thereabout after Quin’s arrival and the butler’s departure. The sound jolted him out of his internal debate over what precise color the room might be. It was bright and light, happy even, made only more so with the late morning sun streaming through diaphanous curtains.

A man he could only assume to be Viscount Hyatt stood before him, with his starched neck cloth hanging askew and his dark eyes ablaze. One arm of his coat had not made it onto the arm of his person. Streaks through his hair outlined his advancing years.

“Lord Quinton,” the older man sneered. “I wondered how long it might take you to make your appearance. Or, for that matter, if you would even be so bold as to show your face at all, considering the scoundrel that you are.”

Time to make himself amenable. Good Lord, this was the one situation he had hoped never to find himself in. “Lord Hyatt.” Quin made an exaggerated bow. “I had hoped”

“What you hoped is irrelevant,” Hyatt said, his tone brusque with arctic frost. He strode across the hardwood floor, the heels of his polished boots clicking with near-military precision, until he stood nose-to-nose with Quin. Or rather more nose-to-chest, since Quin stood more than a full head taller than Hyatt. “Will it be pistols?”

Christ. A duel? Quin’s accuracy with a pistol was atrocious, though somehow he’d managed to gain the opposite reputation. For once, he wished his father had taught him about more useful pursuits than brandy and beatings. If Hyatt didn’t kill him, Rotheby surely would over taking part in something as asinine as that. Not to mention illegal, but who was keeping track?

Dueling was simply out of the question.

“Lord Hyatt,” he said, hoping desperately the man would listen, “I fail to see how resorting to such drastic measures would serve anyone. Least of all your daughter.”

The older man’s eyes flashed. “Blackguard! How would defending my daughter’s honor fail to aid her cause?”

Quin took a step toward the window, both to put some space between them and to obtain the upper hand in these negotiations. “Let’s be completely honest, my lord. If we duel, nothing good can come of it for her.” He raised an eyebrow, daring the viscount to refute him.

Hyatt huffed, but held his tongue.

“If I should win, her honor would have been defended, but she would be left with no one to defend her in future.” His odds of winning a duel were about as good as a slow rat’s chance of escaping a hoard of hungry cats, but Hyatt need not know everything. “And if you should win, her honor will be restored—but she will never attain a suitable match, since her one reasonable opportunity at an offer would be six feet under.”

The viscount clenched his jaw and his face filled with heat. “And what, pray tell, would you suggest take place instead? I hardly think you worthy of her.”

Of course he wasn’t worthy of Aurora. Quin wasn’t worthy of anything good or decent. His father had made certain of that many years before. But he couldn’t allow that to stand in the way. “Whether I’m worthy of her or not is hardly the issue. The issue, as I’m sure you cannot deny, is that Miss Hyatt’s reputation has been tarnished—by me—and no one but me can restore her respectability.”

Hyatt twice opened his mouth to offer a retort, only to snap it closed again a moment later. Clearly, he could not muster an argument that would hold any weight against Quin’s claim.

As it should be. The man could not have honestly expected a duel would solve anything. Save, perhaps, protecting his pride as a father.

“She needs the protection of my name,” Quin went on. “I am here to ask your permission to offer for your daughter. I intend to make right what I have made utterly and irrevocably wrong.”

Neither man said anything for long minutes, Hyatt shaking and silently seething, Quin staring at the last embers of his freedom smoldering and dying in the hearth.

Finally, Lord Hyatt sat in an armchair near the fireplace. “I’ve always known,” he said, “that the day would come when Aurora would marry. That my daughter would leave me for another man.” Tears filled his eyes. “What I never expected, though, was that this man would be no gentleman, that he would have no honor.”

Not a gentleman? True enough. No honor? Quin could hardly point to any aspect of his character to refute that claim, either.

He should leave. He did not deserve to have Aurora as his wife. Not after his behavior the prior night. Not after his behavior these last several years. Not after his behavior his entire life.

His eyes darted to the door. Three steps to liberty. Four at most.

Quin’s pulse roared in his ears.

He could be free.

Once more, he glanced at Hyatt.

The viscount stared up at Quin, his expression filled with grief. “I’ve failed her,” he said.

Damnation.

~ * ~

Lengths of cream muslins, ivory silks, and white satins draped every possible inch of Aurora’s bedchamber. A number of them even enveloped Aurora and Rebecca as they toiled to choose which one should be used for a wedding gown.

At a knock at the door, they tried to free themselves from the mountain of fabrics—to no avail. In fact, their exertions only resulted in their combined crash from the bed to the floor amidst a sea of white foam.

Rose rushed inside. “Miss Hyatt? Lady Rebecca? Are you both quite all right?” She lifted layer after layer from atop them, digging down to their joint textile grave.

“None the worse for wear,” Aurora said, taking hold of her lady’s maid’s hand and regaining her feet.

Rebecca merely harrumphed from her spot beneath the lace she had been attempting to convince Aurora to use.

“Lord Hyatt has requested your presence in his library, miss,” the maid rushed on. She pulled the random fabrics off her mistress and set to work straightening Aurora’s gown and correcting her coiffure. “He said it is a matter of great urgency.”

“See?” Rebecca said, her eyes full of mischief. “I told you Lord Quinton would come.”

Aurora rolled her eyes. “Lord Quinton! Father probably just wants to inform me that he’s shipping me off to a convent or some distant relative on the continent.”

“Care to wager?” Rebecca asked. “Why else would your maid be taking such pains to be certain your appearance is just so?”

A wager? Scandalous! And precisely what she needed that day.

A pin jabbed into Aurora’s scalp as Rose wrangled a particularly stubborn curl into an exacting and precise position. “Ouch!” She reached up a hand to rub the sore spot before turning back to Rebecca. “Done. What would you care to wager?”

“So sorry, miss,” her maid said as she continued to work. “We have no time to dally.” Once she had Aurora’s hair just so, Rose took hold of her arm and led her from the chamber, down the stairs, and to the library.

“If Lord Quinton is here to offer for you,” Rebecca said, scurrying along to keep up, “you must promise not to speak poorly of Lord Norcutt ever again.”

Aurora had no fear of that coming to pass, so it was easy to agree. “Fine. And if I am correct and he isn’t here to make an offer?”

Rebecca pulled on Aurora’s arm hard enough to stop both her progress and Rose’s. They had just reached the double doors to Father’s library—Aurora’s last moment of freedom before whatever monumental change was about to take place in her life. The look in Rebecca’s eyes was sheer sincerity. “Then I’ll clean up the mess after your father rips you limb from limb, so he won’t be in trouble with Prinny.”

Chapter Seven

2 April, 1811

I’m off to face my executioner. Wish me luck in ending up wherever one can receive kisses. I’d hate to spend eternity somewhere that sins of the flesh are not permitted, particularly after having only experienced the one kiss in my earthly body, not any true fleshly-sins. Oh, and one other thing: Do you suppose that there is chocolate in heaven? Or hell, since I’m likely on my way there. What would eternity be with no chocolate? Let us all hope we never have to learn.

~From the journal of Miss Aurora Hyatt

The frogs were back. Leaping around in her stomach and threatening to pop straight up through her throat and out of her mouth at any moment. And, quite frankly, Aurora couldn’t decide whether they were more from an excited anticipation or dread. Either would be appropriate in this situation.

Any moment now, Lord Quinton would come through the doors of her father’s library and ask her to marry him.

She wanted to accept him. Desperately so, in fact. And she knew it was what her father wanted for her.

But another part of her was very, very afraid.

he part of her that remembered her parents’ marriage. The part of her that remembered how unhappy her mother was for as long as Aurora had known her. The part of her that had resolved, upon the death of Lord Dodsworth (the moment when she was freed), that she would never marry a man who was not as desperately in love with her as she was with him.

When Father had called her in to his library moments before and informed her of Lord Quinton’s intentions, she told him that she would accept. She wanted to wash away the shame that swallowed her father’s face when he looked at her. She wanted to be certain he would not suffer due to her actions. At least not any more than he already was.

But now…

Now she was not so certain.

How could she go through a life married to a man whom she did not know? Oh, sure. She imagined herself in love with him. Aurora was in love with the idea of Lord Quinton. And he did excite her in a way she’d never imagined possible, when he pulled her into his embrace and kissed her until she thought a shipwreck was taking place inside her head.

But was that really love? She doubted it.

Aurora doubted even more that he could love her. He didn’t know her at all. He’d only pulled her onto the ballroom floor and waltzed with her and spun her head around and kissed her and turned her life into a complete shambles and left her.

That was not love.

So if she went through with this—if she accepted him—she’d be making her father happy, but making herself deplorable in the bargain.

She simply could not become her mother.

The door opened and Hobbes announced, “Baron Quinton to see you, Miss Hyatt.”

The man in question came through the door, bleary-eyed with an unshaved jaw, his hair falling about his shoulders in an untamed mess. Aurora’s breath caught in her throat. Even when he looked wretched, he could somehow send her heart to fluttering and her insides to thrumming. She must put a stop to that, and with a great good deal of haste, else she find herself in precisely the same scrape her mother had spent so many years in.

He bowed low to her and was slow to rise. “Good morning, Miss Hyatt. I trust you slept well?”

“Scarcely a wink, no thanks to you.” Blast. She really needed to think before she spoke. Not to mention before she acted. It would save her a world of problems.

In the infinitesimal span of half a second, if that, his entire expression changed. Yet instead of looking contrite or abashed, Lord Quinton’s eyes shot through her like flaming arrows, devouring their target in an inferno of lust. Oh, dear good Lord—she was the target!

His lips curled in a carnal grin surely designed to turn her knees to jelly. She said a silent prayer of thanks that she was already sitting.

“Then we have at least that in common.”

Her lips formed a soundless O. If she wasn’t careful, he could charm her into doing anything.

Lord Quinton gestured to the open seat on the sofa beside her. “May I sit?”

Aurora nodded. That seemed safer than opening her mouth and allowing more gibberish to spew forth.

He sat entirely too close to her. The side of his thigh brushed against hers, tickling her senses with heat. She could smell him again—no brandy this time, but ample heat and a hint of oranges mingled with his musky cologne.

She had to put some distance between them so she could think. But when she scooted a few inches away, he just turned his body so that he was facing her more fully, and then his knee was virtually on top of hers.

“I must apologize for my behavior last night,” he said. His voice was rich and rough, like velvet caught sliding over tree bark. “What I did to you is unpardonable.”

“Indeed,” she said, to fill the lengthy silence following his pronouncement.

Still, the second-hand’s ticking on her father’s Bornholm clock cut through the tension in the room, each stroke being outpaced two-to-one by her pulse. Or maybe three-to-one. She couldn’t tell anymore.

Lord Quinton cleared his throat. “I have come to make what amends I can. Your father has allowed me to speak with you, so that I might make my intentions known.”

With each word he spoke, the tiny dimples in his cheeks came and left. She hadn’t noticed them before now. Perhaps the extra growth of beard accentuated them. Aurora fought the very strong urge that engulfed her (one she feared might be a losing battle) to reach out a hand and touch one of his dimples.

Lord Quinton lowered himself to one knee and took her hand into both of his own. “Miss Hyatt, would you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife? I cannot undo what I have done, but I can give you the protection of my name. Please accept me.”

She’d hoped he wouldn’t ask her so suddenly. She’d hoped that she could have a few more moments to settle her thoughts and decide how to answer.

But that was not to be. Instead, he was kneeling before her and frowning up at her, waiting for an answer.

She could marry him. She could become his bride and they could both satisfy their lust (for what else could her fascination with him truly be?), and then he would become indifferent to her and she would grow unhappy with him, and they would end up as unhappy as her parents had been and live on opposite ends of their home.

Or she could decline. She could send him on his way and manage on her own. Rebecca, at least, would still speak to her. Aurora would not be left to fend for herself at every turn.

But she must also consider Father. He would be ostracized if she refused. How could she allow that to happen? After all that he’d done to be certain she had the best in life, she owed him at least this one small favor, like he’d asked. All right, it was a gargantuan favor. But still—he’d asked. And Father almost never asked her for anything.

The longer it took for Aurora to make up her mind, the more Lord Quinton’s dimples started to twitch. Before long, the twitching moved to encompass the eyebrow above his right eye.

“Miss Hyatt?” he eventually asked. “Will you marry me?”

She really ought to answer him. But goading him was proving to be far too diverting. “My lord, you are quite gallant to make such an offer. However, we hardly know anything about each other. Could you tell me a bit more, so that I can make a wise decision?”

“Such as?” Lord Quinton’s lips pressed together into a firm, white line.

“Such as where I could expect to live, for example.”

He let out a ragged sigh. “We shall live at Quinton Abbey in Yorkshire. Wetherby, to be exact. It is a vast estate, and you will have your hands full with the running of it, I’m certain. Until, of course, you become the Countess of Rotheby. At that point, we would have our choice of any number of grand estates.”

Rotheby. That sounded familiar. “I was unaware you would inherit an earldom, my lord.”

“As there are many things we are each equally unaware of concerning the other.” He rose from the floor, where she’d left him kneeling the entire time. After a moment spent stretching his legs, he spoke again. “We will learn, in time. But time is not in our favor at the moment, Miss Hyatt. I urge you—nay, I beseech you—please accept my offer. I daresay your reputation is in tatters at the moment. There is no time to waste. We must marry as hastily as possible.”

Lord Quinton took both of her hands, forcing her to look up at him. Oh, dear, it was a long way up to his eyes. She stood to see him better, but still her eyes only reached his chin.

“You must accept me, Miss Hyatt. There is no other option.”

The twitching of his dimples drove her to distraction. Pulling one hand free, she stroked the back of it along his cheek and stopped with her fingers trailing over the dimple. It stilled on contact.

“Fascinating,” she whispered, not even certain she’d said the words aloud at all.

Before she could stop herself—before she even gained awareness of what she was doing—she leaned up into him, stretching on her toes, and placed a chaste kiss where her fingers had just been. Stubble tickled at the softness of her lips. She drew back slightly and laughed, a gentle, nervous sound, then kissed him there again. More insistently, this time.

There was no tickling, no laughter this time. It felt scratchy and abrasive. Aurora reveled in the sensation—particularly in the liquid pull in her belly from the contact.

Lord Quinton’s grip tightened against her other hand and he growled low in his throat. His blue eyes looked stormy and turbulent and grey.

And then his lips were upon hers. The warmth of his tongue slid along the crease between her lips, questing for entrance. Her knees did turn to jelly then, so she slipped her free hand up and around his neck, gripping tightly into the mass of hair at his nape and praying she could hold on—because, dear Lord, she never wanted this moment to end.

Somehow, her other hand was free and joined the first to keep her upright. His lips left her mouth and trailed along her chin and jawbone and neck, scratching her tender flesh with his beard. His hands pulled against her bottom, pressing her belly up against something hard and hot and entirely too enticing for her unfettered curiosity.

Her breasts felt heavy, the tips taut. With each shuddering breath, they rose and fell against his chest. She wanted more. She wanted to be closer. His heat drew her in like a ship’s anchor. She could no longer think. All she could do was seek something that only he could give to her.

Aurora’s legs gave out. She fell into Lord Quinton, knocking him backward. They landed on the sofa, her body sprawled atop him. Still, his lips never left her neck.

“Good God, your skin is like heaven,” he said into her mouth as his lips returned. His hands slid over her legs, lower, pulling at her gown until he reached the hem and his fingers slipped beneath to roam across her bare thighs. She’d never experienced anything so scandalous before—and that was saying something, considering recent events.

Even with the chill of the library air breezing across her naked flesh, she felt like she could catch fire at any moment. Everywhere his fingers or lips trailed, a blaze burned in their wake.

Lord Quinton suddenly sat up and pushed her back. Somehow she ended up with her gown and shift cinched around her waist and her bare legs straddling his hips as he loomed above her. “Marry me, Miss Hyatt. You must.” He hooked an arm beneath her knee and pulled her leg up high in the air, licking the sensitive flesh at the back of her knee and sending shivers from her fingers to her toes.

Oh, dear good Lord. She had to answer him, somehow. Regardless of what answer she gave, she had to say something. “Oh,” was all that came out, however, on a rather long and ragged sigh.

Lord Quinton let her leg go and leaned further over her. He slid a finger beneath her bodice, sliding it along the edge of her breast. “So lovely,” he said, just before following the same path with his tongue.

Aurora nearly came off the sofa from the shock of sensations flooding through her.

“Marry me,” he commanded, blowing on the moistened and overheated skin his tongue had just left. Before she could answer, he pulled on her gown and chemise until one breast popped free. He took it into his mouth and rolled his tongue over her sensitive, tight nipple. Something hard pulsed against her womanhood, which was throbbing with its own unknown need. She instinctively moved her hips to rub against him and nearly cried out in shock from the pleasure it gave her.

And then, just as suddenly as it had all started, Lord Quinton lifted himself away from her and resituated her on the sofa. What had she done wrong? “Cover yourself,” he said, his words terse and gruff. He left her and stood beside the hearth, staring into the dying embers.

After she straightened her gown about her legs and pulled her bodice up to cover her bared breast, she felt colder, somehow more naked than before.

He did not turn to face her. With one Hessian, he kicked against the grate. “You will marry me. Tomorrow.” If she didn’t know better, she’d think there was fear in his voice.

But Lord Quinton could not possibly be afraid. That would mean he cared.

Ludicrous. Laughable, even.

He couldn’t have done what he’d just done with her, and then tossed her aside on the sofa as he did if he cared. She was just another of his conquests.

Yet she was afraid. There was only one answer she could give him.

“Yes,” she whispered to the stoic expanse of his back.

~ * ~

Griffin looked up at the massive manor house before him, then double-checked the direction. Number Twelve, Berkeley Square. That’s what his father had told him. And with those huge colonnades and beveled windows, it had to be Mansfield House.

Thankfully, his father had not been interested in why he needed to visit with Lord Rotheby. Griffin saw no reason to bring more people into the matter than necessary, even though Quinton’s actions were likely to have an effect on Phoebe.

He knew his sister well. She had tried to convince everyone at the ball that she merely felt a touch under the weather, using that as an excuse for her early departure. But Griffin saw the pain in her eyes that she had attempted to mask as illness.

Obviously, Lord Quinton had been at the same ball as his sister.

Which meant that Aurora Hyatt was likely also at that ball.

He could be too late. Quinton might have already set his devious plan into motion. Another young lady might already be ruined.

Griffin should have immediately come to Rotheby after Miss Hyatt had refused to see him. If he could not stop her from her own folly, perhaps he could have stopped events on Quinton’s end.

But he had not.

He could never forgive himself if he’d allowed another innocent to fall prey to Quinton’s vices. Which was why he was here, now. If anyone could stop Quinton, it was his grandfather.

Griffin established his resolve and knocked at the door. A butler ushered him inside and settled him in a sitting room, and a pretty young maid brought in a tray with biscuits and tea. He finished his first cup of tea and was well into his second before Rotheby joined him.

“Lord Griffin. One of Laughton’s sons, aren’t you? What do you want?” The older man had a spring in his step that was obviously missing in his deportment.

Griffin jumped to his feet and started to bow, but Rotheby waved him off impatiently.

“My lord, I’d hoped to speak with you on an important matter regarding your grandson and a certain Miss Hyatt. I assure you, it is quite imperative.”

The earl narrowed his eyes and took a seat in the closest armchair. “Miss Hyatt, eh? Go on.”

“I was at my club yesterday afternoon when I overheard Lord Quinton speaking with a friend”

“Eavesdropping is rude,” Rotheby interjected. “Is your father aware of your penchant for such behavior?”

So he wasn’t going to make this easy, was he? Quinton had probably already started things in motion then. Something had to be done. “My lord, your grandson has come upon Miss Hyatt’s journal. A journal filled with sordid stories.”

The earl’s eyes widened, but he shook his head. “And that should matter to me why, precisely?”

Griffin threw up his hands in disgust. “Because he is going to use this against her! He intends to trap her in some way and force her hand. He’ll ruin her as fast as he devastated my sister—you do remember that, do you not?”

Rotheby gave a curt nod.

“Then you’ll also remember that Phoebe was innocent in their situation. As, I’m sure, is Miss Hyatt. You, sir, must do something to stop Quinton. You must rein in your wayward grandson and protect this young lady before it is too late.”

The earl reached to a nearby table and picked up the morning’s society papers. “Here, take a look at this.” He tossed it to Griffin. “You’ll see that you are too late. I expect they’ll marry within the week.”

Griffin scanned the story, reading how the bastard had cornered the poor girl and kissed her before half the ton. Thank God Phoebe had left before seeing that. Who knows what it would have done to her.

He left Mansfield House, kicking himself for not acting sooner.

Miss Hyatt must now suffer for his inaction.

~ * ~

“I have half a mind to stop aiding you,” Jonas said, climbing into his phaeton after Quin. “Maybe Rotheby was on to something with his ultimatum.”

“Lovely to have your support,” Quin grumbled. With the two of them seated together, there was hardly room to breathe, let alone stretch one’s legs in any sense of comfort. “I am perfectly capable of traveling to Doctor’s Commons on my own, you know. You need not keep me in leading strings.”

“If I’m not going to cut you off,” Jonas said, “I intend to keep both eyes fully trained on you until this is all settled to my satisfaction.”

Quin had had enough. First, there was the blistering headache from indulging a mite too much in brandy the night before, compounded by the arguments with Jonas that had gone well into the night. Then the meeting with Rotheby that morning—which had been an effort, to say the least. And of course, he’d had to handle both Hyatt and Aurora, as well.

Some days he thought perhaps there was something to be said for living a quiet, predictable, honorable life. Maybe someday he would give it a try. Likely not, though. Even though sorting out the messes he created often made him want to toss himself inside a burning building, they were still damned fun creating in the first place.

“I gave you my bloody word. More importantly, I gave Miss Hyatt and her father my word. We’ll marry tomorrow.”

“Your word does not seem to mean much, these days.” Jonas frowned resolutely. “As much as I hate to admit it, I think you’d do well to listen to your grandfather for once. Grow up. Be a man.”

If they weren’t driving through crowded streets, Quin would draw Jonas’s cork for that comment. “I’m as much a man as my father ever was.”

“Precisely the problem. What happened to wanting to be better than him?” Jonas navigated the phaeton around a sharp turn, nodding and tipping his hat to a passing carriage. “Why are you content to live the same life he did—only perhaps to a greater extent? I wonder what your mother must think of you these days.”

Blast. Quin hated it with a blinding passion when Jonas was right. “Mother is none of your concern. She is perfectly content in her new marriage, and thoroughly oblivious to my pursuits.” Thank God. He would hate himself more than he already did if she could see what a wastrel he’d become. “It’s better this way.”

“Better how? Better that you never see her? She loves you. She wants you to finally be happy. Like I do. And what of your sister? Nia wouldn’t recognize you if she saw you.” Jonas shook his head and looked away.

Quin ground his jaw. Nia was far better off without him in her life. Jonas should leave her out of this.

The phaeton rolled over a deep rut in the road, bumping them against each other even more than they already were. “Can’t you see that it would hurt your family to see you acting like this?” Jonas asked after a protracted silence.

“Acting like what? Like a gentleman who is doing the right thing? Like a bloody dandy about to tie myself irrevocably to some silly chit I’ve known for less than a day?”

“Like a wounded bear, acting out against everyone around you, Quin,” Jonas muttered. “You’re acting out against me, against Rotheby, and now you’ve gone and drawn Miss Hyatt into your mess. When are you going to accept the fact that you can’t change the past, you can’t change the man your father was, but you can damned well change who you are?”

“I can’t. I am who my father made me.”

And he would bloody well stay that way until he died.

Chapter Eight

2 April, 1811

Marriage—real, true marriage—is not something I’ve ever really allowed myself to contemplate. After seeing what happened between Mother and Father for so many years, it is the last thing in the world I wanted. Yet now, I will be married whether I want it or not. Tomorrow, in fact. Oh, dear good Lord. How did I end up in this mess? Still, Lord Quinton does look to be quite the pirate. Perhaps at least a marriage to him will be adventurous. Do I want adventure? I’m not certain. I simply do not want boredom. So I shall hope that my pirate will not bore me to tears. And perhaps someday we will learn to love one another. I can always hope. Lust, at least, appears to be in no short supply.

~From the journal of Miss Aurora Hyatt

Everything felt numb.

Aurora couldn’t afford to feel. If she allowed herself to feel, then she would collapse beneath the enormity of it all.

Father had kept to himself in his study since Lord Quinton left that morning. When she did see him, the look upon his face was so pitiful she wanted to toss herself kicking and screaming upon her bed. She was the cause of his despair. He hadn’t appeared so despondent since the days when her mother was still alive.

Rose continued to check on her, asking if Aurora needed anything. Aurora wanted to wail each time her maid asked such a question, because it only reminded her of how fast it was all to happen. How the wedding she had once hoped never to have at all would not take place at St. George’s and be attended by all and sundry, but instead would be held at some tiny parish church, with only those who absolutely must attend present. How, within such a short breadth of time, she’d made the one mistake that would mean leaving her father—the one person in the world she held the most dear. But if she did not follow through—if she decided she could not do it—then she would shame him most egregiously and he would never forgive her.

Which she already feared he might not do.

She wished her maid would simply leave her be to wallow in her misery alone. She’d already sent the girl off with the ivory satin for her wedding gown, so that a modiste could fashion it, and then sent her to a florist to order flowers for the church.

The ladies of the ton were certainly upholding their end of the bargain. Even though it was Aurora’s traditional at-home, not a single soul had knocked upon the door of Hyatt House.

Not, at least, until Rebecca arrived, well after the usual hour for paying calls. She swept into the front drawing room (where Aurora remained, despondent, as she had been since Lord Quinton’s departure) wearing a lovely jonquil, sprigged-muslin afternoon gown. Gracious, had she brought the sun in with her? How abominably churlish, to flounce in all bright and cheerful when Aurora desired to remain wretched.

“You’ll never guess,” Rebecca said, removing her gloves to select a cake from the tea tray, “who Mama and I visited with this afternoon.”

Did she really think Aurora wanted to gossip? She had plenty more important matters on her mind. But since Rebecca was her dearest and most especial friend, she mustered, “Oh? Who would that be?”

“The Marchioness of Laughton and her daughter, Lady Phoebe Seabrook. You’ll remember Lady Phoebe from last night, of course.”

She would? How was she supposed to remember anything from last night that was not in some way connected to her encounter with Lord Quinton? With that delightfully sinful kiss that changed the course of her life forever?

When Aurora failed to respond, Rebecca went on. “You remember her. She is friends with Iris Leggett. You know—long face, grey eyes…”

“Oh, yes,” Aurora said. “The girl with the horse face.”

Rebecca gasped. “Aurora! That is a horrible thing to think, let alone to say.”

“Well, it’s the truth, isn’t it?” Aurora asked with a frown. “Besides, no one is here but you. I restrained myself at the ball last night, did I not?”

“Whether it is true or not does not give one leave to say such things.” Rebecca shook her head, sending the cascade of golden ringlets surrounding her face into a frenzy. “You really need to learn some tact. And humility.”

“Shall you be the one to teach me these traits?” Aurora drawled.

With a wave of her hand, Rebecca went on. “That is for another day, my dear. The reason I am here now is what I learned from Lady Phoebe over tea.”

Aurora was becoming irritated. They should be speaking of the wedding that loomed, not some silly debutante who sported a horse’s face and a lamentable choice in friends. “And what, pray tell, was that? How she tames her mane?”

“No.” Rebecca had the audacity to cluck her tongue. “It seems Lady Phoebe was once affianced to your Lord Quinton.”

“Indeed,” Aurora said and leaned forward. Now Rebecca held her rapt attention. Lord Quinton had never mentioned a previous engagement. Granted, they hadn’t had much opportunity to mention anything to each other. But he had been engaged to her? What could he possibly have seen in the girl? Lady Phoebe had broken off the engagement? The woman was daft if she thought she could do better than Lord Quinton, particularly with her unfortunate face. “And did she say why she cried off?”

“Lady Phoebe did not break off the engagement,” Rebecca said, leaning in. “She arrived at the parish church in all her wedding finery, only to find that Lord Quinton had gone missing.”

“No!” The scoundrel. It was poor form for a lady to back out of such an agreement, but for a gentleman? And the idea that he didn’t even tell her ahead of time, but allowed her to suffer her shame before an entire wedding congregation—preposterous.

“Yes,” Rebecca insisted.

Scandalous.

“She told me he has not been seen at his estate since that day over three years ago. No one had heard from him at all until he arrived in Town this Season.”

Aurora’s earlier numbness left, to be replaced by a rather odd combination of intrigue and elation. “And I am to marry him tomorrow. Oh, dear good Lord.”

Rebecca took her hand and patted the back of it. “Once word of this gets out, no one will think less of you for breaking the engagement. And it hasn’t even been officially announced. Perhaps no one need know you ever accepted him.”

“Oh, pish. I’m not worried about what the ton thinks of me. It is far too late for such concerns.”

“But your father—he will be scandalized,” Rebecca said. “Surely you must think of him. He will be devastated if you go through with this engagement.”

“I’ve already broken Father’s heart,” Aurora said. “He is utterly disappointed that I behaved in such an unseemly manner. How could breaking off an engagement—and being ruined in the eyes of the ton—make anything better? You know how the gossips will spin this. I will be made out as fast. No, I don’t think that would be a wise course of action.”

“You cannot seriously think of going through with this. Aurora, he is the worst sort of blackguard. What if he does the same thing to you?”

“Why would he do that? I’m not nearly as hopeless a fiancée as Lady Phoebe.”

Besides, the man had to have some honor.

~ * ~

Quite simply put, sleep was out of the question.

In fact, Aurora wondered if she would ever be able to sleep again. If the first time Lord Quinton kissed her hadn’t been enough, then the kiss that afternoon in her father’s library ensured she would never be able to close her eyes without thinking of him.

The way he’d used his mouth over her breast.

The feel of his hands gripping her thighs, rough and gentle all at once.

The low growl emanating from his throat—primal, almost inhuman.

The heady scent of the overheated air between them.

She flopped about in her bed for what had to be hours, trying to fall asleep. Lord knew she would need rest before the day ahead of her. But that precious, blissful state proved elusive.

Aurora closed her eyes and imagined herself drifting off into the netherworld, staring at a cloudy sky—only to have the images of clouds somehow turn to the confectionary fabric of her gown bunched up about her waist. In the next instant, her nightrail bunched up like her gown had been, and she found herself covered in a sheen of perspiration, remembering the feel of Lord Quinton’s body pressed up against hers.

They had fit, like they were molded just for each other. If that weren’t enough reason she should follow through with marrying him, there was the delicious thrumming sensation deep in her core. Something she’d never experienced before. Something she doubted any other man capable of producing within her.

How could she possibly deny their attraction?

Still, was that attraction enough? It was not love—at least not on his part. Surely not on her part, either, despite her apparent inability to think of anything at all without wishing he were there and kissing her again—or more than just kissing. After all, she’d only met Lord Quinton the evening before. Love took time.

Didn’t it?

Or was it possible that men and women simply loved, or didn’t love? Perhaps her parents had never been destined to love each other. Maybe Aurora and Lord Quinton were destined to fall in love.

One thing she knew for certain: she would never gain another wink of sleep if she didn’t find a way to get him out of her mind. Aurora knew herself well. She would never manage that if she didn’t write.

She tossed back the counterpane and slipped out of bed as quietly as she could. No point in waking Rose. The maid meant well, but would undoubtedly bring some sort of tonic if she knew Aurora wasn’t sleeping the night before such an important event. Barefoot, she padded to her escritoire and found a candlestick, then tiptoed out to the hallway to light it on one of the sconces.

Aurora dipped her quill into the ink pot, placed the tip to parchment, and let the words flow.

Our wedding night finally arrived. Though it felt like years, in truth it was only hours after the ceremony. I already knew that Lord Quinton’s kisses did inexplicable things to me, sending my heart aflutter and causing my body to overheat and making it impossible to form two connected words. But when he moved behind me and I felt the strength of his hands upon the bare skin of my arms and the rough tickle of his jaw line against my neck, I shivered.

Surely this was sinful. Surely husbands did not see their wives in their nightrails and touch them in the intimate ways my husband—my husband!—touched me. But I could not bring myself to care in the least.

He moved his hands from my arms to wrap around my waist, pulling me closer to him until only the thin fabric of my nightrail and the sturdier fabric of his shirt and pantaloons separated us. That delightful and wonderful hard, heat-filled length pressed against my bottom and

And what? Drat. Sometimes, being an innocent could be a deuced curse.

Aurora pushed the parchment aside. She couldn’t very well go on from there until she knew what it was. And what it was for. It must have something to do with the wedding night. But without someone to tell her—or without Lord Quinton to show her—she’d never decipher it.

It was rather inconvenient that he hadn’t taught her just a bit more in the library that morning. They’d have to have a discussion about his lack of instruction. He should have taught her what she would need to know in order to perform her wifely duties. Granted, she wasn’t his wife yet, but that would change shortly. Why wait?

Unless he felt her incapable.

Was that why he had jilted Lady Phoebe? Had he kissed her and touched her in that manner, and found her lacking in some way?

Lord Quinton had stopped their kissing rather abruptly that morning, and with no explanation. If he’d been enjoying it—if he’d felt half of what Aurora felt at that moment, with electricity flowing through every pore of her skin and a need she could never explain—he surely wouldn’t have stopped. Would he?

Blast. He was going to jilt her. She just knew it.

Unless, of course, she jilted him first.

~ * ~

“You look stunning, miss,” Rose said, twisting a tendril of Aurora’s dark hair into a soft curl about her face.

Truthfully, she did. But what a sight she would be in a few moments’ time. She hoped Father would not be too terribly disappointed in her, but there was nothing to be done for it.

“Thank you, Rose.” Aurora gave her maid what she hoped was a nervous-but-excited smile. “You should go into the church now. I’d like a few minutes to myself before the wedding, please.”

Rose placed one more flower into Aurora’s coiffure and smiled. “Of course.”

When the door clicked to a close, Aurora took a breath. It would be better if she could change out of her wedding gown, but that would be virtually impossible to do alone. There were far too many buttons along the back. She’d just have to make do.

The Spencer she’d worn on her way to the church was draped across a chair. She fastened it about her, secured the matching bonnet atop her head, and looked one more time in the mirror. The coquelicot velvet did little to hide her gown. Gads, she might be mistaken for a harlot, with the oddity of her attire.

There was no time to worry about that, though. Aurora turned the lock on the door before she moved to the window, raised it, and hurtled herself out and to the ground. Luckily, the small church was not too high; she only fell a couple of feet, rolling over a few times before coming to a stop.

Aurora took a look around. No one was watching her. She dusted the debris from her gown and walked—hurriedly, but quietly—to the mews.

If only she knew how to unhook one of Father’s horses from the carriage. Becoming a horse thief had never been high on her list of priorities. But after a moment’s inspection of the rigging, she knew she’d waste far too much time in attempting it.

A few horses stood in a stall near the entrance. Two of them were even saddled and ready to go—traditional saddles, not side saddles, but a horse thief couldn’t very well be picky.

Aurora took one more look around. The last thing she needed was for a groom to come upon her unawares.

All clear.

She moved up alongside the smaller of the two and gripped the reins. Thank the good Lord Father had taught her to ride. One foot in the stirrup. She hitched her gown up to her knees and tossed the other leg up and over and settled in to the saddle. Oh, dear good Lord. Even with this small horse, her feet could not reach the stirrups.

The mare pranced around, surely uneasy from having an unfamiliar rider atop it. Aurora leaned forward and whispered into the horse’s ears, “Calm down, girl. It will be all right.”

The door creaked at the opposite end of the mews. Blast. She had to go.

Aurora flicked the reins, and they were off.

~ * ~

Ten minutes. Ten bloody minutes he had been standing at the altar, waiting for his deuced bride to arrive. Quin was ready to explode. He clenched his jaw and prayed that he would not strike the next person who spoke.

The vicar kept sending anxious looks his way and tapping his feet. The few guests in the pews stared at him.

He’d been bang up to the mark, by God. They could not blame him. They’d better not try, least of all Hyatt. The man ought to have done a better job of teaching his daughter punctuality.

If this was a sign of things to come within their relationship, Quin would have to learn patience. Either that or he’d have to tell Aurora to be ready an hour before he expected her.

That might be the better option. He doubted himself capable of adopting patience.

The vicar gave him yet another pointed look.

“Where in God’s name is she?” Quin yelled, startling everyone in the church, including Lord Hyatt, who jumped long enough to cease pacing at the opposite end. “What is taking her so bafflingly long?”

His bride’s maid and friend stared back at him with huge eyes. Jonas stomped on Quin’s foot and glared at him.

Christ, he shouldn’t have lost his temper like that. But really, how long must a man be kept waiting? “I apologize,” he gritted out to the small gathering. “Hyatt, would you go and check on your daughter? Hurry her along.”

The older man looked at him with disdain. “Perhaps, Quinton, you ought to go and check on your bride. It is, after all, your fault all of this is taking place.”

“Excuse me, please,” said the young maid. “I will check on Miss Hyatt.” She slipped out of her pew and rushed down the long aisle, disappearing from sight.

Well. That eliminated the likelihood of Quin and Hyatt cursing at each other over whose responsibility Aurora was at the moment.

Quin paced before the altar. He wanted to rip the fussy cravat from his neck and toss the overcoat aside, but Jonas would give him hell if he did. With every sound, from the creaking of a seat to a muffled clearing of a throat, his head snapped about, expecting to see Aurora coming down the aisle to meet him.

But she didn’t.

Finally, after the maid had been gone for what had to have been another ten minutes, she came back.

Alone.

He tried to maintain his sanity as he returned to his position. “Where is Miss Hyatt?” he asked through clenched teeth.

The poor girl trembled before him. “The door is locked,” she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper. “She won’t answer.”

“Bloody hell.”

A chorus of shocked gasps sounded around. Blast, Quin thought he’d only said it in his head, not aloud.

She couldn’t be doing this to him. She could not leave him standing at the altar. He’d be damned if he let her get away with it.

Quin marched down the aisle, into the hall, and to the changing room where his bride had been supposedly getting dressed and taking a moment to calm herself before their nuptials. He tried the knob. It didn’t budge.

“Aurora! Open the door.” He pounded out an impatient rhythm. “This is neither the time nor the place for this.”

Nothing. He didn’t hear a single sound, not one peep.

A crowd gathered behind him, Jonas in front of them all. “Do you think something has happened to her? Perhaps she is unwell.”

“She will be if she doesn’t unlock this door in the next thirty seconds.” He’d make certain of it himself.

Everyone started talking at once behind him.

“Should we ask the vicar for the key?”

“Perhaps someone ought to break down the door.”

“I can’t believe the nerve of her. Ungrateful chit.”

“Sir Jonas! Sir Jonas.” This voice rang out urgently amongst the din of the others. Quin turned to see a groom pushing his way through the small crowd. “Your horse, sir.”

“We are busy here, man,” Jonas responded. “The horse can wait.”

“But, sir! Your horse was stolen. She rode off with it before I could catch her, she did.”

She.

“Damnation,” Quin muttered. He rammed his shoulder repeatedly into the door. By the third time, Jonas joined him. After a few joint efforts, the hinges gave way and the door fell open.

“Of course,” Quin said. Aurora’s belongings were strewn about the small chamber as a slight breeze blew in through the open window, fluttering everything about.

Aurora Hyatt, however, was nowhere to be found.

Chapter Nine

3 April, 1811

There is an art to horse thievery. Or at least there is an intelligent manner of going about it and an unintelligent manner of going about it. The intelligent manner, should one be of the female sex, would be to either steal a horse that is saddled with a side saddle, or else to be certain to wear breeches instead of a gown. Particularly troublesome is a wedding gown. It is rather unbecoming, not to mention curious (and conspicuous), to ride astride through Mayfair while draped in ivory silk. This is not an act I recommend.

~From the journal of Miss Aurora Hyatt

His bride was an imbecile. What other explanation could there be?

Quin had thoroughly and completely ruined her. He had offered her a chance to salvage her reputation—and she ran. He would damned well catch her, too. Whether he would return with her to the church or take her straight to Bedlam was still up for debate.

The horse he’d borrowed from Jonas was close to foaming at the mouth, he had been pushing the animal so hard. He had no choice. Aurora must be found.

Immediately.

The groom said she rode off with the skirts of her gown bunched up about her knees, for Christ’s sake. Idiotic. Rash. Gauche. Why on earth had he ever thought it a good idea to marry her?

But after what he’d done, not only did she not have any other option—he had no other option. He’d never find a respectable bride after his behavior at that ball. No one else would have him, and then he would be unable to do what Rotheby required.

She was the closest thing he would find to it.

And she would marry him.

Aurora was not at Hyatt House. Nor was she at Grantham Manor on Grosvenor Square, where the Duke of Aylesbury had been none too pleased to find Quin pounding at his door, demanding entrance and to have the house searched at such an early hour of the morning. But he had to check. Lady Rebecca had suggested that Aurora might seek solace there.

Quin turned down Piccadilly, headed toward Hyde Park. It was illogical for her to go to such a public place—certainly not if she was trying to hide—but nothing the minx had done of late made any blasted sense.

The park was virtually empty at this hour. Only a small group of matrons strolled along the Serpentine from what he could see on first glance. Blast. Where else could she have gone?

Devil take it. Did she have other friends? Surely she did. This was one moment it would help if he knew just a mite more about his intended. Quin turned the mare and headed back into Mayfair. He’d ride up and down every damned street, if that’s what it took to find her and drag her back to the church.

He’d already searched both Cavendish Square and Grosvenor Square. Might as well try some of the other elite areas. Her closest friend was the daughter of a duke, so the rest of her acquaintances likely came from families of equally elevated ranks.

Berkeley Square. He’d go there first, with it still early in the day. Perhaps Rotheby would still be abed and not up, wondering if Quin had actually gone through with it and leg-shackled himself. The last thing he needed was to run into the man and have to explain this current mess he’d gotten himself into.

If there even was an explanation to be given.

When Quin turned the corner, he nearly fell off his horse. He’d never seen anything so utterly farcical (not to mention bizarre, ignominious, and indiscreet) in the whole of his life.

Aurora Hyatt, impeccably clad in a white satin wedding gown and some silly Spencer and bonnet, sat astride a horse outside Gunter’s. Her stockings were visible up to her knees, with the gown draped in an unwieldy fashion across the saddle horn. Dangling above the stirrups, one foot kicked about for something to grab onto, while she attempted to swing the other over. However, her slipper continued to catch upon the satin gown, and if she didn’t stop her flailing about, she’d fall and crack her skull on the pavement.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” he bellowed, ignoring the aghast looks of passersby. They could all go hang. Quin rode over and took her reins.

She had the audacity to look affronted. “I thought to have an ice.” Aurora tried to snatch the reins back from his grasp, but he would be damned if he let them go. She huffed and swatted his hands in response. “What the devil do you think you’re doing, my lord?”

Not here. He had hashed out enough of what should have been their private matters in public, with the gossips of the ton hanging on their every word or touch. Quin would rather rot in Newgate than give them anything else to print in their bloody society papers.

He turned his mare and made for Curzon Street, pulling Aurora’s horse along behind him. She lost her balance at the sudden change in direction, particularly since she already had her body in a convoluted mess. She let out a squeal of panic.

Quin turned to see what the problem was this time. She’d fallen forward over the saddle horn and was holding onto it for dear life, with her sweet little derrière hanging precariously off the side.

Blast. They wouldn’t make it to the end of the street, let alone to Jonas’s bachelor lodgings, with her dangling about like that. Drawing the horses to a stop, he plucked her from her horse and settled her sidelong across his lap.

“Oh!” Aurora said. “How rude.” She wiggled her bottom and squirmed about.

“Be still,” Quin ordered. She’d wriggle herself off his lap and land face first on the ground, if she didn’t quit. “And we’ll discuss rudeness in private.”

“Why, I never” The blasted minx continued to struggle until she would have pitched forward and fallen, if not for his arm about her waist keeping her still.

Patience. He needed to be patient. Quin took a deep breath, then pulled her tighter against his chest. “Be still,” he growled.

Thankfully, they didn’t have far to travel. Within minutes, they arrived at Number Five. Quin dismounted, pulling his bride along with him. She fidgeted for freedom, but the silly chit would likely run off again, or try to climb onto a damned horse, or perhaps just plop down on the steps of the flat and scream for help. None of those scenarios suited his mood.

Instead, he flipped Aurora over his shoulder—the opposite shoulder from the previous ramming, since that one felt like a horse had kicked it repeatedly—and held her legs about the knees.

“Really, this is the most absurd”

“We will discuss absurdity in private as well, Miss Hyatt. Hold your tongue.”

Quin let himself into Jonas’s lodgings, tossing Aurora on a divan before turning to close the door behind him—only to be confronted by Jonas’s manservant.

“Lord Quinton,” the manservant said, attempting to push his way into the small sitting room, “I cannot allow this. It is highly irregular. You cannot bring a young lady in here”

Fiend seize it, enough with the damned disruptions. “Leave us,” he said. His voice held enough menace to scare most men.

This man proved predictable. “Yes, my lord.” He seemed to shrink before Quin’s eyes, then backed away.

Quin closed the door and tried to calm his racing pulse before initiating discussion with his bride. When he finally felt capable of controlling himself and turned to face her, his heart felt like it had lurched off a cliff without checking for water first.

Her clear eyes were so wide, he thought they’d burst free from her face. One hand rested over her bosom, trembling visibly.

Good God. She was terrified.

Quin itched to strike something. What had he done to cause such fear in her? He could never be confused as a saint, but neither was he a monster.

Move. He needed to move or he would throw something, or punch a hole in the wall, or rip his arm from the shoulder that was so bloody sore. Instead, he paced.

His bride’s huge eyes never left him.

The act of pacing only made her appear more nervous. If he ever intended to calm her, he had to sit—even if it meant he’d never find a way to slow the frenetic pulse pounding through his veins. He took a step toward the empty seat beside Aurora.

And nearly lost his thin grasp on sanity when she flinched and shielded her face with her delicate hands. “No!” she cried out, eyes closed, falling back against the divan.

Devil take it, she thought he would hit her.

Quin couldn’t remember the last time he was so angry. Perhaps when his father was still alive—still delivering beatings to both Quin and his mother, still drinking himself into a muddle-headed stupor.

With every fiber of patience he could manage, he forced his arms to hang at his sides. It took every ounce of self-control he could muster to refrain from grabbing hold of the minx and shaking some sense into her.

Finally, she opened her eyes to peek through the dark fringe of her lashes, then slowly, painstakingly, lowered her arms to her lap.

Quin counted to ten. Better make it twenty. “I do not strike women, Aurora. It would behoove you to remember that in future.”

“But you were so angry, I thought”

“Do not make me repeat myself.” His voice was sharper, held more bite, than he intended, though he managed to keep it at just slightly above a whisper. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared her down. “Now I’d like you to tell me why you were so indiscreet as to run away from our wedding, when remaining unmarried will leave you ruined in the eyes of society? Why you chose to leave me standing at the altar, waiting for you, while you rode through all of Mayfair to stop for an ice at Gunter’s, with your legs showing all the way up to your knees, of all things. Why you felt it prudent to toss aside the one opportunity you had at salvaging your reputation.”

Her expression melted from fearful to haughty over the course of his demands. Aurora’s jaw fell slack, only to be snapped closed a moment later.

“I’m waiting,” Quin bit off, and took another menacing step toward her.

Aurora scowled up at him. “Lud! Perhaps you would care to inform me why you felt the need to stop kissing me so suddenly yesterday.”

“That,” he said, “is hardly relevant to the discussion at hand.”

“On the contrary, my lord,” she said with no small amount of heat, her light, clear eyes flashing at him, “it is entirely relevant, since the answer to that question plays into my answers to your questions.”

“Can you not answer a simple question?” Quin barked at her.

“I’ll answer a simple question when you ask a simple question.”

He tossed his hands in the air. “What is so bloody difficult about telling me why you don’t want to marry me all of a sudden?”

“What is so bloody wrong with me that you don’t enjoy kissing me?” she shot back.

Don’t enjoy kissing her? If he hadn’t had to spend nearly every blasted waking minute since he met her making arrangements to marry her on a moment’s notice, he likely would have spent them all in just that pursuit—if not finding a way to bed her before the wedding. The minx consumed him.

Good God, she was enticing when she was mad. Quin might have to anger her more often, because she looked like a Siren rising up out of the sea. He’d show her just how much he wanted to kiss her.

Quin closed the meager gap between them in a flash, gripping her upper arms and pulling her up before him. His mouth came down upon hers, hard and hot and hungry.

He kissed her so thoroughly it was as though he was branding her, marking her as his own. Any thought of gentleness or tenderness for her fled like the tide rushing back out to sea.

A low half-sigh, half-moan came from deep in her throat.

He plundered her mouth, stroking and plunging and searing with his tongue, until she trembled beneath him and her hands reached out to his middle for support. Quin didn’t stop until he was drunk and lightheaded on her sweetness.

When he finally came up, her eyes were lidded and her lips were swollen and pink. His already hard erection throbbed at the sight. Slipping his arms around Aurora’s back, he pulled her close—close enough she could feel how very badly he needed her.

She jumped at the contact.

“This,” he drawled, “should be proof enough of just how much I want to kiss you, and so very much more.”

Her eyes widened and she pressed her body more fully into him. “What is that? I want you to teach”

Quin put a hand over her mouth to stop her. Damnation, she was so innocent. He’d always avoided innocents. How the devil was he supposed to accomplish anything, with her curiosity threatening to rob him of reason? He wanted desperately to toss her over his shoulder again, carry her above stairs, and teach her everything she wanted to know (and much, much more) right then and there.

With the need filling her eyes at the moment, he doubted she’d have any objections to just such an arrangement.

But they had to get back to the damned church and get married first. So instead, he settled her back on the divan and placed some distance between them—as protection against following through with just such a plan.

“There will be plenty of time for instruction later,” he said. “After we marry.” If he could survive that long.

A wounded expression flooded her eyes. Could she not understand that he was trying to protect her? To do things the right way? Her innocence would be the death of him.

“That will not happen,” she said. “I will not marry you. Which should have been plenty clear enough when I did not meet you before the altar. You bloody, insufferable brute. What makes you think you can drag me off my horse and order me about?”

“Your horse? The one you stole from the mews? Is that the horse you mean? Aurora, you’ll marry me and be happy about it, by God, if I have to toss you over my shoulder and carry you the whole way there.”

“Why should I marry you?” she demanded. “Why should I feel badly about changing my mind and jilting you, when you did the very same thing to Lady Phoebe?”

What bastard had told her about Phoebe? If it was Griffin, Quin would be more than happy to settle matters once and for all. But that would have to wait. It all had to wait.

“Matters between Lady Phoebe and I are hardly pertinent to this discussion,” he said.

Aurora’s eyes burned dark and stormy. “Hardly? Indeed, they are the root cause of our discussion, as you so politely termed it. Why have you not informed me of your previous engagement?” she asked haughtily.

“When in God’s name was I supposed to have done that? Since the moment I met you, I’ve been running around Town like a madman. Obtaining a special license. Settling affairs with your father. Arranging for a townhome for our use until we return to Quinton Abbey. Chasing after you, when you behave like a hoyden that’s broken free of her leading strings.”

“Perhaps,” she said, rising to stand toe-to-toe with him, “you realized I would never accept you if I knew the truth—if I knew how entirely dishonorable a scoundrel you are. So you hid it from me. Or tried to hide it from me. But you, sir, are no gentleman, and I’ll die a happy old maid before I’ll marry the despicable likes of you.”

She shoved him, but Quin refused to budge. He planted his feet wide apart, crossing his arms before his chest. Aurora scowled up at him. Then she stepped over and around his leg, fleeing for the door.

Fiend seize it. He didn’t want to resort to this. But what option did the minx leave him with? Quin grabbed her arm and pulled her back into the room.

The chill in her eyes froze him to his spot on the floor. “Unhand me.”

“You will marry me, Aurora. Because if you do not, you’ll find your journal published in its entirety in tomorrow morning’s society papers.”

~ * ~

Aurora felt all of the blood drain from her face, trickling its way down to pool in her toes. “My journal? How do you know about my journal?”

Lord Quinton dragged a hand over his face and through his hair, sighing loudly as he did. “I found it in Hyde Park. And based on what I found inside, I knew you were a scandal waiting to happen. If I didn’t marry you—give you the protection of my name—I knew your ruin was waiting for you. So I sought you out.”

Oh, good God. He’d read it. He knew all the things she’d written of him—of them. “So you took care of ruining me, just in case my journal didn’t manage it on its own? Terribly heroic of you, my lord.”

“Sarcasm does you no favors, Aurora.”

“Illusions of grandeur do you none, either.”

“Agreed,” he said. “But the fact remains, I intend to ensure your reputation will fall into tatters if you do not return to the church today and marry me.”

What could he possibly gain from this situation? There had to be a reason—something more plausible than him hoping to rescue a lady he’d never met from ruin—for him to go to such lengths.

It just didn’t make sense.

Regardless of his reasons for wanting the match, Aurora really didn’t have any other option left open. Father could never learn what was in her journal.

She couldn’t believe she was doing this. After all these years, convincing herself she would never accept a marriage with a man she didn’t love, who didn’t love her…

~ * ~

Quin was a cur. A bloody despot. A lecher and a thoroughly unredeemable scoundrel.

None of this was new.

So why did he feel so damnably low?

Standing before the vicar with Aurora by his side, he couldn’t concentrate on the blasted ceremony. Within minutes, he’d be a married man, just as Rotheby had insisted upon—just as he’d hoped for years to be able to avoid.

At thirty-two years of age, Quin was becoming a man.

He ought to feel good about that—about becoming responsible for more than just himself. Instead, he felt more despicable than he’d ever felt in his life. Lord knew that was saying something.

For every step forward, he took two steps back. Yes, he was marrying Aurora Hyatt. But he’d forced her hand once by kissing her in a blasted ballroom, and if that hadn’t been enough, he’d forced it again by resorting to blackmail.

It felt cheap.

When the vicar called upon him, he said, “I do,” but took no pleasure in the act.

The process of arriving at that moment made him realize that every day, he became more like the bastard his father had always been.

~ * ~

The sparsely furnished townhome Lord Quinton had arranged for sat at Number Fourteen, Oxford Street. The lack of furnishings didn’t bother Aurora. Frankly, she didn’t care about anything save ending the blasted day. A blinding headache had assaulted her the moment her then-fiancée-now-husband mentioned her journal, and had only intensified in the hours since.

She returned with him to the church. She repeated her vows. She sat through the celebratory breakfast and accepted the toasts and felicitations as graciously as she could manage. She’d done everything that could be expected of her.

Now, she wanted a bed. And since she would no longer have her bed in her father’s home, any bed at all would do.

Aurora said a silent prayer of thanks when they arrived at their new London home, to be greeted by only a tiny delegation of staff, waiting to be introduced to their new mistress. Her lady’s maid, Rose, stood alongside a butler, a housekeeper, two footmen, a cook, and a scullery maid.

“I’ll endeavor to hire more servants in the coming week,” Lord Quinton said as Mrs. Gaffee, the housekeeper, led them on a brief tour. “We should have a full staff before a fortnight is past.”

“Very well,” was all Aurora could manage.

They stopped to examine a room on the lowest floor that might be either a gallery or a music room. He placed his hand against her lower back, and it was all Aurora could do not to flinch at the brief contact. “You may decorate the drawing rooms and whatnot as you like.”

She nodded and immediately regretted it. The pounding in her head magnified to epic proportions from the slight movement. The hardwood floor beneath her feet seemed to sway. Aurora reached an arm out to the side to steady herself, but only managed to knock it against Lord Quinton’s expansive chest.

He moved the hand at her back to encircle her waist, pulling her up against his side. “You are unwell.” His other hand felt her forehead and cheeks. “No fever. Aurora, you must lie down. Mrs. Gaffee, the remainder of the tour will wait. Please show us to Lady Quinton’s chamber.”

Aurora took a step to follow behind the cheerful but squat woman, only to be lifted off her feet.

Which was probably for the best. Her head felt like it would splinter into a thousand pieces at any moment. She wasn’t entirely certain she was capable of traversing a flight of stairs right at that moment.

Just before reaching the stairs, Lord Quinton carried her past a massive picture window. The draperies were pulled back, allowing sunlight to pour in unhindered. The pain in her head became blinding, all-consuming.

Aurora might have whimpered; she couldn’t be certain. But Lord Quinton shifted her in his arms, turning her head further in to his shoulder, effectively blocking out the offending sun.

Blissful darkness enveloped the main hall of the second floor. He turned a corner and passed through a doorway. More light, not as harsh as before, pulsed against Aurora’s pinched eyelids.

“Draw the curtains,” Lord Quinton commanded in a soft tone. He sat on the edge of the bed with Aurora still tucked neatly in his arms. Once again, the pulsing light left, leaving her with only the intense throb at her temples.

She felt weak—too weak to lift her head, to open her eyes, to speak. Strong fingers went to work removing her bonnet from her head, soon accompanied by a more delicate hand.

“My lord, allow me to see to her ladyship.” Rose’s voice. “Mrs. Gaffee and I can make her more comfortable if you will allow us”

“Leave us,” he ordered. His voice was quiet, but firm. It brooked no argument.

The whispering swish and sway of their dresses moving across the room to the door seemed more like a long, deafening clap of thunder in Aurora’s present state.

Lord Quinton laid her on the bed. She instantaneously felt bare, once she was bereft of the warm cocoon created by his arms. This time, she did whimper, though it sounded to her ears more like a scream.

“Hush, love,” he said, removing her shoes from her feet. Though his hands were large and cumbersome, he performed the action with a deft skill Aurora often could not manage. Then, just as smoothly and gently, he slid off her stockings.

Oh, dear good Lord. He could not be doing this. Not now. Not when she was more wretched and in more pain than she had ever been in her entire life. He could not expect to take his marital rights now.

She would die. She would kill him.

Either way, someone would die.

At least, someone would die once she could convince her body to function again.

When he rolled her to her side and worked at the buttons lining her back, Aurora let out a muffled whimper into the pillow. He was really doing it. And she was absolutely powerless to stop him, even if she felt she could. It was his right. She’d married the bastard and said ‘I do’, hadn’t she?

How on earth had she gotten herself into such a mess?

But when he pulled her gown free of her body and she was left in only her shift and drawers, Lord Quinton lifted Aurora off the bed and pulled back the counterpane. He settled her back into place and tucked the sheets in all around her.

“Rest, now,” he said, placing a tiny, chaste kiss on her forehead. Then his weight lifted from the side of the bed and he stepped across the room, gently clicking the door closed behind him.

Dark stillness overcame her. Sleep won out in mere moments.

Chapter Ten

3 April, 1811

Weddings, when one is one of the two primary participants, can truthfully be rather dismal affairs. It is lucky indeed that most people only go through them once in their life. Somewhere between listening to the vicar drone on about obeying and sickness, and standing up there with no one to look at but the vicar and Lord Quinton, I found my mind wandering. Shocking, I know, since my mind has never been prone to such fits of wanderlust. Pun intended.

~From the journal of Miss Aurora Hyatt Lady Quinton

Where was she? Aurora sat up in bed—not her familiar bed—and looked about in the dark. A few rays of sun tried peeked around the edges of heavy drapes. Sitting up sent her head to spinning for a moment. A muted ache remained as a reminder of the intense headache that landed her in bed in the first place. She walked over and pulled the draperies back, allowing enough sun to fill the room.

In the center of the room stood a large four-poster bed, covered in a Pomona green counterpane that matched the draperies. Very simple, quite elegant. An armchair sat near the fireplace, a vanity near one of the three doors.

If only she had been able to pay attention when Lord Quinton carried her in. Then she might know which of those doors would lead to her dressing room. She couldn’t very well go out into the main house clad only in her shift—particularly not with any number of unfamiliar servants out and about. Not to mention a husband.

But a glance around the room didn’t reveal a bell pull, so she would have to take a chance. Common sense would place the vanity next to the dressing room. She tried that door first.

Aurora had guessed wrong. Blast.

Lord Quinton sat in a rosewood armchair with striped silk-satin cushions near a large picture window, reading a newspaper and facing her. An empty glass and a decanter of brandy lined the table beside him. As soon as the door opened, he stood.

How was it possible for the man to look so enticing after the way he’d trapped her into this marriage? She should loathe him, or at least be repulsed by him.

But he’d removed his greatcoat and waistcoat and cravat, and his shirt hung loose from his pantaloons and gaped open at the top, much like it had done when they first met. And kissed. Aurora flushed again with the memory. His Hessians gleamed in the bright sunlight.

“Do you feel better after your rest?” he asked.

The words drew Aurora’s eye to his lips, his strong, square jaw. The ever-present growth of stubble was back. She thought, unless her memory was more muddled than she realized, that he had been clean-shaven that morning when they married. She preferred this—the roughness of it, the wildness of it.

She could get lost staring at his jaw line.

“Yes, my lord. Thank you for asking,” she finally managed to respond.

His eyes darkened at her response. Oh, dear good Lord. What had she done now?

“You are my wife, now,” he said. “We need not be quite so formal.”

Which only served to remind her of how very little she knew this man. “What, then, should I call you?” Surely the vicar must have said his name during their wedding, but she hadn’t the slightest memory of it. Nor did she recall what he might have signed upon the register.

For that matter, she didn’t know what her new name was. Aurora what, precisely? Lady Quinton she knew. But the rest? It was all a blur. An overwrought, bitter blur.

He half smiled, half grimaced, though it fell short of reaching his eyes. “My friends call me Quin.”

“I will call you that if you’d like.” Though she had the distinct impression he would prefer to be called something else.

“You may call me anything you please, Aurora.” The way he said it sent shivers of anticipation coursing along her spine. “Are you cold?” he asked. “You must be, with only your shift on.”

Oh. Oh, my. How had she forgotten such an embarrassing detail as that? She tried to cover herself with her arms, but they could only cover so much. Blast, he could see her through the thin material. But she most certainly was not cold. Far from it, in fact. Aurora could be no less cold if she were standing on the sun.

Quin picked up a blanket that had been draped over another armchair. When he stood before her with it, she trembled. But not from cold. Nor from embarrassment. No, she trembled from the intensity of his gaze as he wrapped the blanket around her. The tips of his fingers brushed against hers as he pulled it closed in front of her, tickling and burning, all at once.

Aurora needed to pull herself together like the silly blanket. Easier said than done, of course, with this man—her husband—standing so close before her that she felt she’d melt in his heat.

He raked a hand through his long hair. Her fingers itched to do the same. What on earth was coming over her?

She had to regain her wits. Speak. She should speak. “What is your name?” she blurted out. Now she truly sounded like a dolt. He would think he’d married an imbecile. He had, after all, just requested she call him Quin.

He smiled then, and not in a manner that appeared like laughter. “My given name? Niles. Niles Thornton.”

“Niles.” Aurora smiled. There was something pleasing about saying his name aloud, about the way it rolled off her tongue.

There was something infinitely more pleasing about the manner in which he slid his thumb along her lips just then, tracing the lower lip first, and then the upper lip, and then moving back to the lower. Not to mention the almost inhuman growl sounding deep in his throat. He settled his thumb in the center of her lip and pulled it down, just a touch, until his thumb slipped through and touched her teeth.

Gads, her body did inexplicable things in his presence. Just from that minuscule contact, her breath came in short, heavy bursts like she’d just swum the length of the Thames and her heart pounded so loudly he must hear it.

Her mouth felt like a desert. She licked her lips and tasted his essence—salty and heady and masculine.

Almost as soon as her tongue returned to her mouth, his tongue followed it inside. He tasted of brandy and sin.

He left her mouth and nibbled along her jaw and ears and throat. Every little bite elicited a sigh or a moan. His coarse whiskers scraped against her tender flesh until Aurora thought she would fall straight to the floor from shock.

She let loose the blanket, wrapping her arms about his neck and allowing her fingers to roam through his hair. When the blanket pooled at her feet, his hands were instantly upon her, kneading her derrière and pulling her close. So close. Too close.

That wonderfully fascinating length throbbed and pulsed against her belly, then lower, against the core of her womanhood, when he lifted her by her thighs and pulled her legs apart, wrapping them around his hips. Her shift and drawers were made of such a sheer material, there might as well have been nothing between them save his breeches.

Oh, dear good Lord, this body part fascinated her, with the way it pushed against his breeches as though fighting to be set free. She moved slightly, rolling her hips, and could have sworn she felt it grow.

She wanted to touch it. To see it. Her curiosity knew no bounds under ordinary circumstances, and this entire situation was far from ordinary at least in terms of her life. “Will you teach me now?” she asked, though she knew not how she’d found her voice. She’d simply die if he wouldn’t.

Quin didn’t answer her.

For that matter, Aurora doubted him capable of formulating an answer. He was too busy with lifting her up and tossing her over his shoulder and practically darting from the sitting room into another chamber.

His chamber.

Quin tossed her on the bed on her back and peeled the shirt up and over his head, tossing it aside without a care. Those hairs she had seen peeking out over the top trailed down the center of his bare chest, darker than the hair on his head, curling and crawling their way to disappear in a thin line below the top of his breeches.

She wanted to touch him. She wanted to feel the power of his arms beneath her fingertips, those same arms that lifted her with seemingly no effort at all. She wanted to trail her fingers along the path of hair, following them beyond where her eyes could see. She wanted to spread her hands over the wide expanse of his shoulders and marvel at the fact that her entire body could fit over just one of them.

Just from looking at him, a strange tautness came over the tips of her breasts as though they were pulling closer to him. Her womanhood—that same part of her that had rubbed against him only moments before—heated to the point of melting. What else could explain the sudden, embarrassing wetness accumulating between her thighs?

He sat on the edge of the bed and ripped his Hessian boots off, tossing them blindly over his shoulder. Before she knew what to expect, he threw himself on top of her, his weight pinning her to the mattress.

She felt glorious with him atop her, like a goddess, despite her vulnerable position.

His hands—those strong hands—moved over her, laying claim to her, branding her everywhere they touched. Possessive. And they touched her everywhere.

He pulled the sleeves of her shift down, exposing her bosom to his gaze. Aurora’s breasts stood at attention, the tips hard and straining—for what she didn’t know, until his mouth landed upon one. Then she knew very well, indeed.

Quin nipped and stroked and suckled and blew until she was half mad with need. Then he did it all over again to the other breast. The coarse prickles covering his jaw scraped against her sensitized flesh, pushed her beyond the limits of reason.

And still, she wanted more. Needed more. She arched her back, pressing her breasts into him, drove her hips against him, searching, moaning, sighing. But instead of doing whatever he must do to satisfy her need, Quin lifted himself off her.

For God’s sake, he would be the death of her.

Without his considerable weight pressing her down into the mattress, Aurora felt exposed. Empty. Cold.

She reached for him, only to have her hand impatiently brushed aside. “This is far from over, love,” Quin said. He stood at the edge of the bed, impatiently fumbling with the buttons holding the flap of his breeches in place. Before he had them all undone, he pulled them down and stepped free.

With the afternoon sun pouring in through the window, she wanted to look at him, to revel in the beauty that were his thighs, to gape at the sheer strength displayed by his muscles. He had to look like an Adonis, with all his muscular perfection and arrogant swagger.

Aurora could not. All she could see was that thing at the junction of his thighs. Big and protruding, and drawing her eye there and nowhere else. “Oh, dear good Lord,” she breathed.

Never in a million years would she be able to dream up what he intended to do with it. Her imagination was vivid, and entirely too overactive, but God had to have a sense of humor to have created such an object. A sick sense of humor. A very sick and deranged and fiendish sense of humor.

Her mind screamed at her to flee, to run back to her own chamber and lock the door. Instead, she laid there ogling him.

For just a moment too long.

Quin sat next to her on the bed, and his hands were on her again—this time pulling her shift and her drawers down her length, tossing them aside before she could stop him. Then he smoothed his hands over her, starting at her breasts and trailing a painstakingly torturous path over her stomach to her thighs, and then back up again.

Still, Aurora could not remove her eyes from him. Or more specifically, from that one part of him.

His hands never stopped moving over her, stroking her, building a heat inside her that she felt would burn her alive if he didn’t stop soon. His eyes laughed down at her. “You look terrified. It will only hurt for a moment.”

Hurt? There would be pain involved in this? Why had no one told her any of this? She silently cursed Aunt Sedgewick for her prudishness. But that wasn’t enough. Then she cursed her mother for having the effrontery to die and leave her alone to fend for herself against this thing, before Aurora had the opportunity to ask all the questions which required answers.

“What do you intend to do with that?” she asked, her voice shaking a bit more than she would have liked.

He didn’t answer her. At least not with his words, but with his hands. Or more specifically, with his fingers.

They moved over her woman’s part, cupping and stroking. Aurora’s eyes felt like they would fall out, they were open so wide. Was this even legal? She wasn’t entirely certain. But even though it scandalized her, she could not bear the thought of stopping him.

His fingers slipped inside her, moving in and out and about. “Oh, God. You’re so wet,” he said, moving faster, more urgently.

“Is that bad?” Aurora asked. She hoped not. She didn’t know what had caused the moisture, let alone how to prevent it. Especially since the more he stroked her, the more the slickness built.

Quin smiled at her then, a devilish smile. “No. Stop thinking.”

Stop thinking? Blast, the man had no idea what he was asking of her. Once her mind was traveling down a certain path, there was no stopping it.

Then he stroked against her with his thumb, light pressure at first and then rough, still sliding his fingers in and out at a rapid pace, and it suddenly became impossible to think at all. Her hips rose to meet him and her hands fisted in the sheets. “I need…I need…” She didn’t know what she needed. But if she didn’t get it in the next five seconds, someone would have to answer to her. Likely Quin.

He answered before that came to pass. “I know,” he said, his voice gruff. His mouth again came down upon her breast, grazing his teeth against the tip.

Aurora nearly came off the bed. She surely ripped the sheets from beneath her. Every nerve in her body, from the tips of her fingers to the soles of her feet, sang out. It was almost operatic. Her moan, however, was most decidedly not. Operatic, that was. It sounded like a tortured animal finally giving in to death. But oh, how that death had been worth it.

She’d gladly repeat this death every day.

Before she’d regained her ability to think clearly, Quin was atop her again, with that divine pressure of his frame sinking into her curves as he pressed her into the mattress. He kissed her and nudged her legs apart, settling himself between her thighs.

Then she felt it again. That thing. Right where his fingers had been performing such wickedly delightful antics to her womanhood.

He couldn’t. Surely he wouldn’t. There was simply no earthly way that could fit. Not there. At least not if she intended to live through the ordeal.

But he placed his hand between their bodies and guided it to her opening, and then he was.

“Oh, dear good Lord,” she said into his mouth, pushing with all her might against his shoulders, but to no avail. “You’ll kill me.”

Instead of stopping, Quin pushed further into her. “Hush,” he admonished her.  “Don’t fight with me. It will be all right.”

With every inch he moved inside her, she felt her core stretch wider—and her eyes followed suit. Still, it was not an entirely unpleasant sensation. Not at all, really. Not if she was being honest with herself. It just seemed as though it should be painful.

Aurora tried to relax, to let him do as he would. After all, hadn’t she just told herself only moments before she’d gladly die that same death every day? Perhaps this could give her a similar sensation.

Then he stopped moving and took her chin in one hand, forcing her to look directly into his eyes—eyes almost black with emotion. “I promise you. It will not hurt long.”

He was being so tender with her. Aurora wanted to reassure him. “Oh, but it doesn’t—sweet Jesus! Oh, my.”

It did. It hurt like the dickens. Like she was being split in two and would never be put back together again. Like an entire flock of pigeons were pecking her from the inside out. Like a cat using her insides for sharpening its claws. She could only hope that the scream she let out had merely been in her imagination.

But almost as soon as the pain started, it eased. Aurora started to breathe again, only then realizing that she’d been holding her breath captive.

“Better now?” Quin asked, with a pained, studious expression furrowing his brows together. His jaw clenched, causing his dimple to twitch. Gracious, if it hurt him and it hurt her, why were they doing it?

She nodded. Speaking would require entirely too much effort for her mind, at the moment. It was too busy being occupied by analyzing the rather odd sensation of Quin moving fervently in and out of her womb. First she felt stretched to her limits, to be followed by a contracting emptiness—and all of it enveloped by a strangely addictive friction.

He rose up on his elbows, staring down at her. “You’re so tight,” he ground out, increasing the pace of his thrusts.

Aurora’s body seemed to match him of its own accord, her hips rising to meet with his and then falling. “Is that bad?” She hoped not. How on earth was she supposed to change that? Even if she knew what it meant.

“God, no. Stop thinking.”

Stop thinking? The man really did not know her. Not at all. He’d already ordered her to do that once, and clearly she hadn’t managed it. At least not for long.

But then his hands were on her breasts again, kneading, squeezing, and pinching at the hardened nubs, and she was panting for breath and straining for him to fulfill that wonderful and terrible need. Oh, dear good Lord, she thought she would die.

Again. That might be nice. That might be quite nice, indeed.

Quin slid one hand between them and rubbed at the swollen center of her universe. She leapt gleefully over the edge to the chorus of a thousand angels. Hallelujah, indeed. She finally understood where Handel had found his inspiration. Quin grunted and pulsed inside her, and a warm, wet feeling spread throughout her womb.

Then he collapsed atop her, crushing her to the mattress like a rug to the floor.

Within moments, he was snoring lightly, his breath blowing at the hair against her neck, tickling and teasing her sensitive skin where his stubble abraded it.

Aurora felt rather sleepy as well, after all of that. Perhaps she would nap again.

There was only one thought on her mind as she trailed off into slumber: Why would any husband and wife ever choose to sleep in separate beds if that was what happened in the marriage bed?

Preposterous.

~ * ~

Quin woke with a start. Or more precisely, he woke with his delectable bride’s hand on his cock. Squeezing, no less. She kneeled on the bed. Somehow he’d ended up on his back with this temptress forever more to be known as his wife leaning over him.

“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” he asked, trying with all his might to keep his tone calm and sedate, but failing abjectly.

She jumped, probably because his words came out more as a roar, pulling her hand back like she’d just touched fire. It would be, soon enough, if she didn’t stop. On fire. In need. Flaming to life. He prayed she wouldn’t stop.

It had taken every ounce of patience he owned to bed her earlier without scaring the life out of her, hurting her more than absolutely necessary, or rutting with her like an animal. He didn’t think himself capable of holding back again. Not if she kept touching him like that.

This was precisely why he avoided bedding innocents. They were too damned much trouble, what with their death-sentence combination of curiosity and inexperience. Much easier to visit a whore and not have to worry about such things.

Her huge, clear eyes were wide as saucers again, staring at him. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I won’t touch it again.”

“Bloody hell,” Quin said, taking Aurora’s delicate hand with those long fingers, and placing it back where it had been. He groaned aloud at the sweet torture.

Her lips formed a perfect O as she watched her ministrations. Slowly, ever so slowly, she wrapped her fingers around him, providing just enough pressure to remind him of how hot and tight she was, how sweet the sound of her passionate, little cries had been, how eagerly her body had responded to his every touch.

The late afternoon sun was beginning to set outside, casting an orange-pink glow about her silhouette above him. Christ, she looked more a goddess than ever, leaning over him with massive waves of hair cascading around her naked form, falling softly around those perfect, bouncing breasts—more than a mouthful, but not quite a handful.

She, however, was proving to be far more than a handful.

Just then, Quin was inclined to allow her to do anything she pleased to him.

After a moment, he wondered if he’d said the words aloud, because she started to slide her grip up and down over his shaft, creating an exquisite friction. He grew hotter, harder, larger.

Aurora’s eyes followed suit. Just before he thought he would lose control of himself, she let him loose and leaned over to look intently in his eyes. “May I…may I touch you like you touched me?”

Christ, the temptress was out to kill him. He didn’t trust his voice after her heavenly torment, so he nodded.

Feather-light fingers eased over his chest, his shoulders, his arms, tracing the demarcations of his muscles. Then she splayed her hands over him, spreading her palms, leaving a path of fire in their wake. Quin clenched his jaw to hold himself back. He would only be able to take so much before he had to have her.

When she touched his nipples and they instantly hardened, her breath caught in her throat. “I need…” she said, her brow furrowed in concentration, “I need closer.”

Good God. She threw one leg up and over him like she’d done to mount Jonas’s horse that morning, straddling him. Her knees rested on either side of his torso, and her sweet little bottom sat dangerously close to his cock.

A devious smile of victory brightened her face. “That’s better,” she said.

Before he could stop her—before he could think—she leaned down over him and kissed his skin. She placed thousands of tiny kisses all over him, licking here and biting there, moving ever lower as she adjusted her position.

To his abdomen, which flinched of its own accord under her attentions.

To his navel, which burned where her tongue laved at it.

To his—damnation! —to his cock, which jerked to life when she kissed it on the tip, a chaste and tender kiss that was entirely too erotic for an innocent such as his wife.

She grinned back at him, like the cat that had its fill of cream, and licked her lips.

Reason left him entirely.

Quin reversed their positions in one swift move. He slid his hands up her arms, drawing them above her head, linking them together where they knocked against the bedpost—and held them there, bracing them both in one of his own.

He drove into her like a man deranged.

Aurora’s eyes—blast, her eyes were filled with fear. He was behaving like a brute, rutting into her like an animal. But he couldn’t conceive how to stop himself.

So Quin kissed her, long and hard and deep, using his free hand to stroke her to a passionate fire, to build a need within her comparable to that which she had created within him. She whimpered against his mouth and he came up. Her eyes had glazed over with passion, burning with the same insatiable, all-consuming lust that fueled him.

He wouldn’t last much longer. His loins ached with the need to spill their seed. But he’d be damned if he couldn’t watch her climax again.

“Hold this,” he ordered, wrapping her hands about the post at the foot of the bed. “Don’t let go.”

With both hands free, he kneaded her breasts and licked her nipples and stroked against the nub of her womanhood until her eyes rolled back into her head and the walls of her womb constricted around his cock and she called out, “Niles,” as loud as he’d ever heard a woman in climax scream.

Finally, he collapsed on top of her again, filling her with his seed.

Niles. She’d called him by his name.

No one had called him by his given name in more than twenty years.

His breathing slowed and Aurora’s did as well. He started to roll off her before he fell asleep and crushed her, but she grabbed hold of his shoulders and wrapped her legs about his waist, holding him in a vise. “No. Stay like this,” she said. “Please.”

At the moment, he would do anything for her.

And all because she’d used his name.

Chapter Eleven

4 April, 1811

Truthfully, they ought to tell all the young ladies on the marriage mart about what goes on in the marriage bed. Granted, I do not know how they would find a way to put such a thing into words. But it is now my firm belief that any young lady who understands what awaits her after marriage will gladly accept the first acceptable offer that comes her way. This could save their fathers a great deal of duress and heartache, suffering through Season after Season of attempting to find a match of which the young lady approves. In fact, I could perhaps volunteer my services to these fathers. I am certain I could find a way to describe the experience. At least I could after experiencing it a dozen or so more times, myself. Perhaps I will have to encourage my husband to assist me in my research.

~From the journal of Lady Quinton

The morning sun cast a golden glow over Aurora’s skin as she slept. She looked so angelic in that light, so innocent—a far cry from the daring vixen she’d proven herself to be the previous afternoon and evening. And night. And again in the early morning, not long before dawn. Quin felt himself hardening again just from the memory of their lovemaking, but couldn’t wake her again. She needed rest—something neither of them got much of that night.

No, he wouldn’t wake her. Not yet.

Quin rose and pulled on a pair of breeches, then stole into his dressing room to ring for his valet. Breakfast in bed was precisely what this situation called for. Much like they’d eaten their supper in bed.

Then later in the day, after a languorous morning and perhaps another bout of conjugal play, they would visit Rotheby. He’d let the old goat see his wife—see that he’d done it, gotten married. That he’d become a proper bloody gentleman.

Maybe then his grandfather would relax somewhat, and stop threatening this nonsense about taking the abbey away from him.

But first, he wanted to enjoy this morning with his wife. He shuddered at the realization that thinking of her as such had come so easily. It felt almost natural, even in all its unnatural glory.

Him—Quin—a husband. Respectable. Ha. That last part was up for debate. Nevertheless, hell could now officially freeze.

Perhaps it already had.

~ * ~

Nerves were so terribly unattractive. They tended to make one appear rather gauche, if not downright vulgar. As such, Aurora tried never to let hers show.

Tried, being the important part of that thought.

Seated next to her husband in a curricle he’d borrowed from Sir Jonas, she knew she had lost this particular battle against her nerves. In fact, it was quickly becoming obvious even to her that attempting to quash them would be a fruitless affair.

“Do you truly think he’ll like me?” she asked for what had to be at least the twentieth time since Quin had informed her (only two hours before, mind you) that they would be meeting with his grandfather. A grandfather who, according to Quin, was a crotchety old windbag who’d griped and complained and bemoaned so much that his wife, Quin’s grandmother, had found herself in an early grave, likely from the strain of listening to his constant complaints.

Aurora kindly informed her husband that such a description did nothing to soothe her in those stressful moments before their departure. He claimed he’d only done so in order that she could be fully prepared for the greeting she was bound to receive.

Clearly, Quin had a thing or two to learn about how best to prepare her for a potentially uncomfortable situation. She’d done nothing for the past two hours save change her gown four times, fret over the particular styling of her coiffure, lament the fact (repeatedly) that Rebecca was not present to help her make her decisions, and seek her husband’s reassurance that his grandfather would like her. Which, if she were honest with herself, was really a means of asking if he was a fire-breathing dragon that would blow her over, should she appear in anything that did not suit his particular tastes.

Since Aurora could not possibly know the man’s tastes, having never met him before, she needed Quin’s guidance.

He had neglected to provide her with any. “Oh, you’ll look lovely in any color, I’m certain,” he would say. Or, “Truthfully, ringlets or not, you look fine.” Fine, indeed. The blasted man just did not want to make a decision.

Likely because he did not want to make the wrong decision. So surely, she had.

They would have to have a discussion about that. Later, though. Much later. At the moment, she was busy melting under the scowl her husband had fixed upon her.

“Aurora, I swear, if you ask me that question one more time…”

She frowned in return. “Perhaps if you would answer my questions when I ask them, I wouldn’t feel the need for repetitiveness.”

But before he could give her a proper answer, he pulled the curricle to a stop before a monstrous home—Mansfield House, according to the sign at the street. A stark, white cornice molding crowned red brick walls. The image was further enhanced by pilasters placed in regular fashion along the facade of the structure, situated alongside beveled windows.

It felt very austere, too precise. Granted, this was the house and not the man. But Aurora wanted desperately for her husband to turn the curricle around and then they could go back to their home. Perhaps Lord Rotheby could come to visit them? Maybe she wouldn’t be quite so intimidated if she were meeting the man on her own terms.

She frowned as Quin climbed down and turned to hand her out of the entirely-too-high-for-comfort contraption. Nothing in her life seemed to be working out on her own terms, of late.

But as soon as Aurora’s half-boots landed upon the street, a groom climbed up to take the curricle to the mews, her husband placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, and they walked along the path to the front door—and her entire body felt it would crumble beneath her from the sheer anxiety of meeting this man.

“Breathe,” Quin said softly into her ear, just as the door opened to reveal a stodgy butler. Aurora doubted she’d ever seen anyone execute such a stiff and precise bow. The man’s back must ache ferociously at the end of the day.

He directed them through the doors and into a sitting room. The rich woods and leathers covering every surface lent the room a masculine aura, without even the barest hint of a flower or bit of lace to add a feminine touch. Tables were placed precisely so, with nothing resting atop them. Nothing dared to move even an inch out of place.

The urge to shift something, to rearrange something ever so slightly, suddenly became overwhelming. Aurora had to tamp it down. The last thing she needed was to upset her new grandfather-in-law, even before she met him.

Blast. With all the fastidiousness evident in the décor, she ought to have chosen a different gown. The jonquil one she wore was too fussy and bore too many frills and flounces. She took a seat upon a leather sofa facing the hearth, frowning up at Quin as she did. He should have told her as much, but he neglected to tell her anything save she looked fine.

Fine. Aurora was beginning to hate the word. She looked about as fine as an elephant holding a teacup.

After several minutes alone in the sitting room, a young maid rushed in carrying a tea tray. She set the provisions upon a table and dropped into a curtsy. “Lord Quinton, Lady Quinton,” she mumbled, and then scurried on her way before Aurora could do more than smile at her.

The double doors had not yet come to a complete close when they were once again tossed open. An elderly gentleman, fully grey but with all of his hair still intact upon his head, marched inside with a cane in one hand. His attire was as pristine as the room they inhabited, right down to the quizzing glass hanging from a chain around his neck.

Quin, still standing near the beveled windows, inclined his head to the older man. “My lord, may I present my wife to you? Aurora is now Lady Quinton.” Even Quin, usually so nonchalant in his behavior, had taken on the strict formality the house (not to mention its master) seemed to foster. He turned to her and inclined his head again. “Madam, the Earl of Rotheby and my grandfather.”

And then the earl’s small, grey eyes turned to her, boring into her, looking her up and down like she was a horse being considered for purchase at Tattersall’s. She half expected him to examine her teeth. Instead, he cleared his throat. “Stand up!” he barked out. “I want to get a good look at you.”

Aurora felt too traumatized at such a greeting to do anything but comply. She dipped into a curtsy before rising to her full height and looking him straight in the eye.

He scowled in response. “Bold little minx, aren’t you?”

She did not deign to reply. In fact, she doubted he wanted her to respond, or if he did, he was merely trying to rile her. She could hardly win his favor if she was busy berating him, could she?

Several moments passed with the earl inspecting her from top to toe. His eyes settled upon her hips. Aurora could almost see the man measuring them with his gaze. She flushed at his attentions before chiding herself. Blast, she would not let him win by embarrassing her.

“I’m sure,” Quin said with more than a hint of disdain from behind her, “that my choice in bride meets with your approval.”

Lord Rotheby glanced over at Quin for only a moment before returning to his inspection of Aurora. “You’re certain of that, eh? And do you think you will be able to keep her in line? First there was the incident at the ball, though I daresay you are as much to blame as she for that. But then this morning, I read in the Haut Monde Gazette about a lovely little excursion your wife took yesterday morning. It seems she was seen at Gunter’s riding astride in a wedding gown and a brazen red Spencer and bonnet.”

Keep her in line? Brazen? It took every bit of effort Aurora had to refrain from stamping across the room and slapping some sense into the cantankerous grouch. Sadly, since all her effort was tied up in that endeavor, she was unable to keep her tongue in check. “Why, I never!”

“Oh, you most certainly did,” Lord Rotheby replied. “That, and I’m certain, a great deal more. My grandson will have his hands full with you, to be sure.” Surprisingly, he chuckled. Aurora nearly fainted dead away at the out-of-sorts sound of mirth coming from him. “I daresay the two of you will be quite the entertaining match. I only wish I would be able to watch it all play out.”

But then he snapped around to face Quin and the grouse returned to his tone. “But I warn you, Quinton, I will not sit idly by and continue to read about these antics in the papers. You know full well the terms of our agreement.”

Terms? What sort of terms could they possibly have? Quin was the earl’s heir—nothing could be done to change that. Could there be?

“I have not forgotten,” Quin said. His eyes flashed, much in the same way they had when he had berated her for her deportment before their wedding. She’d hoped never to see such stark anger in him again, but at least it was directed at someone other than herself this time. “We are married now. There will be no more scandal, nothing for the gossips to harp about. I intend for the ton to find us outright boring.”

Indeed! Well, it would have been nice of him to inform Aurora of that little tidbit. He may have very well married the wrong lady, if he thought they ought to run and hide from the beau monde, to keep to themselves and never be seen. She may not need to be the source of the gossip, but she certainly needed to know all of the gossip. By the time it was printed in the papers, it was old news. Aurora would have to inform her husband of her thoughts on the matter. But not until later.

At the moment, she was too fascinated by the battle that seemed to be playing out before her between her husband and his grandfather. They each glared at the other, though neither said a word for long moments.

Finally, Lord Rotheby continued. “See to it, then.” He situated his cane in one hand and started to leave, then shot his head around to eye her one last time. “Quinton. Another word with you, in private,” he barked, then continued out the door.

Could that be all? Surely this meeting had been far too brief.

But Quin hefted a sigh. “I’ll return to you shortly and then we’ll be on our way,” he said to her before he followed the earl. He closed the door behind him, but neglected to latch it fully into place.

She ought to walk across the room and close the door properly. She really should avoid listening to whatever they might have to say. Lord Rotheby had insisted that their discussion must be in private—and therefore Aurora could assume he meant for her not to hear it, as she was the only other person present.

But how often had she ever been known to do as she ought to do, or to avoid what she ought to avoid?

At least she resisted the temptation to tiptoe over to the doorway and press her ear against the one door that had properly closed. Instead, she listened from where she stood.

As it turned out, she needn’t have bothered going any closer. In fact, having the door properly closed might have done no good in keeping her from hearing the raised voices down the hall.

“More than keeping her in check, you’d better start keeping yourself in check, Quinton,” came the gruff shout of Lord Rotheby. “I daresay you instigated the scene at that ball, and I know you well enough to know you drove her to the one at Gunter’s.”

“I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me, my lord,” her husband responded. “I’ve married a perfectly acceptable lady, would you not agree? Or do you find fault with her already, after only seeing her for a grand total of two minutes?”

“The chit married you, didn’t she? How can that bode well for the state of her senses?”

“If she hadn’t, then I would be failing to uphold our agreement!”

“That’s beside the point.”

Aurora flinched at the sound of something crashing against the wall.

“Then what is your bloody point?” Quin shouted.

“Have you bedded her yet?” Lord Rotheby asked, causing heat to flood Aurora’s cheeks, even though no one could see her reaction. Oh, dear good Lord. The earl wanted to know about that aspect of their marriage?

“Don’t forget about that last portion of our agreement,” Lord Rotheby continued. “It had better be obvious that your wife is breeding before the year is out.”

Breeding? Before the end of a year, no less.

Quin’s voice dropped. She could no longer hear his words, just his tone—icy and menacing.

Aurora’s heart dropped alongside his voice. She’d been right. There was something else behind him wanting to marry her. Something that Lord Rotheby was insisting upon. Quin didn’t want to be married to her—he just needed to be married. To someone. To anyone, really.

And now she was stuck.

Chapter Twelve

4 April, 1811

Breeding is a rather ugly word. At least in terms of ladies and not livestock. I do not believe I like Lord Rotheby.

~From the journal of Lady Quinton

Surely, Aurora’s head would explode at any moment from the need to discuss Lord Rotheby’s requirements with her husband. Her headache was only compounded by her lack of ability to do just that because of all of these irritating visits. If they had returned home in a closed carriage where their conversation would not be available to anyone who chose to listen in, she would have confronted him about it on the drive home. However, given their current state of filling the gossip sheets almost by themselves of late, Aurora thought it best to keep their discussion as private as possible.

They had been back at Number Fourteen for only a few minutes when Sir Jonas, their first guest of the day, arrived. She smiled and nodded and attempted to make conversation with the man—and he was truly a delightful conversationalist, discussing such matters with her as Frankenstein, a novel he’d read written by a lady, no less—but honestly, would have preferred him to leave.

He did just that, but only when after visitors arrived. This time, Rebecca came in, escorted by none other than Lord Norcutt, who was overly fervent in offering his felicitations to the new couple. Rebecca’s presence would have been delightful, had it not been marred by the gentleman at her side. Aurora could hardly make such a pronouncement, however, particularly because of the little wager the two ladies had made, and so she was forced to bite her tongue and wish for time to move faster.

After their departure, a veritable parade of fashionable people stopped in to offer their congratulations (or, perhaps more to the point, to see what sort of gossip they could glean during in their brief visits).

By the time their exceedingly inadequately furnished drawing room had finally emptied that afternoon, Aurora had consumed more tea than any human should ever drink within a full day, let alone within the span of a few hours. “I do not believe I wish to ever have another visitor as long as I live,” she complained to Quin. From his position beside her, he nodded in agreement.

But before they could extract themselves from the room, yet another knock sounded at the double doors. Their butler ducked his head inside and announced, “Lord Hyatt to see Lord and Lady Quinton.”

Oh, dear good Lord. Father could not have waited one more day? But no, of course he couldn’t. This was the first time since her birth he’d gone a full day without seeing her. He must be lonely, being bereft of her company.

Quin waved for the butler to show her father in. A moment later, he came into the room, full of smiles and life.

Naturally, as any newly married daughter delighted to see her father would do, Aurora burst into tears.

Father rushed to her side and wrapped her in his arms. “There now. It can’t be so bad as all of this,” he said.

She tried to stop the tears, but they came in a torrential downpour and she couldn’t manage to staunch the flow. When she tried to speak, all that came out was a hiccup.

“What have you done to her?” Father asked, directing his malevolence at Quin.

“What have I done to her?” Quin bellowed loud enough that surely all their neighbors must have heard. “How soon you forget that your daughter led me on a merry chase yesterday morning, when she ought to have been walking down the aisle to marry me.”

“Just as soon as you forget,” her father said with more menace in his tone than she’d ever heard before—more, in fact, than she ever imagined him capable of, “that none of this would be happening if you had any sense of honor or decency and had refrained from debauching my daughter in the middle of a ballroom.”

“You, sir, ought to remember that your daughter is now also my wife,” Quin said in a much quieter tone than could possibly prove to be advantageous, “and it is therefore my responsibility and obligation to comfort her when she might need it. Kindly remove your hands from her person.”

Father did just that. He stood, spreading his feet wide and crossing his arms across his chest. “How dare you order me not to comfort my daughter? To leave her in her misery—misery you’ve caused, mind you—when she needs someone she loves and trusts to care for her?”

Oh, blast. This was not how she’d envisioned her first day of married life.

Though, admittedly, Aurora did rather enjoy the thought of two gentlemen fighting over her. Having it be two men, neither of whom could fit into the categories of Father or Husband, however, would be much preferable to her current predicament.

She leapt to her feet, planting herself directly in the middle of them—just as Quin was advancing upon her father to do God only knew what. “Stop. Right this instant, both of you stop this.”

Quin neglected to slow his advance, so she held out an arm, pushing him back with all her might. “I said stop.”

Finally, he listened to her. But he seemed none too happy about the arrangement, glaring so furiously at her father that the viscount ought to have burst into flames. For that matter, Father’s scowl would have easily felled a lesser man than Quin.

More to stall than anything, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Surely they were both capable of seeing reason, weren’t they? And surely they recognized the fact that one of them murdering the other would be far from a reasonable response to—

To what?

Oh, dear good Lord. Her marriage had already become a complicated, convoluted mess, and they’d only been married a day.

“Father,” she began, “Quin has done nothing to cause my tears.” Well, nothing that she was willing to tell her father, at least. Certainly nothing that she ought to mention if she intended to diffuse the tension in the air. “I’m simply overwhelmed by everything. This has all happened so fast.”

“Too fast,” Father grumbled beneath his breath.

She frowned at him before turning to her husband. “Quin, it is your right, as my husband, to comfort me”

“Damn right it is,” Quin interrupted, earning his own frown.

“However,” she interrupted with a good deal of force, “Father has always been my one and only comfort in this world, and it is going to take a period of time for both of us to adjust to the new circumstances we find ourselves in.”

Quin’s upper lip twitched—the only sign that he’d heard anything she had to say. She’d have to take that as a positive.

“As such,” Aurora pressed on before her husband had a chance to interrupt again, “I wondered if you might grant me a brief visit with Father—alone.”

Her father’s hand slipped around her own to squeeze it lightly, yet he remained silent. Thank heavens at least he understood when to keep his mouth shut. The same could not be said of her husband. Nor, for that matter, could it very often be said of Aurora.

How had she managed to escape learning such a trait?

That was neither here nor there. Aurora watched Quin, waiting for his response. She had to wait a good long while for it, too. He said nothing for many minutes, staring at her father, with only the twitch of his lip to tell her he was still debating his answer. When finally his gaze fell upon her, his eyes held the look of the naughty boy whose hands had been slapped for not sharing his toys, only to have those very toys taken away and given to another child.

He was jealous! Of her father. Over her. Oh, dear good Lord. But he inclined his head and left the room without looking back.

Now she’d gone and made a mull of things. But what could be done for it? Nothing at the moment, so she might as well enjoy the visit Quin had just granted her with her father. “Come, sit with me,” she said, pulling on Father’s arm until he plopped down into the seat beside her.

“I should not have done that. I shouldn’t have argued with your husband—accused him of making you cry.”

“Well, let’s not worry about that, shall we? I’m sure there are many far more important things we can discuss.” And likely far more times her husband would make her cry in the future. She didn’t think it would be a good idea to mention that tidbit to Father at the moment, though.

Father looked on her with austere eyes. “At the moment, the most important thing that should be on your mind is finding a way to make your marriage work. I’m sure it won’t be easy. You haven’t known him long enough for that. But, Aurora, you must do everything in your power to learn to love Lord Quinton. It will make all of this much easier.”

Love. Who was he to speak to her of love within a marriage? She did her best to keep the admonishment from her tone, for that just would not do when speaking to her father. “I shall endeavor to not argue with my husband any more than is absolutely necessary, but I can make no promises about love.” Particularly not since she had learned at least some small part of his reasons for marrying her. Love had never been in the equation, and she’d be damned if she tried to change that.

“You must try to love him. If you don’t, you’re dooming yourself to a miserable marriage. A bleak life.” Father raked a hand through his thinning hair on a sigh.

“I hardly think I’m the one dooming myself to anything.” Never mind her lost (and subsequently found) journal and its role in the debacle. “Or have you forgotten who kissed whom on that ballroom floor?”

“That is hardly the point, Aurora, and you know it.”

“Oh, so the point should be that I should have a marriage as euphoric as yours was with Mother? Such a delightful thought, spending the remainder of my days in an entirely separate wing of our estate, seeing each other only at meal times—and at those times he sees fit to attempt to impregnate me. Delightful prospect, that.”

Almost as soon as the words left her mouth, Aurora wished she could shovel them back in and swallow them, never to be uttered. The pain in Father’s eyes was too palpable, too intense.

“Is that what you’ve thought all this time? That we didn’t love each other?” His voice cracked over the words.

She shrugged sheepishly. “How was I to think anything else? You were always so absent, so despondent. Mother was listless at her best moments—but more often she cried all the time. I remember her tears more than anything.” Mother’s tears and her own. But never Father’s. He hadn’t cried, not even when Mother had died.

“Yes, your mother cried often. Far more often than you knew,” Father said. A single tear formed in his eye and fell down his cheek. Aurora reached up to wipe it, but he brushed her hand away. “Her father had always emphasized the importance of providing a male child, providing a son, and it was all she could think of. I told her time and again that it didn’t matter to me. We didn’t have to have any children at all, as long as we had each other. After all, it wouldn’t matter to me if the title passed to your Uncle George. He’s as deserving as anyone.”

Father walked to the great picture window and stared out. The silence hung heavy in the room between them. “But she insisted we had to keep trying. It was four years of trying before you were born. Four years of failures—more miscarriages than I could count, and a babe born dead. A boy. So when you came along, I was delighted. I thought, perhaps, your mother would be as delighted as I. That she could be satisfied with a daughter and stop putting herself through that torture. For a while, she was. You were our sunshine—like the dawn breaking over the horizon after a long, dark night. Aurora. Goddess of the morning. For the first time, I thought she might manage to be happy. To stay happy.”

He struck the wall beside him and Aurora jumped. Only then did she realize she’d been crying—when a tear fell to her lap from the force of her surprise.

“But she couldn’t keep that up. You weren’t a son.”

“Surely you told her the title could pass to me. Surely she knew she needn’t produce a male heir.”

“Of course I did. But her father had it so ingrained in her mind, that what I wanted and what I told her no longer mattered. So we kept trying, and always with the same result. I became so frustrated with her, for putting herself through that sort of torture—the loss, the grief—that I couldn’t stand to see her any more. She cried all the time. You remember that part. She was so ashamed of herself for being unable to do what she thought was expected of her that she couldn’t face anyone. Only her lady’s maid was allowed to enter her room most days. When she sent for me, I would go. I still loved her. I would have done anything for her if I thought it would make her happy.”

It was almost too much for Aurora to take in. Everything she believed, everything she thought she knew about her parents had been completely, utterly wrong. And if that was wrong, then everything she had spent her entire life doing in order to avoid the same fate…“You really loved Mother? You weren’t desolate because you’d married the wrong woman and could never love her?”

Father sat in an armchair and faced her, his eyes unflagging in their sincerity. “I loved her more than breath. I wish I could go back and find a way to convince her that love was enough. That you were enough. But I can’t. All I can do is convince you to make the best of the lot you’ve been given. Promise me, please, that you’ll try to love him. Promise me you’ll do your best to be happy with him. I can’t live with myself if you don’t at least try.”

Aurora didn’t know if she could live with herself, either. Loving Quin was not the reason, however. Honestly, with the way he’d made her feel last night, she didn’t think loving him would be very difficult at all.

The problem now was something else entirely.

It had better be obvious that your wife is breeding before the year is out.

What if she had the same problems with childbearing as her mother?

~ * ~

Quin paced in his library. Back and forth, back and forth, so many times he was sure he’d worn a path in the parquet flooring.

Why the devil had he allowed his temper to get the best of him? Simply telling himself that was how he’d always been wasn’t good enough. He was a married man now. He needed to behave with a hint more decorum around his wife, and even more so around her father.

He refused to become any more like his own father than he already was. Quin would be damned before he’d become a belligerent, bellicose husband, irrespective of his intentions (or lack thereof) for becoming a husband in the first place.

Learning to tide his anger was his new priority. He placed it right up alongside impregnating his wife. The latter of which held far more to entice him than the former.

Quin glanced at the clock. Over an hour. Aurora had been sitting and talking with her father for well over an hour, and all he’d done the entire time was pace. And fume. And slowly, meticulously disrobe himself. Not entirely, of course—but his greatcoat had been stifling him and his stupid neck cloth was strangling him, and no one could bloody well tell him what he should or should not wear in his own damned home.

However, none of those things were quite what he’d consider a grand endeavor of productivity in terms of accomplishing either of his newfound priorities.

The entire day had felt like an effort in futility. One visit followed by another. And another, and another. The entire time, all he’d been able to think about was tossing Aurora over his shoulder (which was still sore from breaking down the door yesterday, but that hardly signified with what he intended to do) to carry her back to his chamber where he could continue where they’d left off early that morning.

And not, mind you, solely because of Rotheby’s edict. Blast the old goat for his inane requirements and interference.

By the time he reached the brink of madness from waiting, a soft knock sounded at the door. It was so quiet, at first he thought it merely a figment of his imagination. Still, he called out, “Come,” as a precaution.

She came through the doors looking as dour as a funeral march, despite the jaunty appearance of her gown. “We need to talk, my lord.”

My lord? Hadn’t they already handled that nonsense? She must have reacted to his argument with her father more strongly than he’d anticipated.

Quin nodded and motioned for her to sit. Time to bloody well make nice. Wives were a damned nuisance, with all their emotional reactions and needing to talk. He’d have to inform Jonas of that fact. No reason for them both to end up leg-shackled if it could be avoided.

He took a breath and prepared to launch into an apology, only to have his sweet, little wife cut him off.

“Why did you marry me?” she demanded. “I want the real reason.”

Oh. Well, this was not quite the discussion he had expected. “You already know that, Aurora.” At least as much as he wanted her to know.

“On the contrary,” she replied, almost before he had gotten the words out, “I know very little of your motives in this matter. We both know why I agreed to the match. A touch of blackmail took care of that matter rather famously.”

She spoke the truth, but the sound of it coming from her lips made the act seem all the worse. Quin felt as low as the soles of his Hessians. “I married you because I ruined you. I was honor bound to”

“Save the ‘honor bound’ part for someone who might care to hear it,” Aurora interrupted. “We both know you have no more honor than a highwayman.”

For such venomous words, her face held none of the anger. Her eyes, usually so diaphanous, now were clouded in despondency.

Much as he felt after her rebuke. How could he argue against the truth?

“Will you not answer me, then? You will not tell me the real reason you needed to marry me?”

How could he? If he’d been upfront about it, instead of trapping her into this marriage, forcing her hand, things might be different. But as it stood, she’d likely run off to her father if she learned why he had targeted her for marriage. After all, he had treated her so poorly in the bargain, why on earth would she want to cooperate with him?

And he damned well needed her cooperation, at least until he knew for certain she was pregnant.

“I married you because of your journal,” he said. “Because as soon as I saw it and its contents, I knew without a doubt you needed someone to bring you to heel. Clearly your father wasn’t handling that job very well.”

Quin should have stopped before that last part. Damnation.

Her eyes welled with tears. He hated tears. They always left him feeling so bloody useless, so incompetent. It was usually easier just to avoid them. That wasn’t an option at the moment.

“You’re still lying to me,” she said, her voice so soft he had to lean toward her to make the words out. “I heard Lord Rotheby. I heard what he said about being sure I’m breeding before the end of a year.”

Devil take it. He thought he’d closed the door so she couldn’t hear.

“What will happen if I’m not?” Aurora asked, her eyes boring straight through him. Her lower lip trembled and it took every last bit of effort he could muster not to end the conversation then and there by kissing her on that lovely lip and letting things lead where they may. That would be so much easier.

He couldn’t tell her. If he told her the truth, she’d leave him just to spite him. She’d go back to her father. Even though Quin had the right to drag her back to his side as her husband, how could he when he knew what a loathsome despot he was?

He wouldn’t tell her.

“Rotheby just wants me to produce an heir. Nothing else.”

The lie rang hollow between them.

She stared at him, through him, as though she were trying to see into his very soul. Then the tears that had been welling in her eyes finally spilled over, crashing down onto the bodice of her gown and darkening the fabric where they landed.

She didn’t believe his lie any more than he did.

~ * ~

Why couldn’t he tell her the blasted truth? No matter how many times Quin told her that Lord Rotheby meant nothing by that statement, that the earl merely wanted them to produce an heir before he died, Aurora knew there was something more.

And that something more could prove to be of dire import, now that she knew just how difficult it had been for her mother to produce any child at all, let alone a male heir.

What if she couldn’t have a child? What if she was barren? Could he divorce her for such a thing, or be granted an annulment? Aurora really ought to have paid more attention when her governess tried to explain these sorts of things to her. She’d always been too busy thinking about her next story to pay attention.

She needed to talk to Rebecca—alone, without her husband sitting by and listening in, and without the boring Lord Norcutt (whom she’d promised to stop being so harsh to) offering his advice where it hadn’t been asked for.

All of that, however, would have to wait. She and Quin had finished their supper—a quiet affair, with neither in any hurry to speak to the other—and she’d bathed and dressed for bed. She fully intended to go to bed alone. In her own chamber. Far, far away from her deceitful husband.

Well, at least as far away from him as she could manage, with only the sitting room separating their chambers.

There was that niggling voice in the back of her mind, telling her that sleeping in her own bed would hardly work out, since she’d be awake the entire night thinking of all the delightful and sinful things she could be doing with her husband.

However, that voice was not speaking loud enough to be heard over the yelling at the forefront of her mind, reminding her of what a lying, manipulative nodcock he was, utterly devoid of any sort of morality or principles.

Her lady’s maid stood at the bed, turning down the counterpane and situating the pillows.

“I can manage from here, Rose. That will do.”

Rose bobbed a curtsy, before turning on her way.

Setting her candlestick aside, Aurora climbed into the bed and pulled the bedclothes over herself. She blew, extinguishing the flame.

The door between her chamber and the sitting room fairly blew off its hinges. “Just what in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” her husband asked in a far too menacing tone. He brandished his own candlestick about, waving it in the darkness.

“I’m going to bed. What are you doing?” The man had better learn that she only had so much patience, and all of it she’d set aside for the day had already been spent on their seemingly never-ending parade of guests and well wishers. There was simply none left to spare for him without a full night’s sleep.

Quin marched over to stand looming above her. “Since when do you think you sleep in here?”

“Oh, perhaps since the first time I slept in this house,” she replied, her tone filled with vitriol. “And if you’ll notice, I am polite enough to answer your questions before asking more of my own—a practice you might wish to consider adopting in future, my lord. It is, after all, only polite. Unlike barging into bedchambers without so much as a knock of warning, let alone a by-your-leave.”

His eyes, almost solid black in the dim light of a single candle, bore down on her like a hound chasing a fox. “My lord, is it? Well, my lady, you need not address me with any level of informality. You may do as you please in your own chamber during the day. But at night, you will see fit to join me in our chamber.”

What nerve! “I’ll not.” Aurora rolled away to give him her back.

“You will,” Quin responded.

She huffed—she actually huffed—something she never imagined she would do. Certainly not in response to her husband ordering her to do something that was so delightful she ought to want to do it, anyway. Perhaps she could work his insistence on her cooperation in her favor, though. “I want my journal back.”

“Fine,” Quin all but growled. He pulled the counterpane from her and took hold of her wrist, dragging her behind him.

Of all the dastardly, high-handed things he could have done, that took the prize. He wasn’t hurting her—far from it. But try as she might, Aurora could not pry herself free from his grasp. “Unhand me,” she demanded.

Instead of complying with her command, however, he spun on his heel to face her so fast she nearly crashed headlong into his chest. “I have no intention of unhanding you.”

His gaze had gone from murderous to ravenous in the minuscule span of seconds. If she didn’t look away soon from the intensity held there, she might just forget all about how upset she was with Quin for lying to her.

Oh, dear good Lord. She couldn’t look away. Now the heat between them was entirely too much to bear and she felt that liquid pull in her core drawing her ever closer to him.

“In fact,” he continued, “I intend to have my hands all over you in a few moments. More than just my hands.”

“So this is how you plan to do what your grandfather requires? By force?”

He winced and anger flashed in his eyes again. Or she thought it did. The frisson of emotion was gone as soon as it came. “I will never force you to do anything. But I do require you to perform your wifely duties. Which, might I remind you, only moments ago you agreed to with a compromise. Your journal.”

“I agreed to sleep in your bed, not to be dragged there by force.” Odious man. “And I want my journal now. Please.” She held one hand out with the other on her hip, waiting.

Quin marched to a bureau and retrieved the bound pages. “Here. But do not let me hear of its contents ever again, Aurora. Not from anyone but you.” He tossed them to a table nearby and then was before her again.

Too close. His heat would burn a hole in her nightrail within moments. Aurora ought to be furious with him. But then he was kissing her, and her ability to deny him anything fled like clear water running through a sieve.

Not good. Not good at all. She should not just allow herself to melt from a heated look and the kind of caveman-like behavior she had dreamed about. She should hold firm to her convictions. She ought to break the kiss, back away. If only she could free her lips, of course. Because after all, if she allowed him to lie to her this time with no consequences, only a day into their marriage, what could she expect for their future?

But she did nothing, and then it was too late.

His tongue slipped into her mouth, and her ability to form rational thoughts slipped out of her mind.

And Aurora couldn’t care in the least.

Chapter Thirteen

5 April, 1811

Oh, dear good Lord. Marriage is a far more complicated matter than I ever imagined. And husbands have an entirely unfair advantage in terms of arguments, in that they are able to incite rabid lust in their wives with a few simple touches in the appropriate places. God must have truly wanted to punish Eve for eating the forbidden fruit, to put all women at such a monstrous disadvantage. Admittedly, the results of said disadvantage are rather pleasant. But it is highly annoying to know that arguments will be that much harder to win from now on. And I do imagine that there will be a good many arguments to come. Life with Quin is hardly shaping up to be an uncomplicated affair.

~From the journal of Lady Quinton

Was he cursed to hate himself a little more each day? Damnation!

Quin’s life had been far less complicated before he had a blasted wife. Why Rotheby thought taking one would help him to settle down, he would never understand. With Aurora trying to involve herself in things that were none of her concern, Quin only wanted to drink himself into oblivion.

He couldn’t do that, though. He oughtn’t to fall back to his old habits, because he’d be sure to drive her off. God knows he wanted just that, at least on occasion, but if he lost Aurora, he’d lose everything else, too.

It was bad enough that the minx had overheard Rotheby’s weighty reminder to fill his nursery. But for her then to confront him on the matter, like she had any right to know his business! And then—then—to think she could sleep in her own chamber, just because he had not been entirely truthful with her? She’d lost her bloody mind, and was well on her way to forcing him into a similar situation.

No, Aurora would sleep in his bed every night, and he would take every opportunity he could find to fulfill his obligation.

But he’d be damned if he was going to do more with her than just that. There was no reason whatsoever to let his troublesome little wife get too close. With his luck, as soon as she did, he’d end up hurting her—losing her. Just like he’d lost Mercy.

Quin would rather die than feel that kind of pain again.

So when Jonas called the next morning and suggested they take a trip to Gentleman Jackson’s, Quin avidly accepted. A round of boxing or two would do wonders for working out the aggression that had built up inside him over the last two days.

Two days! No more.

Within such a short span of time, he was amazed that she could vex him so thoroughly and completely.

He couldn’t allow her to continue to affect him like this. But the more time he spent in her presence, the more she consumed his every thought. One look into her eyes, and he was drowning in her sea. One whiff of her hair, and he was caught in her snare. One touch of her skin, and he could think of nothing else but burying himself within her velvety womb again and again.

Granted, that might prove a hastened end to his means rather than restricting himself to such pursuits only at night. But however eager and willing Aurora was to learn once he stoked her fire, she remained incredibly innocent.

Quin would like to keep her that way, at least somewhat. He couldn’t sate his lust with her in the same ways he would a paid whore. She was his wife, after all. She deserved a bit more decency than that.

He would have to keep some distance between himself and Aurora during the days—nights would be impossible to avoid, if he intended to impregnate her. Not to mention he didn’t want to avoid her at night. Far from it. But the last thing he needed to do was become besotted with his wife.

If he did, he’d be doing neither of them any favors.

~ * ~

“Thank God you’re alone,” Aurora said when Rebecca sashayed into the downstairs parlor at Number Fourteen, the soft pink of her afternoon gown brightening the room considerably. The appalling grey everywhere would have to be changed. Perhaps that should be her first order of business as the new Lady Quinton. “We need to talk, and it is simply impossible to do that with Lord Norcutt with you. He is such a bore, you know, only wanting to discuss the weather.”

Rebecca clucked her tongue. “I thought you agreed not to disparage Lord Norcutt in my presence, Aurora. And he talks about far more than just the weather. If you would only listen to him sometime…”

That was about as likely to happen as Aurora spending an entire week without opening her mouth to speak. She waved a dismissive hand. “I have no intention of speaking of him today. There’s something far more important on my mind.”

“Such as the details you’re desperate to tell me about what happens in the marriage bed?” Rebecca prompted.

Aurora’s cheeks heated immediately. She wasn’t entirely sure she could talk of such things. Not yet, at least. Maybe someday, after she’d had some more experiences to help her articulate it all. How would one describe that? She’d have to attempt it—but in her journal first. It might take several attempts to get it just right.

But her mind was focused on matters of far greater consequence than that. “Such as whether I might be barren or if having a child might be as difficult for me as it was for Mother. Such as what Lord Quinton’s grandfather will do if I’m not carrying his heir within a year.”

Rebecca frowned. “You are worrying about all of these things two days into your marriage? I do care for you, Aurora—deeply. But these are things you cannot control. You’ll worry yourself sick if you don’t stop it this instant, and that is no way to begin a marriage.”

“But I have to worry about them!” Aurora argued.

Her friend raised a single, perfectly arched eyebrow. “Why? Will worrying help you to produce a baby? More likely the antithesis,” she scoffed. “Will it do anything about Lord Rotheby’s opinion on any matter? Hardly. You should focus your efforts more on getting to know Lord Quinton.”

Getting to know him might be important, but the matter of her pregnancy seemed far more important at the moment. “I don’t particularly want to get to know him. He lied to me.”

“About what?” Rebecca prodded, her expression dubious, at best.

“About…” Hmm. Well. She didn’t know what he’d lied about. Just that Quin was lying about something. “I don’t know. I don’t know what he’s lying about, but he lied to me. I’m as sure of it as I am of my own two feet. He’s a liar.” And she was married to him. Permanently, irrevocably, indubitably married to him.

“I think,” Rebecca said, rising from her seat and making for the door, “you should worry more about how to find some common ground between the two of you than about what he may or may not have lied to you about. And you shouldn’t worry about the rest of that, either. You’ll find the answers you need to know in good time. Until then, there’s nothing you can do about it one way or another.”

In good time. That wasn’t particularly helpful. Nor was it very comforting. Some friend Rebecca was turning out to be now that Aurora was a married woman and Rebecca was not.

Rebecca faced her again just before leaving. “Nothing. Understand?”

Aurora merely scowled in response.

~ * ~

For the better part of a fortnight, Aurora spent her days primarily alone. Of course, there were meetings with Mrs. Gaffee where they went over the household budget and plans for furnishing and decorating the various rooms of Number Fourteen, and visits with Cook to plan the menu.

Two or three days a week, Rebecca stopped in—usually accompanied by Lord Norcutt or by Her Grace of Aylesbury, or perhaps by a maid, but never alone after that one visit. Father made a weekly visit, but claimed to be too busy with Parliament to visit on a more frequent basis—Aurora believed it far more likely that he wanted to give her time alone with her husband. A few ladies of the ton had dropped in for her at-homes to pay their regards. But, more days than not, Aurora sat alone.

Worse than that, she grew more and more lonely with each day that passed.

Quin left with Sir Jonas shortly after breaking his fast each day, and seldom returned before supper time. Even at those meals, they rarely spoke.

The bulk of their interaction occurred each night in bed.

Aurora enjoyed the marriage bed. Far more than she thought healthy, actually. But she could feel herself going slowly mad with no one to really talk to, with no real interaction beyond, “We’ll have mutton for supper this evening, Cook,” or, “I should like the parlor to be a lovely rose color, Mrs. Gaffee.” She had no one to gossip with, no one to discuss the undiscovered territory that was matrimony, no one to allay her fears that seemed to ever introduce themselves to her overindulgent mind.

So she decided it was time, yet again, to write.

But what ought she to write? As a married lady, she had no more dreadful suitors vying for her hand, so she saw no need to convince herself one way or another of their inability to suit. The finer details of her marriage to Quin had proven far more inventive than even her own imagination, so she doubted she could add to them in any profound manner.

Aurora pondered the predicament she found herself in for several days before finally settling on her plan of action: she would simply write. She would write anything and everything that came into her mind, whether it seemed like the type of thing she ought to be writing or not. But if she continually thought about what she was going to write, she might never actually write anything.

With that matter settled, Aurora waited for her husband to leave (as he always did) on a particularly sunny April morning, then headed for the escritoire in the sitting room between their separate chambers.

She dipped her quill into the ink pot and set the tip to the parchment of her journal. Taking a deep breath, she allowed her mind to wander until it settled upon something—anything, really—which beckoned to her.

The first image that settled in her mind was of Quin. Aurora frowned. She didn’t want to write about him. The blasted man did nothing but infuriate her, giving her silence all day, and then causing her to wail like a mad woman at night with the wicked things he did to her.

Besides, look at the trouble writing about him had gotten her into in the first place.

No, writing about Quin just would not do.

Next came a picture of a puppy. Very cute, but not particularly something that was just begging her to write, either. She shoved that image out of the way.

A mistle thrush singing from the hawthorn tree outside the window distracted her to the point she debated writing about it. That, however, would hardly take up any words at all. Aurora was not, after all, a Lord Byron, able to write verse after verse, page after page, symbol after symbol, on and on ad nauseum to infinity about a silly pilgrimage. She had far more weighty matters on her mind.

Yet again, a vision of her husband passed before Aurora’s mind—this time, clad in only a cravat hanging limply about his neck and his Hessian boots, polished to a high luster. Oh, dear good Lord. The room felt like the fire in the hearth had just that moment roared to life, engulfing her in its heated embrace.

It seemed there was nothing to be done for it. She was simply going to have to indulge her fantasy and write another story about Quin.

He came to me in the nude save an inadequately starched neck cloth and two Hessian boots that fairly sparkled in the warm candlelight. My stomach quivered in anticipation from the look in his eyes.

Quin looked ravenous—like he hadn’t eaten in weeks and I was his favorite Yorkshire pudding. He growled low in his throat; if I hadn’t heard the sound so many times before, I’d think him an animal in disguise as a man. But since I had heard it in such regular intervals, it sent a shiver down my spine and caused that all-too-familiar wetness to pool between my thighs.

I wanted him to touch me. I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted him to do all the things he had done before, and everything I didn’t even know was possible between a man and a woman. I wanted it all.

He did come to me then, and he kissed me in that way he has of making my head spin and my toes curl and all my thoughts fly out of my head faster than on-dit can spread through a ballroom.

But just when I wanted to wrap my arms around his neck and hold on for dear life, he broke off the kiss and turned me away from him. I was too bowled over to protest. I was also too surprised to argue when he placed his cravat over my eyes, rendering me blind.

Blind? Oh, my. Where on earth was her mind taking her this time? Aurora really needed to get a firmer rein over her imagination.

This was apparently not the moment for that to happen, though. Before she could stop herself, her quill was flying across the page, filling it with devious and fantastic images, entirely too risqué for her to ever share with another human being.

Not even Quin.

~ * ~

Quin ducked to avoid Hodgson’s right. Close one. Hodgson’s fist glanced off the top of Quin’s head.

Not enough to make him sweat. Not yet.

Two steps to the side. Another to the front. He pummeled Hodgson in the stomach with his left, planted his right squarely to the eye.

Hodgson came up again like it was only the tickle of a feather to the roar of the crowd gathered at Jackson’s.

Blast, the man was built like Hercules.

Then again, that was what Quin had wanted. He wanted someone to knock him senseless. He wanted to forget about his lovely little Siren of a wife long enough to convince himself he wasn’t falling head over ears in love with her.

He wanted oblivion.

The kind of oblivion he used to find in brandy—but that he couldn’t get from brandy anymore because he was supposed to be a bloody respectable, married gent.

Quin blocked a blow from the right just in the nick of time and spun away. When he faced Hodgson again, he aimed a jab at the larger man’s jaw.

Too late.

Hodgson connected with his left straight in Quin’s eye.

Everything went black.

~ * ~

“Wake up, you arse,” Jonas said, his voice cutting through the blessed fog filling Quin’s mind. “You should have listened to me.”

“Sod off. If I had listened to you, I’d be exactly the same as I have been for the last two weeks.” Married to a temptress that he was falling for faster than he knew what to do with, without anything to remind him of reality. Sparring with Hodgson at least gave him a dose of the latter, even if it could do nothing about the former.

Naturally, Jonas grabbed Quin’s neck and dunked his head in a pail of water.

He came up spouting obscenities. “Why the devil did you do that?”

“Because you are exactly the same as you have been these last two weeks, aside from the split lip and blackened eye. Which, by the way, is swelling and looking rather putrid.” Jonas grimaced and backed away. “A boxing match isn’t going to change the state of your marriage, regardless of who you choose to spar with.”

The state of his marriage, indeed. Quin started to frown, but stopped when it hurt. “You have no business speaking of my marriage. You aren’t even married, yourself. What do you know about it?”

The crowd at Jackson’s had thinned considerably. Only a few gentlemen stood about, watching the sparring match in the ring half-heartedly. A random shout rang out in the otherwise quiet boxing salon while Quin waited for an answer.

Finally, Jonas spoke. “You’re right. I know nothing of being married. Not that I don’t wish to know, but for now, I’m ignorant. But I do know you.”

Could Jonas be any more cryptic? “Meaning?” Quin drawled.

“Meaning I know that you’re avoiding your wife. I may not know why you’re avoiding her. I honestly can’t understand why you’d want to. She seems perfectly amenable, and frankly, rather enjoyable—in more ways than one.”

“Watch your mouth or I’ll draw your cork. Right here. Right now.”

Jonas raised his hands in defense. “Hold on a minute. I never said I had enjoyed her, or that I would enjoy her. I just said she seems enjoyable. Jealousy is ugly on you.”

Quin’s head snapped around. Jealousy? Hardly. He didn’t care enough to be jealous. She was just his bloody wife—his, damn it all—and Jonas would do well to remember that fact.

Right?

Sitting where he was and brooding over matters would solve nothing. He pushed to his feet, only to wish he’d taken a bit more time in the process. Quin reached for the wall to steady himself. Hodgson must have knocked his head harder than he realized.

“I’m going home,” he said, pushing away from the wall. Home. He hadn’t thought of anywhere as home in so many years, he couldn’t recall when the last time might have been. How very odd.

“So early?” Jonas called out behind him. “It’s hardly past luncheon. Lady Quinton will not know what to do with you at such an hour.”

Good thing for her, Quin knew exactly what to do with her at such an hour. Sparring hadn’t been enough that day. He needed something—something more. Something else.

He needed Aurora.

When he pushed through the front door a few minutes later, she was nowhere to be seen. “Is Lady Quinton above stairs?” he asked the butler, who stood by to take his hat and gloves.

“Indeed, my lord.”

Quin removed his greatcoat as well, leaving it with the servant. He took the stairs two at a time, practically bounding with anticipation, loosening his cravat as he went. Good God, he seemed like a randy schoolboy, off to visit his first whore.

But Aurora was not a whore—she was his wife. He ought not to even think along those lines. Hell, she was virtually still an innocent, despite the fact that they’d been married for over a fortnight and she had become rather adventurous in the marriage bed. But he couldn’t very well bed his wife in the same manner he would bed a whore. Could he? It just didn’t seem the thing to do.

If he didn’t get the thought out of his head right that moment, he didn’t know what he would do.

She sat at the writing table in their sitting room, asleep with her head lying on something. Likely her journal. The blasted minx probably couldn’t help herself. The quill still rested in her right hand, hanging at her side. A few black ink marks stained her otherwise perfect and demure gown. For some reason, those few imperfections nearly drove him to distraction, they were so enticing.

He ought to leave her alone. Clearly she needed the rest, if she’d fallen asleep in such an uncomfortable position. Perhaps he shouldn’t have kept her up so late the night before with their lovemaking, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

Or maybe he should carry her to her bed. Tuck her in. Be a gentleman. But God knew he struggled with that on a good day. Today was most emphatically not a good day.

He desperately wanted to know what she might be writing about now, since her previous writings had focused on her suitors. What could possibly be calling to her now, as a married lady of the ton?

Quin walked over to stand behind her, making as little sound as he could. He peered over her shoulder and scanned the page.

Damnation! Even without reading every word, he knew exactly what she’d been dreaming up. Quin looked ravenous—animal in disguise—cravat over my eyes—blind. In an instant, he was harder than he’d ever imagined possible. And he did happen to have a cravat handy. Lucky him. He could give his devious little wife exactly what she wanted.

He pulled it free from his neck and placed it carefully over Aurora’s eyes, tying it tight behind her head. She stirred slightly when he removed the quill from her hands, but didn’t wake—not even when he lifted her from the chair and carried her to his bed.

Ever so quietly, he slipped into his dressing room and retrieved two more cravats, before returning to Aurora and gently slipping the gown free from her luscious body.

Chapter Fourteen

15 April, 1811

I honestly do not know where these ideas have come from. They’ve sprung up like the Sirens from the water, unbidden and unexpected, and I am entirely uncertain I should ever share them with another living soul. I shall have to be sure my journal never escapes me again. However, I now believe wholeheartedly that I am not the proper person to educate the young, unmarried misses of the ton about the joys of the marriage bed. After all, one never knows what will come to my mind. I would likely shock them all to the core, and have them all go screaming off to the Americas to live in a more civilized society with the Indians than the one which could produce such thoughts in an otherwise proper, married lady. Even I am scandalized, and the words were my own.

~From the journal of Lady Quinton

Oh, dear good Lord. Aurora was experiencing the most delightful dream, one she never wanted to wake from. Strong, hot hands slid over her naked body, stroking her to a fever. Then a tongue, wet and insistent, laved at her tender nipples. The scratchy stubble abraded her skin all over.

Quin. It had to be Quin. She’d know his hands anywhere, at least when they were driving her to the brink of madness like that.

She wanted to touch him, too, to see him. But when she tried to lower her arms, they wouldn’t budge from their position stretched high over her head. And her eyes couldn’t see, even though they were open. Aurora whimpered in frustration.

“Hush now, love,” Quin whispered into her ear. His breath tickled like butterfly wings against her cheek. Which was all very lovely, but she desperately wanted to touch him, to do for him what he was doing for her.

“I want to”

A finger pushed against her lips, forcing her to stop speaking. “I know what you want. Trust me to give it to you.” Quin’s voice seemed magnified, rougher and huskier than usual. His voice alone was enough to have her squirming for release under normal circumstances, but this was a highly irregular situation to say the least.

Perhaps it was all so very different because it was a dream. A dream rather like the story she had been writing just before she dozed off. But still a dream.

His mouth came down upon one of her breasts and she jumped up from the bed in shock. Then something snaked across her mid-section, and she felt everything come alive. Could she possibly feel like this if she were dreaming—like a thousand tiny dancers were waltzing across her stomach, the trails of their feet sending her insides to quivering like an un-poked egg yolk on a passing plate?

But he couldn’t possibly be doing these things to her. Not really. Could he?

Her scream when his thumb found the nub of her sex shattered any illusions she held about being asleep. She was very much awake, and Quin was very much performing delightful and wonderful things to her person—all while keeping her blindfolded and tied to the bedposts.

Then he ceased touching her anywhere. She felt empty and cold without his caress. Aurora desperately wanted to see, to know where his attentions would fall next.

But the not knowing only intensified her response when he did touch her again—this time with a tongue to the inside of her thigh, tracing a slow, arabesque path upward, closer, infinitely closer to her center.

Oh, dear good Lord! “You can’t. You can’t do that.” She tried to close her legs together, to stop him from doing what surely must be depraved and sinful, even if it occurred between a husband and wife. Blast, why had he tied her arms? She had to stop him. She couldn’t allow him to do that.

But his strong hands pushed her thighs apart and his tongue continued its torturous path to what must surely be hell. When his tongue flicked against that part of her where his thumb had rubbed only moments before, it proved to be her undoing. Her hips rose up in that way they always did when he was sheathed inside her, driving ever closer to him, forcing even more of the lewd act.

She was wanton. Wild. Desperate for more.

So more he gave, until she collapsed in a heap of limbs upon the bed.

Sated.

~ * ~

Quin liked to watch Aurora sleep after their lovemaking. She looked so glorious, so peaceful. So unencumbered by the guilt he always carried around with him. After they had acted out her fantasy, she had rolled to her side and tucked her derrière up against him without even waiting for him to remove the ties from her wrists or eyes, practically mewling like a well-fed kitten before she was unconscious again. Even now, with the afternoon sun setting the room ablaze like a fire, her skin shimmered with the remnants of their combined efforts.

For once in his life, Quin wished he had some skill with a brush. He’d love to capture her like this, so he could forever look on her just in this moment. He couldn’t break the spell. So he lay there, watching her, dreading the moment she would move and life would go on.

Which, of course, she did and it did. Perfection could never last. His life had ever been a testament to that fact.

Aurora stretched her limbs and rolled to face him with slumberous deliberation. She smiled, a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin that only comes after sex.

And she gasped. “Gracious. Quin, what happened to you?” Her voice rose to a shrill pitch, rather similar to the one his mother would use when he and Jonas trekked muck and mire into her house of an afternoon. Before he could issue any denials of wrongdoing or otherwise explain himself, Aurora bolted upright in bed, pulling him along with her, and proceeded to poke and prod at his exceedingly sore eye and lip.

Bloody impertinent chit. “Stop that,” he warned, pulling away.

His wife failed to listen. She pressed a finger against the precise point of impact over his eye repeatedly, ignoring the fact that he visibly winced in pain each time she did so. “This is not good. You need to put a beefsteak over this. I’ll ring for it at once.”

Quin grabbed her arm to stop her. “You will not.” He took a breath to calm himself. He did not need to lash out against his wife. Not now. When she tugged against him though, he nearly lost control.

Count to ten. Breathe.

“Might I remind you, Aurora, you are in my bedchamber?” Quin asked. She looked up at him with incomprehension in her eyes. “And you are unclothed?” he continued, with greater emphasis. Finally, her eyes widened as realization dawned.

Good. He wasn’t quite breathless in anticipation over searching for a new valet after he was forced to kill his present one for the act of walking in upon his wife in the nude. Particularly not when such a thing would be her fault.

Aurora tugged the counterpane to cover herself from his gaze, as she always did when they weren’t in the midst of their lovemaking. He hated that she was still so shy, so reserved with him. She’d been anything but reserved when she called out his name—Niles, again—when he’d brought her to climax not so terribly long before. She only used his given name when she climaxed.

“Will you please put a beefsteak over it, Quin?” she asked after several moments passed in silence, each of them staring at the bedding between them. “It looks awfully painful.”

Pain—physical pain—would never hurt him. Not really. Not after his Father had beaten him to the point of not caring anymore. But if it would make Aurora feel better…“Yes,” Quin said. “After you’ve dressed.”

She reached a tentative hand across to caress it, soft as gossamer against his rough exterior. What a perfect contradiction they were together. He almost flinched from the tenderness in her touch.

“Will you tell me?” she asked, her voice almost verging on timidity, for once. “What happened?”

There was more to her question than the surface implied. It hung heavy in the air between them, dangling for something to latch onto. But he couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t tell anyone. Not even Jonas knew the full truth of Quin’s growing years, only bits and pieces.

“Boxing,” Quin said. “I was boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s. Nothing to worry about. Just a friendly sparring match.”

Aurora’s eyes welled with tears. She knew there was more. But blessedly, she pushed them back and changed the subject. “Why did you…you know?” she asked, shrugging and pointing to the limp cravat hanging from the bedpost that had held her wrists captive. The blush that washed over her cheeks had his cock hardening again.

He smiled then, a practiced smile he usually reserved for paramours of the night. Then again, she was now his permanent paramour of the night. “Did you like it?”

Her blush intensified and she looked away.

Quin caught her chin in his hand and forced her to look at him. “You did like it. Very much, from all indications,” he said with a satisfied laugh. “What did you like the most?”

Aurora slapped at his hand, frowning when that earned no response. “I asked a question first.”

“I’ll answer when you answer.”

He could answer her now. But he loved the look on her face when he frustrated her. It aimed for matronly-disdain, but fell much closer to displeased-but-brazen-governess.

She huffed in response, her breath sending a stray tendril of her dark waves flying over her shoulder. “Fine. I liked” Aurora stopped and gave him an ardent frown. “If you breathe one word of this to another human soul in the whole of your lifetime, Quin, so help me God I’ll rip every hair from your chest one at a time in painstaking fashion until you cry out for mercy. Is that clear?”

He did his best to maintain a straight face. “Abundantly so, love.”

She nodded. “Good. Then the part I liked the best was that I felt everything more acutely than normal. Since I couldn’t see, my other senses seemed to be enhanced. I never knew what to expect, so I couldn’t anticipate what you would do next.”

With his left hand, Quin drew lazy patterns over the counterpane between them, working his way inch by inch to where it covered her body. “I see,” he said, his fingers following the ornate patterns of the fabric as it twisted over her thighs. Her eyes followed his every move. “So would that be something you’d like to repeat in future?”

“Not fair,” Aurora retorted. “I answered your question. You have to answer mine.”

“Touché.” He followed the pattern up, up, up to where it fell over her breasts, which rose and fell heavily with each breath.

“Why did you do that?”

“I could say because I wanted to, and it would be the truth. But it isn’t the whole truth.” And on this, at least, he could provide her with that. The same couldn’t be said of very many things in his life. “The truth is I did it because you wanted it. Because you wrote it in your journal. I read it over your shoulder and decided to act on it.”

“But I didn’t—I mean” Aurora searched for words as he dipped his fingers below the counterpane to tease her ruched nipples. Her breath hitched.

“I took some creative freedoms,” Quin said. “I added a few of my own special touches.” He leaned in and captured Aurora’s mouth for a searing kiss that left him breathless, as well. Even after he ended it, he held onto her hair, breathing in the scent of her. Fresh, spicy. “No one is to ever see your journal but me. Is that clear?”

Aurora nodded. “Why do we only talk in bed?” she asked. “Why can’t we have a conversation with our clothes on?”

Because it was the only time he let his guard down. But he couldn’t tell her that. He couldn’t let her in that much. Quin placed some distance between them. “Why don’t we go out tonight?” he asked. “They’re performing The Taming of the Shrew at Covent Garden.” Hopefully she wouldn’t press the matter. He didn’t want to tell her more than he already had.

She sighed but then smiled up at him. “Really? We can go out? I should like that very much, indeed.”

“That’s settled, then. Off you go. Get dressed.” At least she was distracted for the moment. Perhaps he could manage to surprise her further. Quin pulled on a pair of trousers and rang for his valet. He needed to send an invitation.

~ * ~

The Taming of the Shrew, indeed. Was Quin trying to make a point? Perhaps she ought not to press him so much. But really, she was only trying to have a civil conversation with the man. He couldn’t very well fault her for that, could he?

Likely, Aurora was overreacting. After all, he couldn’t well have commissioned the performers to prepare that particular play for that particular evening, certainly not without notice. It was just a coincidence. It had to be. Didn’t it?

She chided herself in silence for succumbing to vanity during the entire carriage ride to and from Covent Garden that night. Truly, everything he did was not all about her. Quin, as usual provided they weren’t in bed, remained mute as a church mouse for the duration of their short journey, which made it entirely too easy for Aurora to take herself to task.

Rather unsporting of him, if one should ask her.

Somehow, without her knowledge, he’d also sent invitations to Lord Norcutt and Rebecca to join them in their box. It had been quite the pleasant surprise.

At least the Rebecca part of the equation had been pleasant. Lord Norcutt hadn’t been entirely unpleasant. He actually made rather enjoyable, if not altogether unique, conversation in the box before the play began and out in the foyer during intermission. No prosaic talk of the dreary weather in sight.

Rebecca must have warned him. Aurora could think of no other reason for the sudden change in his disposition.

She likewise could think of no good reason why her husband would suddenly have taken to surprising her. Thrice in a single day, if one counted the way he woke her from her nap. What on earth could he possibly be after? Lively conversation didn’t seem to be high on his list of priorities, as evidenced by his return to silence in the carriage. There had to be some sort of ulterior motive for the change in his demeanor.

Still, Aurora wouldn’t complain. A husband who tried to surprise her on occasion was far better than a husband who never even looked her direction unless he had designs on how to impregnate her, whether she was capable of being impregnated or not.

Now, if she could just manage that last little part.

~ * ~

Blast. Blast, blast, blast, damn, blast.

Three weeks ought to have been plenty of time, right? Any normal lady, with normal ability to carry a child, could expect to have one on the way within three weeks of regular marital relations, couldn’t she?

But not Aurora.

Of course, no one had ever accused her of being normal. But that was beside the point. Oh, heavens, why had her courses decided to arrive that morning? Why couldn’t they have stayed away, so she could perhaps share the good news with Quin? Maybe then he would speak to her again. Maybe then they could pretend to have a normal marriage.

But no, they had to go and show up, as regular as the vicar at the pulpit of a Sunday morning. Blasted inconvenient nuisance.

At least Quin had gone off with Sir Jonas to box at Jackson’s again before her lovely little visitor had arrived. She didn’t want to tell him. Not yet.

Aurora wanted a little more time to sulk in private first.

He really ought not to engage in such a violent pastime. Every time he came home, she wondered what new bruises or cuts he would have, if not something far more serious.

But her wishes didn’t seem to matter—other than her wishes in the bedchamber. Quin was always eager to sneak a peek in her journal, to see if she’d come up with anything new or interesting for them to try. If not, he was more than willing to introduce her to a few of his own ideas.

Well, Aurora might not be able to satisfy him by telling him he would soon have an heir, but she could at least satisfy that other part of him. She took her journal and ink pot, selected a quill from her escritoire, and then headed for the newly decorated parlor downstairs. Someone could come by to visit, after all. Better to be readily available. She’d hate to keep anyone waiting, particularly when she received so few visitors most days.

Once settled at a table near the window, she opened the journal and let the words flow. At least that wasn’t impeded by her frustrations with Quin. Words never failed her, even if men (or nature) did.

Aurora was unsure how much time had passed as she scribbled away in her journal, outlining a delicious new fantasy she hoped Quin might soon indulge her with, when Burton cleared his throat at the French doors. “A visitor, my lady,” he said, holding out a silver tray with a calling card upon it. Lord Griffin Seabrook.

Oh, dear good Lord. What could the man want?

Still, she so seldom had any visitors. It couldn’t hurt to entertain him for a brief visit, could it? “Send him in,” she said before closing her journal and setting her quill on the table. Blast. Ink stained her fingers, but there was nothing to be done about it at this point.

Aurora stood and waited for her guest to arrive. Moments later, he came through the double doors and bowed to her. “Thank you for seeing me, Lady Quinton.”

“The pleasure is mine,” she replied.

Though she wasn’t entirely certain there would be any pleasure involved. His look was rather familiar to her, with grey eyes and a long face. A horse face! He had to be related to Lady Phoebe—Quin’s previous fiancée.

The one he had jilted.

How very peculiar. “I apologize that my husband is away today. I’m sure that he would be glad to handle any business you may have with him at a later date, if you would like to make an appointment.”

Lord Griffin’s eyes flashed to a sudden storm, before returning to their more placid state. “I did not wish to see your husband, my lady, but you.” He took a few more steps into the room. “If I may be so bold, that is.”

Oh. Well. Aurora had no earthly idea what the man could possibly need with her, but there could be no harm in speaking with him. “Of course. Do come in and have a seat. I’ll order tea.”

He nodded and she slipped from the room. When she returned, he stood by her table at the window. A brisk scan of the table showed nothing out of order, though. Nothing to worry about.

“Please,” she implored. “Sit.” Finally, after she took up the nearest chaise, he sat in an armchair close to the hearth. “What can I do for you, my lord?”

“I should have come to you long ago,” he began. “Actually, I did, but you were unwell and could not receive visitors that day.”

“Yes, I seem to recall.” Barely. So much had happened in the interim.

Lord Griffin shifted in his seat. “Your husband—he is not an honorable man, ma’am. I am too late to impede your falling into his trap, but I feel honor-bound to warn you of his character. So you can protect yourself, as best you can.”

That piqued her interest. “Protect myself?”

“Yes,” he continued. “You may not be aware that Lord Quinton was once affianced to my sister, Lady Phoebe.”

“I am aware.”

Again, he fidgeted. “And are you also aware of the circumstances surrounding the dissolution of that engagement?”

Perhaps Lord Griffin would tell her the truth. Perhaps she would finally know the whole of it. “I understand that my husband cried off.”

“Has he told you why, ma’am?”

Or perhaps he wouldn’t. The weasel. “I hardly think you came here today in order to discover what my husband has or has not told me of an engagement that ended several years ago, sir. If you have, you will be sorely disappointed. Kindly make your point.”

Oh, dear. That came out a bit more snippy than she had intended.

“My point?” he said, staring off into the distance. “Well, my point is that your husband is after your fortune, ma’am. When my father told him the amount of Phoebe’s dowry, he ran off without a backward glance. Clearly, he expected a more sizeable sum.”

Lord Griffin could be right. Quin could be after her fortune. But that was a matter settled between him and her father, and she had nothing to do with it.

Nevertheless, it was too late to worry over such matters. Even though they could have something to do with Lord Rotheby’s concerns. Though what breeding had to do with her inheritance, she would never understand.

“As you’ve already stated, Lord Griffin, you are too late. We have married. Three weeks ago, I might add. I hardly think our financial situation is any of your concern, and I assure you that such matters would be better handled with my husband, if I am somehow mistaken on the first count. If that is all you’ve come for, I’ll have Burton show you to the door.”

“Wait, please. There is something more.” He looked down at his hands on his lap for a moment. Almost too long a moment.

“Yes?” Aurora finally prodded.

“My sister—she lost everything. After Quinton left, her reputation was in tatters. It remains so today.”

What did the man expect Aurora to do, for goodness sake? She could not very well help to improve a young lady’s reputation when her own was in its current state. An acquaintance with Aurora was hardly the fashionable accessory every lady of good ton must have. “Go on.”

Griffin cleared his throat. “Phoebe has only now agreed to return to society. My father, brother, and I are doing everything we can to lend our own respectability to her, so that she might attain some success. But if Quinton is in any way associated with her, with any of us, everything we have worked for will be lost. The gossipmongers will leap to again cast her in the same light they have kept her in for several years now. Please, will you do what you can to be certain your husband keeps to himself—that he stays away from Phoebe and the rest of my family?”

That was really not such a grand favor for him to ask. But truly, the visit had gone on long enough. “Of course, my lord.” She stood then and made to leave the room, forcing him to follow. “I bid you good afternoon,” Aurora said with a curt nod.

Lord Griffin shuffled out of the room, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his trousers as he went. Pockets that appeared to be rather overfull with papers. The man truly ought to hire a secretary to handle his matters. Shoving papers into one’s pockets seemed a poor way to treat them, particularly if they held any import.

The entire visit left her unsettled. She had no acquaintance with the man, so what did he care? Why was he so concerned? And if he truly was so worried about her, why wait until they’d been married for so long? Why not try harder to stop the marriage to begin with? None of it made any sense.

But worrying over that would do her no good, particularly when she had enough worries of her own already. Aurora went out to Burton, to have him send in a maid to retrieve the tea service. Mrs. Gaffee stopped her in the hall to briefly discuss her plans for decorating the dining room, and then she returned to her table. A little more writing would do her good. At least it would calm her nerves.

She opened her journal and her heart drained itself of blood. Oh, dear good Lord, she was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Quin would murder her.

He would toss her to the bottom of the Thames, tied down with weights. He would drag her behind a horse through all of London, then chop her head off and put it on display at the Tower. He would tie her to a stake and burn her alive.

And she would deserve all of that and more.

Countless pages were gone, torn free from the middle of her journal.

Her life was over.

Chapter Fifteen

25 April, 1811

If the world were not already at an end, if life were not already over, if there were truly hope that Quin could forgive me for being such an utter and complete failure as a wife, then perhaps I would not be so desolate. But he cannot forgive such a sin as allowing these pages to be taken from our home. He cannot forgive my barrenness. So life must irrevocably be at an end, and the world will come to a stop with it. How could it possibly go on, after all that has gone wrong? I daresay the End Days are upon us. Protect your families. Flee if you can. No amount of sorrow will be able to change what is to come.

~From the journal of Lady Quinton

Quin walked home from Jackson’s with an ache in his jawbone but a smile on his lips. Truly, spending his days boxing had proven to be a perfect solution. It kept him away from Aurora and her lovely little pout all day, and the sparring provided him with enough distraction to forestall mooning over her when he couldn’t see her. Too much time in her company or spent thinking of her, and he’d be in a sorry state, indeed. It was best to just not care overmuch. Then he couldn’t get hurt.

Well, aside from the obvious physical aspects, but they didn’t signify.

It didn’t hurt matters, either, that all his time spent at the boxing salon meant his wife had ample time on her hands to let her imagination run away with her.

What an imagination she proved to have. If he didn’t know just how innocent she’d been when they married, Quin might suspect she’d spent time in some of his typical haunts. His previous typical haunts, that was. He was a married man, now. It just wouldn’t do for him to continue his visits to those lovely establishments.

He was going to have to find ways of keeping his little bride entertained, though. Clearly, she’d grown restless. It hadn’t been much of an inconvenience to take her to the play. Perhaps he could arrange an excursion to Vauxhall. She’d probably enjoy the fireworks. And maybe he could sneak her off on one of those dark, winding paths he’d heard so much about and see what happened.

It was well past dark by the time he climbed the steps to Number Fourteen. Clouds had started to roll in that afternoon, too. Looked like the agreeable April weather they’d been experiencing was soon to come to an end. Pity. Taking Aurora to Vauxhall for an evening would have to wait, if the stormy sky was any indication.

“Good evening, my lord,” Burton called out as he came through the massive oak doors. “Her ladyship requests that you go to her at once in your sitting room.”

Indeed. Quin left his hat and greatcoat with the butler and took the stairs two at a time. An evening in might not be so terrible, after all. He could only wonder at what fanciful method of lovemaking she’d thought up this time. Perhaps she would be waiting for him in some diaphanous confection he could rip off her. Or maybe in nothing at all.

Quin threw open the door to their shared sitting room, already hard just thinking of all the infinite possibilities that could await him, ready to toss her into his bed and sate their needs until the sun came up.

He felt as though he’d run headlong into a brick wall the moment he saw his wife, however. Aurora sat on the floor, crying with her head resting in her arms over a Louis XIV armchair by the window. She didn’t even look up when he came in.

Good God. Quin could handle many things. He could spar with the best of them and come away relatively unscathed. He could convince virtually any woman to lift her skirts, all with a flash of his teeth and a knowing look in his eye. He could cheat an experienced cheater at the most notorious gaming hells and not get caught. He could down a full flask of brandy and still find his way home before sunrise.

But he hadn’t the slightest inkling of what to do with a crying woman.

His younger sister must have cried some when she was growing up, but Mother had always handled Nia’s problems. Quin was too busy sowing his wild oats—and then some—and then he had left entirely. He hadn’t seen her in years. Probably wouldn’t even recognize her if he saw her.

It was better that way. Better for all of them.

But at the moment, he wished he had spent more time with his female relatives. Surely then he would have a clue what to do with Aurora.

Quin closed the door and moved to stand by her side. He placed an awkward hand on the back of her head, patting. “There now. Whatever it is, it can’t be so bad as all of that.” He hoped. He was thoroughly incapable of handling anything truly deserving of raising such a breeze.

For a brief moment, Aurora stopped and looked up at him. That only served to increase her sobs, however. She threw her face against the cushion with such force, he was aghast that she didn’t have a bloodied nose. Somehow, he knew that he would be useless in such a scenario.

“Should I ring for your maid?” he asked. Please, God, let her say yes. “Or perhaps you would like to speak with Lady Rebecca? I’d be glad to send for her.”

“They can’t help me,” came Aurora’s muffled wail. “No one can help me.” Her voice was more pitiful than anything he’d ever heard in his life.

He was probably the problem. It had to be his fault. That was just how his life worked. If only he knew what he’d done this time. Perhaps he ought to spend more time with her. Maybe she was feeling neglected. Damned nuisance, figuring out how to handle a wife.

The crying part only magnified the nuisance.

Quin sighed and took a seat in the armchair next to her. “Tell me the problem. I’ll resolve it, whatever it is.”

She sniffed and looked at him with the biggest, most forlorn and wounded eyes he’d ever seen—red and swollen and swimming in an ocean of tears. That expression would be the death of him. He wanted to grasp whoever had caused her desolation by the scruff of his neck and cudgel him to a bloody pulp. At that moment, he would do anything for her.

Damnation, was this normal? Did it happen to all married men? This was certainly an unexpected effect of becoming a husband—and not one which would be conducive to maintaining his sanity. Particularly if Aurora cried like this very often.

Still, she said nothing—just sat there looking at him with her sad eyes.

Now was not the time to lose his patience. Quin counted to twenty to avoid yelling at her. “Tell me. I can’t help if I don’t know what the problem is.”

Aurora’s lower lip trembled. “But you can’t help,” she wailed. Surprisingly, the fountain filling her eyes seemed to have stopped. Maybe the worst of it was past.

He gave her the sternest look he could muster. “Nonsense. I’m your husband.” Was it not his duty to set right whatever problems she had? “Tell me.”

Good God. He thought she’d cried herself dry, but a fresh wave of tears filled her eyes and poured down her cheeks. If she didn’t stop soon, they’d both drown.

“My courses arrived this morning,” she said with all the overwrought emotion of a whore at confession.

Her courses. This was all because she wasn’t with child? Life as he knew it would never be the same again, if Aurora intended to cry like the world had ended each time she had her monthly visitor.

Granted, he would have preferred for her to become pregnant immediately—he’d certainly done his best to make it happen and would gladly continue his efforts in that arena with no complaint. It would get Rotheby off his back—but that wasn’t exactly realistic. They might be lucky if she was impregnated within the year his grandfather had allowed them.

“It’s all right, love”

“It’s not,” she said and cut him off. “It’s not all right. What will happen if I can’t have a baby, Quin? What will Lord Rotheby do?”

Why did his wife insist on worrying about things that were none of her concern? “That’s unimportant right now, Aurora.”

She glared through her tears. “Don’t lie to me. And don’t brush this off.”

“I’m not bloody lying to you,” he all but bellowed. And then winced when she flinched in reaction. Blast, he had to reclaim control of his temper. “All I’m saying is that your courses arriving today are not anything to be overly upset about. So stop crying.”

“Stop crying? If that were all there was to it, maybe I could stop. But there’s so much more.” Aurora lowered her gaze to stare studiously at the floor. “So very much more.”

“Such as?” Quin drawled. Aurora’s dramatics had his nerves wearing thin. She ought to have pursued a career on the stage. It may not be genteel or well looked upon by those of Quality, but she put the actress who had played the shrew at Covent Garden the other evening to shame.

She remained mute.

He’d have to remember in future, when she came to him with those huge, red eyes, that it was all a show. All an act. Nothing real for him to get upset about. No reason to contemplate violence.

Quin stood and stretched. “I’m going to bed. Feel free to join me when you’ve finished with your crying jag.” Then he retreated to his chamber and closed the door to his wife’s hysterics. If only he could always do that—turn off her emotions by simply closing a door.

His life would be so much less complicated.

~ * ~

She should have told him. Aurora knew he would be furious with her either way, but she ought to have told him.

Quin deserved to know that she’d made a laughingstock of him before the whole of the ton. He had a right to prepare himself for the scandal set to break out.

But how? How could she admit to something that was set to tear their lives in two, particularly when he was already upset with her? And how could she give him the truth when he baldly and purposefully refused to do the same for her? Besides, while Lord Griffin may have taken something from her, if Quin tried to do anything about it, Lady Phoebe would end up being hurt in the bargain. Aurora did not want for that to happen—not on her account.

So she kept the dilemma of her journal’s missing pages to herself. Quin would find out soon enough. She’d have to pay the piper eventually, but there was no reason to rush matters.

And she cried herself to sleep.

In her own bed.

~ * ~

Quin woke to the sound of scuffling feet and raised voices in the hall. “Get out of my way or I’ll cudgel you over the head with this cane!” Rotheby? What the devil was he doing here? Quin tossed the counterpane aside and blinked. The sun was hardly up in the sky. Granted, the clouds would likely obscure it to the point it would be difficult to see, but darkness still reigned in his chamber.

He started to snap at Aurora to rise and cover herself before realizing that she wasn’t there. Damnation.

He’d barely pulled on a pair of trousers before the door to his chamber flew open. Rotheby charged in brandishing a society paper in Quin’s face, with Burton and two footmen following in his wake.

A throb formed in Quin’s temple almost on sight.

“You promised to settle down,” the earl sneered. “To become respectable. And then this. I should never have given you a chance. I should have just cut you off and left you to deal with the consequences. This is how you repay me?”

What the deuce was the cantankerous old codger carrying on about? Quin took the Haut Monde Gazette from his grandfather, glancing up when Aurora slipped into the chamber from their sitting room, a heavy wrapper covering her nightrail. He wished something was doing the same for her eyes.

All a show. Her pitiful act was just a desperate bid for attention, from the puffy eyes, to the visible shaking, to the abject look of horror. Attention he could hardly afford to give her at the moment, particularly since Rotheby was standing by, waiting for some answer he doubted he could provide.

He looked down at the paper in his hand. When he squinted to make out the words, Burton brought over a candlestick.

Quin’s heart nearly stopped.

Gentle readers, let it be known that we are sufficiently Scandalized by the Writings of the new Lady Q to be convinced never to remain within the presence of either herself or her husband. The very Fact that her ladyship feels it prudent to Write at all, we find highly disturbing and enough to warrant the Cut Direct. However, the Acts recorded therein, if not Illegal, are at the very least Immoral and Improper and we cannot, in all good conscience, refrain from warning our readership of their lurid existence.

To think that a gently-bred lady might partake in such Acts is both shocking and appalling, but also to Write about them in such vivid and licentious detail, and to share the Writings with her unwitting guests? Let us suffice it to say these Writings cannot be shared, lest we run the risk of permanent Ruin to the Innocence and Moral Righteousness of our faithful Readership.

Chaperones, steer your charges away from Lord and Lady Q’s paths. Hostesses, permanently remove their names from your guest lists. Give Lord and Lady Q the Cut Direct, and do not look back. Your Virtue will thank you for it.

For shame, Lady Q. For shame.

Quin shook now, too, but where Aurora’s shaking was fear, his was nothing but rage. Had she given her journal to someone? He thought he’d made it abundantly clear that no one was to know of its existence but the two of them, and now it was being spread to the gossip sheets for the entire ton to see.

But he would have to deal with Aurora later. Rotheby required his immediate attention. “My lord, I do not know what to say”

“Lucky for us, I do. You are a disgrace to me, Quinton, and your wife is no more than a common trollop. How can I expect you to keep her in line when you can’t keep yourself in line?” Rotheby paused for a beat, almost as though he expected an answer. “I can’t!” he said when Quin neglected to answer. “You leave me no choice. Giving you a year to get your life in order was clearly misguided, wishful thinking on my part.”

“No, my lord, it was not. Give me more time”

Rotheby scoffed. “More time to what? How do you intend to further trample my name through the mud? No, you’ve given me ample proof that you will never change, that you will always be the wastrel that your father was. I refuse to allow any more of my fortune to support your habits.”

Good God. He really meant to do it.

Rotheby was going to cut him off.

“My lord, must I beg you to give me another chance to prove myself to you? I’ll do anything you ask. But remember, I have a wife now—even if she is foolish and naïve, I’m still responsible for her wellbeing.”

“Perhaps you should have kept a closer eye on her activities instead of spending your days being pummeled in your boxing club. But that is none of my concern. Use her dowry. Take a profession. I care not what you do, but you’ll not do it with my assistance.”

He couldn’t take Aurora’s money, even if she was responsible for getting them into this mess. There had to be another answer.

Rotheby turned to leave, giving Aurora a look of disdain on his way out the door.

“Six months,” Quin begged. “Give me six months, instead of a year. I’ll prove to you that I can be the gentleman you expect me to be. I’ll do anything it takes.”

His grandfather did not turn to face him, but he at least stopped.

He’d better keep talking while he could. “We’ll go to Quinton Abbey, away from the gossips. I’ll do everything you want me to do, and we’ll do it there where no one will report my mistakes along the way to the papers.”

“An heir?” Rotheby asked, his voice gruff.

“We’re working on it,” Quin replied, ignoring the ferocious blush that heated Aurora’s cheeks.

“And you’ll run the abbey like it deserves to be run?”

Christ, the man wanted a lot. “I’ll learn all about crops and accounts and tenants. I’ll see to it.”

They stood there in silence for many minutes. Finally, Rotheby nodded. “Six months. I’ll come by any time I wish to satisfy myself that you’re holding up your end of the bargain. You won’t know when I’m coming, so you can’t hide the evidence of your continued failures.”

Then Rotheby was gone, with a massive thunderclap sounding as he left.

~ * ~

“I can explain,” Aurora said through her tears. Her voice was hardly loud enough for her to hear it herself.

“Can you, now?” he asked. The soft, almost inaudible quality of Quin’s tone warred with the furious nature of his visage. “Isn’t that lovely.” He stalked away from her to his dressing room and closed the door.

Oh, dear good Lord. She knew nothing good could come of Lord Griffin’s visit the day before, but never in her life did she imagine the man would go to such lengths. And to claim he wanted to aid her, all the while planning to ruin her and Quin both.

She had to talk to her husband. He must understand.

But understand what? Aurora was a fool—a gauche, inane, blundering fool.

She tiptoed to the door and knocked softly. “Quin? Please, open the door.” Nothing. Placing her ear against the door, she heard some muffled thumps and bumps, but not him. Not his voice. “Please?”

Without warning, the door opened and she would have fallen through the newly emptied space if he hadn’t barreled through it heading the other way. Fully dressed. “We’ll leave for Quinton Abbey after luncheon,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Have your maid pack your belongings. I’ll inform Burton and see to the remainder of the arrangements.” He didn’t look at her—never spared her even a passing glance as he brushed past her and left their sitting room. “Be ready to leave when I return.”

“Quin…?” Aurora wanted to stop him. She wanted to talk to him, to explain what had happened. To apologize.

But he was down the stairs and issuing terse commands to the servants, and then the door closed behind him and he was gone.

~ * ~

Foxed. He needed to be good and foxed. That had always helped before, and doubtless, today would be no exception to the rule. After leaving Burton instructions for packing the household and arranging for carriages and horses for the journey, and a brief visit with his solicitor to arrange the details of turning Number Fourteen back over to its owner, Quin headed for White’s and proceeded to drink himself to oblivion.

If only the brandy could erase his foolhardy foray into marriage.

But no, he was the imbecile who’d thought it wise to force the vixen’s hand and rush her into marriage, when he knew nothing of her but that scandal seemingly awaited her at every turn. How very true that assessment had turned out to be. He couldn’t go back and start over. Love her or loathe her, Aurora was his wife, irrevocably and incontrovertibly. Permanently.

And he only had six months to straighten himself out and bring her to heel. Good God. He needed another drink just thinking about it. But he’d run out of time. The trip to Wetherby was a solid two and a half days, and the sooner he could get her there, and to Quinton Abbey, the better. Who knew what trouble she’d managed to stir up in the few hours since he left her.

He sure as hell didn’t look forward to finding out.

In any case, he had to go back. He had to leave with her. So he left White’s and headed that way.

Two carriages waited in front of Number Fourteen, one laden with trunks and the like, with enough room inside for a few servants. The other would carry Quin and Aurora—Lord help him. The journey might very well kill him.

He walked up the steps and passed his hat to Burton. “Is Lady Quinton ready?” She’d damned well better be.

The butler nodded. “She’s waiting for you in the parlor, my lord.”

Quin wasted no time. He barreled through the French doors. “Shall we leave?” he asked, not really expecting an answer. At least nothing more than her standing and coming with him.

But she sat there with her swollen eyes—with tears still actively falling, no less—and stared at him.

“What now?” he said on an exaggerated and exasperated sigh, dragging a hand through his hair.

Aurora’s lower lip trembled. “I’m so sorry, Quin. I never meant for any of this to happen.”

She thought being contrite was supposed to make everything better? How would her contrition change anything? “It’s a bit too late for remorse. Now let’s go.” Quin held out a hand for her to take, but she remained in the chintz armchair by the window.

“Please,” she said on a sob, “let me apologize. Please let me explain.”

“Explain?” Quin roared, ignoring her wide-eyed reaction. He had very little patience when he was sober. He had none at all when he was into his cups. “I hardly think you could possibly come up with an explanation for your behavior that would make the offense forgivable. I don’t want to hear your explanations. Or your apologies.”

Her tears poured freely down her face, leaving dark, wet stains on the bodice of her traveling gown where they fell. Such an actress. Aurora truly went for the highest dramatic effect, didn’t she? “You’re right, of course. It is unforgivable. But at least let me tell you”

Quin’s head snapped around. “Tell me what? Unless you intend to tell me the name of the blackguard you handed your journal over to, so I can seek him out and rip the sorry bastard limb from limb, there is nothing I want to hear from you. But then again, why should I believe you if you did tell me his name? You’re likely only trying to save your own arse from my retribution.”

She gasped in what could only be mock horror. “I would never do such a thing! You clearly know nothing at all about me.”

“Oh, and I suppose that is my fault, is it?”

“Yes, actually,” Aurora said. “I’m not the one running off every day and having my brains bashed in, instead of spending time with you. I’m not the one who forced the other into a marriage within a few moments of meeting. I’m not the one who”

“No,” Quin sneered, “you’re just the one who insists on sharing every sordid, intimate detail of our lives with anyone you come across.”

She came across the room and stood toe-to-toe with him. “Is that so? Well, at least I admit to it after the fact. At least I do eventually tell you the truth. Unlike you, with the way you continually tell me there’s nothing to worry about. Liar. You’re a liar and a cad. Lord Rotheby made the situation rather clear this morning, didn’t he? Too bad for you he didn’t take you off into private somewhere.”

“I told you it was none of your concern. Which it isn’t.”

“Is it not? What if I’m barren, Quin? What if I can’t have a child? What then?” Her clear eyes flashed like a flame roaring to life. She pushed a hand against his chest—not enough to force him backward, just enough to goad him into a reaction. “I’ll be destitute alongside you, that’s what!”

“Stop pushing me,” he warned, his voice low.

“Stop pushing you?” Aurora taunted. “Why? Can’t a big man like you handle a lady? You big, drunken oaf.” Once again, she pushed a hand against him, harder this time. “You’re a drunk and a scoundrel, and I’m sorry I ever met you. Is this how you handle your problems? By resorting to drink?”

He’d have preferred some gambling and a whore or two, but the brandy would have to do this time. Quin took her hands into one of his own and squeezed to get her attention, then he forcefully pushed her back a step. “You’re not half as sorry as you should be.”

The vixen didn’t take the hint. She shoved her way into his face again, pressing against him with both hands. “Half as sorry as I should be? Oh, that’s right. I suppose I’m the unfeeling lout between us, the one incapable of communicating apart from blackmail or threats.”

He’d had enough. Clearly, the minx was unaware of his limits, let alone of the proper way a wife ought to deport herself. Quin turned to leave, but Aurora reached out and pulled against his arm. “We aren’t finished here,” she said.

“Oh, we most certainly are finished.” His hand was in the air, positioned to strike her across the face before he recognized what he was doing. Aurora flinched, pulling back, hiding her face behind her arms.

He had almost done it. He had almost become exactly like his father in that moment, in that one instant. The only difference remaining—that he had not actually struck his wife—was now on the precipice of withering and dying before his eyes.

And she’d been the one to drive him to the brink.

Quin lowered his hand to his side, slowly, methodically. He spoke in measured tones. “Get in the carriage, Aurora.”

Then he walked from the townhouse without looking back to see if she followed.

Chapter Sixteen

27 April, 1811

The silence is almost unbearable. Yet I have no words. I feel as though I’ve been stripped naked and placed on display for the world to deride me and all the mistakes I’ve made. It would be nice to have company for such a humiliation, but I would not wish the pain upon even Lord Griffin.

~From the journal of Lady Quinton

How had Aurora’s life gone from carefree to utter misery in less than a month? Everything about it was hopeless, right down to the ache in her back from spending the better part of three days in a poorly sprung carriage. In silence. Except for the creaking of the axels and the clip-clop of the horses hooves, and, of course, the sniffles coming rather audibly from herself and the grunts coming rather frequently from her husband.

He refused to speak to her the entire journey. Even over their meals at coaching inns, he would stare icily at his food or the copious amounts of ale or brandy he drank each night.

Quin didn’t even insist on sharing a bed with her at night, as he had throughout their entire farcical marriage, instead situating her in an entirely separate room.

Which was just as well. Aurora had no intention of willingly participating in any marital activity with him. He could take her by force if he wanted, but he would have to do just that—use force.

There weren’t enough curses in her vocabulary to accurately describe what he was—what he’d become to her.

So for the duration of their journey, she sat on her bench, staring out the dusty window to her right and watching the rolling landscape they were leaving behind. And he sat on his bench, likewise staring out the window to his right, watching what lay up ahead. Both staunchly refused to look at the other. At least not when they’d draw notice. Aurora did steal a few peeks while he slept, noticing the furrow of Quin’s brows and the clench of his jaw, even in repose.

She wanted to write. There were so many emotions roiling beneath the blasé exterior she was trying to convey to him, that they threatened to overwhelm her if she couldn’t find a way to express them. Sadness over leaving Father and Rebecca behind with little more than hastily scribbled notes of explanation. Guilt at being the cause of her husband’s turmoil, however unintentional it had been. Fear of her inability to provide him with the heir Lord Rotheby demanded. Devastation at ending up in precisely the marriage she’d always intended to avoid.

More than anything, though, the loneliness ate her from the inside, devouring anything good or hopeful she had left.

Writing would help her to work through it all—to find a way of moving forward. But she couldn’t do it with all the bumps and jumps caused by the carriage. Besides, Quin would likely be furious with her for attempting it. Her writings, after all, were the impetus of their current scrape, even going back to their very meeting. He’d likely forbid her to ever lift a quill again, not that she desired his approval.

Aurora could only hope that Quinton Abbey would be a massive structure—one large enough that she never had to see him, if she so desired. One where she could lose herself and forget that she’d married the least understanding man in all of England.

One much like Fairfax Priory, where her mother and father had spent their days as separate and distant as two people could be.

~ * ~

Darkness started to fall when they were still a good hour from Quinton Abbey. Good. Quin couldn’t stand to see Aurora’s tears any more. The cover of night was his only refuge from the storm of her misery.

Misery he’d caused. Quin held no illusions about that. The long road from London to Wetherby had provided him ample time to ruminate over all the ways he’d failed, not the least of which would be as a husband.

Hell, he’d failed Aurora starting before he ever met her.

Now he was bloody well failing himself, too. Through all the years since his father’s death, he knew he was far too much like the man for his own good. The drinking. The gambling. The whoring.

But never—not once in twenty years—had he ever taken that last step. Until Aurora.

Since he married her, he’d been traveling down that path without even realizing it. He rationalized his daily visits to Jackson’s as just working out some tension. It was a lie. She was far more right on that front than she knew. He was lying to the worst person possible—himself.

Quin was becoming just as violent as his father had ever been, and had nearly taken it too far when he came so close to striking Aurora.

What if he couldn’t stop himself the next time? What if he lost that thin thread of control completely and struck her? Would he stop with one slap, or would he take it further—like his father had so often done?

He couldn’t trust himself. Not anymore.

It was easier at night. He could place Aurora in a separate chamber and lock his door, and not have to wonder what he’d do.

But during the day, it was just the two of them. All day. In the carriage.

Fighting to avoid each other’s eyes.

The tears that continued to well up in his wife’s eyes ripped him to shreds inside. She tried to hide it. She would wait until she thought him asleep, and then she would stare out her window and let them flow.

It nearly killed him, watching her agony and being unable to do anything about it. In all truth, he deserved to die. He’d taken all the euphoria and vivacity and life from her. And what had he given her in return?

Nothing. Not even himself.

Ha. Like he would be any sort of a gift. Most days, he detested being saddled with himself.

The carriage turned from the main road down the path leading to Quinton Abbey. Thank God. Perhaps here she could find some happiness. Perhaps here he could put enough distance between them to stop his maddening descent into both depravity and love.

Perhaps here it could all change.

~ * ~

Aurora jolted awake when the carriage rolled to a rickety stop. Quin tossed the door back and climbed down without waiting for the driver to set out the steps. Apparently they had arrived. So very kind of him to inform her of such.

Her husband’s voice rumbled outside the carriage. She could only assume he was giving the driver and outriders some instructions, since she couldn’t make out his words. And then he was gone, marching up a long walkway which cut through what was likely an impressive garden. It was difficult to tell, however, without any lanterns about to light the way.

For that matter, Aurora could hardly make out lights in any of the windows of Quinton Abbey—and there were ample windows, to be sure. The abbey was easily double the size of Fairfax Priory. Perhaps thrice the size. The moon was only a sliver, its light far from ample this evening.

After her husband had disappeared from view, the coachman set down the steps and handed her out of the carriage. “His lordship requests that you hold onto my arm and walk with me up to the main house, ma’am. He does not wish for you to lose your footing in the dark.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. Why could Quin not take the task upon himself, though? Was he so averse to her presence after what had taken place that he couldn’t even walk alongside her? That must be the case. After all, the carriage had hardly come to a stop before he had leapt from it and run off to his precious abbey.

The path leading through the gardens went on much further than Aurora initially thought. Several moments had passed as she walked along it on the arm of the coachman, and still they seemed a reasonable walk away from the main entrance. Quinton Abbey grew ever larger in her mind the closer they came to it.

And then lights began to pop up in the windows, a few at a time. Footmen came down the path toward them, pausing before her to bow, and then continuing on their way back to unload the carriages.

By the time Aurora arrived at the entryway to her new home, a small but growing contingency of servants stood before her with Quin at their helm. He took her hand from the arm of the coachman and placed it on his own. “Thank you for your assistance,” Quin said to the man. The coachman bowed and left.

Quin turned her to face the line of servants.

Directly before Aurora, a curmudgeonly-looking man with silver hair and spectacles waited for her attention. He executed a stiff and precise bow. “Welcome to Quinton Abbey, Lady Quinton. Please call me Forster. I must apologize for our lack of preparedness for your arrival, ma’am.”

Quin stirred at her side. “The fault lies with me. I failed to send word of our journey.”

“Nor that of your marriage, or even that of your return to the country,” said Forster under his breath, garnering Aurora’s attention.

Return to the country? Goodness, how long had Quin been away from his estate? Aurora eyed her husband warily, wondering what he’d been doing before his arrival in London.

Quin frowned at him before he looked down the ever-growing line of his employees. “These introductions can wait for tomorrow, Forster. It has been a long journey. Her ladyship requires rest.”

Aurora fought back a scowl at his declaration. He’d not said a word to her in days, nor had he listened to a word from her. How would he know what she needed and what she didn’t need? Insufferable despot. But it would not do to call him to task for such a thing in front of his servants—particularly not when they’d only learned of her existence moments before.

“Of course, my lord,” the butler said. He glanced over his shoulder as three maids scurried into the grand foyer, issuing hasty curtsies as they joined the line of servants. “It appears her ladyship’s chamber is prepared. Mrs. Marshall, would you show Lady Quinton to her suite of rooms?”

A squat, round woman with greyed hair and a mess of keys tied to her waist curtsied. She clearly held the post of housekeeper. “If you’ll just follow me, my lady,” she said before bustling off toward an imposing hall, easily three times as tall as her husband if not more so. “I’ll be glad to give you a tour of the abbey tomorrow if you should like. And any time you’re ready, we can go over the household accounts and such. But I daresay you’d prefer a bath before you even think of anything like that.”

“Indeed, a bath would be just the thing.” Aurora left Quin’s side, gently but insistently tugging her arm free from his hand, to follow Mrs. Marshall through a labyrinth of hallways and up an opulent staircase, listening to the older woman natter on like a magpie until finally they reached an elaborately furnished stateroom.

Ornate plastered designs covered the ceilings, standing at odds with the rest of the architecture. From all indications, the abbey had been built centuries before. A mammoth, curtained, four-poster bed stood at one end of the room, surrounded by Queen Anne trunks, chests, armchairs and divans, all made of rich walnut and covered with burgundy cushions. The walls bore gold satin-silk linings.

The chamber was terribly elegant, even though the furnishings looked to have remained in their current position for decades, at the very least. On the opposite end of the room, a series of maids were filling the tub with steaming water. Rose stood beside it, ready to assist Aurora with her bath.

“Well, my lady,” Mrs. Marshall said after Aurora took a moment to inspect her new surroundings, “I hope this is to your liking, at least for the time being. Nothing’s been changed in the mistress’s chambers since Lady Rotheby, may she rest in peace, was still Lady Quinton. Your husband’s mother never saw fit to make changes. I’ll leave you to it with your maid. Let me know if you need anything else. Otherwise, I’ll expect to see you tomorrow.”

Aurora stepped closer to the bath, pulling her bonnet free and tugging at her gloves. “Yes, of course.” The housekeeper turned to leave, but stopped when Aurora called out, “Oh, Mrs. Marshall? Would it be possible to have a tray sent up this evening?” A meal after her bath was most definitely in order. She felt ravenous after the journey and had no intention of gracing her husband with her presence at the supper table—wherever that may be.

The older woman winked. “I’ve already ordered it, ma’am.”

~ * ~

Quin didn’t go to Aurora that night. Nor did he insist she join him in his chamber. He’d have to bed her again, eventually. An heir couldn’t very well be produced if he never touched his wife. Instead, he found a supply of brandy hidden behind a desk in the refectory—a rather dismal supply, actually—and proceeded to drink himself into oblivion. He’d have to have Forster replenish the stash.

In order to touch Aurora, he would likely have to speak to her. And if he spoke to her, he might say too much.

Like I forgive you. Or possibly I’m sorry. Perhaps I’m a blundering oaf and could never deserve you in a thousand lifetimes. Or worse yet I love you.

He did. He loved her, despite his intentions to avoid just such a scenario, despite her dramatics, despite the fact that he hardly knew her. He loved Aurora, primarily for all the things that threatened to rob him of his sanity: her willful streak; the pluck she showed in refusing to cower from him; her wild imagination; the way she wore her emotions all over her face, yet still tried to hide them from him.

But loving her could serve neither of them.

It left him thinking of her all the time. It left him breathless for wanting to be with her, to touch her, to smell the rosewater scent of her hair as it fell like silk through his fingers. It left him hard and frustrated.

It left him vulnerable. Worried. Worried that he would lose her.

Like he’d lost Mercy. Like he’d lost his father. Like he certainly would have lost his mother, too, if he hadn’t built a fortress larger than the abbey around his heart and lost himself instead.

Being a heartless rakehell with a penchant for every vice he could imagine had kept him safe all these years.

Safe and alone.

Now he was neither.

~ * ~

Morning took forever to arrive. Quin knew. He laid awake in his bed the entire night, waiting for the sun to break over the horizon outside his window. Thinking about Aurora. Thinking about Rotheby’s demands.

No amount of brandy could have eased his mind.

All that time spent alone with his thoughts helped him to realize one thing. There was, admittedly, more to what his grandfather wanted of him than just an heir. He needed to start to take care of what he’d been given. Forster’s thinly veiled criticism upon their arrival last night only further emphasized the point.

Three years. More than three years, actually. Quin hadn’t stepped foot on the property, sent a missive, or even glanced over his steward’s reports in all that time. He’d left Forster to take care of the household staff and Carruthers to handle the tenants and workers, and hadn’t given any of it another thought as long as he had funds coming his way.

The funds had never been lacking, so why worry? Particularly when he could better spend his time with a buxom French madame and her girls, or placing wagers on the bullfights in Spain, or engaged in any number of other, more intriguing pursuits somewhere along the coasts of the Ottoman Empire.

In that time, he had merely glanced over any correspondence from Carruthers. As long as there was nothing amiss that would affect his ability to engage in his rather more interesting version of the Grand Tour, he had tossed the letters aside and ignored them.

But now? Now he was here. Now, he had a wife. And hopefully, he’d soon have a baby on the way.

Perhaps Rotheby was right. Perhaps it was time he took more interest in his own affairs. And if Quin had any business expecting Aurora to come to heel and learn her proper position in his life, then he had a responsibility to do the same.

If he couldn’t sleep, there was no sense in staying abed trying. Tossing the counterpane aside, Quin rose and rang for his valet. Mrs. Marshall would be meeting with Aurora so they could work out the household accounts. No need for him to participate in all of that. But he could meet with Carruthers and learn in more detail what was going on with his property.

And maybe that night he’d attempt to speak with Aurora.

~ * ~

“This room was initially the chapel, my lady,” said Mrs. Marshall. Her voice was pleasant to Aurora’s ears—cheerful and bright, full of energy. “But when the fourth Earl of Rotheby acquired it in the Seventeenth Century, he redid the room and turned it into a portrait gallery.”

Light shone into the room through massive Palladian windows, illuminating the long wall of paintings. Some stood almost as tall as the room itself, reaching up toward the vaulted ceilings like gods.

Aurora perused the portraits one at a time. They worked almost as a family tree, tracing centuries of Quin’s family through the generations. The men all seemed to have some bits and pieces of him—the strong, square jaw here, or perhaps his golden hair. A couple of them even had his dimples.

Very few of the portraits were of women. Down near the end of the line, however, a few began to be sprinkled in. Aurora stopped before an oil of a rather handsome women with laughing blue eyes—Quin’s eyes—and rich chestnut hair.

Mrs. Marshall gazed at the woman in the painting with a wistful expression. “That was the late Lady Rotheby, back around the time Lord Quinton’s father was born. I was not employed by the earl at that point, but sometime later. The countess was always kind and loving.”

Aurora wondered what else Quin might have inherited from his grandmother aside from the shade of his eyes.

After a moment, she moved on down the line to a man who looked to be her husband, only with shorter hair. He wore all black, much as Quin was prone to do, but there was something hollow in his expression.

“And this was the late Lord Quinton, ma’am.”

“Is there a reason the men of this family wear black so frequently?” Aurora asked. It didn’t matter really. She was just curious, as usual.

“His lordship has not explained his difficulties, ma’am? Lord Quinton and his father before him, they both have difficulty with distinguishing colors. The doctors have never been able to explain it, but they will look upon something red and think it green, or see something orange and believe it to be yellow. But I was not the one to tell you, my lady. Do not place the blame upon my shoulders.”

Well, apparently Quin was not perpetually in mourning, at least.

Mrs. Marshall clucked her tongue and shook her head. “They are rather alike in many ways. Such a shame…” Her voice trailed off.

“What is such a shame?” Aurora asked.

“His lordship has not told you that, either?” the older woman asked, incredulity coloring her tone.

Told her what? The man had hardly told her anything. Anything of import, at least. He seemed inclined to perpetually keep her in the dark, much like his wardrobe. Aurora shook her head.

Mrs. Marshall put her hand against her back and gently but forcefully coaxed Aurora toward the next painting. “Well, then, it is hardly my place to speak of such matters. You’ll see here the former Lady Quinton, now Lady Coulter.”

Quin’s mother smiled cheerfully in the painting, but the mirth did not quite reach her eyes. There was something terribly wrong in this family—something very sad. Perhaps this something could explain Quin’s moodiness, the cause of his silence.

Two more portraits hung at the end of the gallery: a young boy, perhaps ten years old, seemingly bubbling over with youthful exuberance, and a girl with Quin’s same clear, blue eyes and dimples.

“This, my lady, was your husband many years ago. He was quite the rambunctious cherub, always very sweet.”

“And the girl?” Aurora asked.

“That is Miss Mercy, of course. Lord Quinton’s older sister.” Mrs. Marshall spoke abruptly, rushing through the words. “Shall we move on to the salon? I’m sure you’ll love the tapestries.” The older woman bustled out of the room, the keys at her waist jingling as she went.

Older sister? Aurora stood rooted to her spot. He’d never mentioned a sister before. For that matter, he’d never mentioned any of his family other than Lord Rotheby. She’d have to convince him to introduce her to his sister. His mother, too, for that matter. However, convincing him to introduce her to his family would be made immensely easier if they were speaking to each other. Maybe she could try over supper. If he returned by then, at least. By the time she rose from bed this morning, he’d quit the house. Forster had told her that Quin had gone off to meet with his steward and inspect the property.

The housekeeper disappeared through the long hallways that snaked throughout the abbey. Aurora hurried to catch up to her. “Mrs. Marshall, will his lordship be back for supper, do you suppose?” The woman certainly moved briskly for as short and squat as she was. Aurora was huffing for breath by the time she caught up to her at the entry to the salon.

“I’m certain I do not know, ma’am,” the older woman said. “The last time he left was to visit with his intended. He was gone for more than three years without so much as a by-your-leave, only returning yesterday.”

Chapter Seventeen

29 April, 1811

So many secrets. The abbey is awash with them. Quin is filled with them. Alas, I also have my fair share. I no longer like secrets, but wish instead for communication, understanding, honesty. It is not enough to find such things amongst the household staff here. After all, why ought I to trust them? They work for my husband. Perhaps they are telling me what he would want me to hear. But then again, if that were the case, why would Mrs. Marshall have told me of the lovely Miss Mercy? She still left me with more questions than she provided answers.

~From the journal of Lady Quinton

The day with Carruthers had been rather more pleasant than Quin had ever expected. Who knew handling one’s affairs could be so satisfying? Granted, he’d nearly scared the man out of his wits when he arrived at the door to his cottage on a hill along the outskirts of the abbey property.

“Good God,” Carruthers had almost shouted, pulling a coat on at the same time as he attempted to fasten the tiny buttons at his collar. “My lord, I am terribly sorry to be in such a state of dishabille. I did not know you had returned.”

Neither had anyone else. The tenants and workers they visited that day all gaped at him. Their surprise at his presence proved to be more disarming than Quin could ever have prepared himself for. Still, the day turned out to be rather insightful. His tenants were happy with the way Carruthers had handled their affairs over the years. His workers felt their pay was fair for the work they performed. Generally, everything seemed to run more smoothly than he could have hoped.

Afternoon was fast giving way to evening as he and his steward rode back toward the cottage on the hill. He ought to return to the main house. It would be the responsible thing to do.

But Quin had finished all the brandy he could find at the abbey the night before, and doubted Forster could have replaced it yet. “Carruthers, what do you say we pay a visit to the Hog’s Head and have a meal?” His steward raised his eyebrows in an unasked question. “I’ll buy you some drinks and we can talk more about the abbey.” And he could avoid rushing home to Aurora, where he might slip up and say something he preferred to keep to himself. All things considered, a much safer plan.

“Of course, sir.”

They changed direction and in no time descended upon the pub at the heart of life in Wetherby. Leaving their mounts with a groom, they entered the dark, lively establishment and found a table near the window.

A barmaid sidled up alongside him almost before he was fully seated, her creamy bosom jiggling and virtually spilling over the top of her too-tight dress. He cringed at the sight—a shocking realization—and hastily looked away. “What will you have tonight, gents?” she crooned in his ear, doing her best to tempt his eyes back to her.

Damnation! What the devil was wrong with him that he couldn’t enjoy such a lovely view when it was offered? Quin shook the odd sensation off. “Two shepherd’s pies. I’ll have a brandy and for my companion…?”

“Whiskey for me,” Carruthers said.

The flaxen-haired barmaid nodded and left, winking over her shoulder at him as she sashayed away.

“So,” Quin began, “there’ve been no problems during my time away? Nothing amiss? No problems with the tenants or workers?”

“No, my lord. I’ve run everything just as I always have. Haven’t made any changes since Sir Augustus hired me and we sorted out the mess your father left behind.”

Sir Augustus? Quin’s step-father had employed the man? He nodded, encouraging the steward to go on.

“A few of our workers have left over the years and others have come along. But generally they’ve all been working here as long as I have. Many of them even longer than that.” The steward smiled. “It’s really quite like a family, we’ve all been together for so long.”

A family? Ha. Quinton Abbey was no place for a family, which only made Quin’s proposition to Rotheby even more ridiculous. Sure, they were far from the prying eyes of the ton. That very privacy only allowed for nasty family secrets to fester like open wounds until they ate the flesh of their victims.

The barmaid returned with their food and drinks. “Anything else I can get you?” she asked with a come-hither smile.

Quin realized with a start that he had no intention of doing anything that could possibly be construed as going-thither. He shook his head. “Just come back in a bit with more whiskey and brandy.”

She nodded and backed away.

He downed half his brandy in one swallow. “So the staff has all been here, for what? Twenty years? Perhaps more?”

“Some for over forty years,” Carruthers said. “The head groom was here as a stable boy when Lord Rotheby was still Lord Quinton. You might recall that Mrs. Marshall was then your nurse.”

Yes. Quin remembered. She’d been the one to find him in the woods where he lay by the river after Mercy died. The one to hold him as he sobbed like the baby he would never be again. The one to pick up his bruised body from the floor after the first beating, the hot, sticky blood from his cheek staining her grey dress.

He also remembered he had a different nurse after that day. Mrs. Marshall had left him, too. They all left him.

Or so he thought.

~ * ~

Aurora dined alone. She waited until she was almost faint with hunger before she gave in and made her way into the great hall alone. Cook had graciously held the supper, keeping it warm, while Aurora waited more than two hours for Quin.

Even after she ate, she waited for him. First in the salon, then in the refectory where she pored through the massive library of books, and finally in the sitting room separating their chambers.

She’d already been through her nightly ablutions, changed into her nightrail, and was half asleep on a divan when she heard the creak of the door.

“You’re home,” she said.

Quin merely grunted. His bleary eyes bore red streaks and the stench of brandy assailed her from across the room.

Lovely. Just lovely. “Can we talk?” Though, this might not be the best time for a conversation. Blast. Still, she stood and moved closer to him.

But he didn’t walk away and close the door. He just stood there. Staring at her. Or more staring through her nightrail, at least. Aurora fought the urge to wrap her arms across her chest and cross her legs. The thin material was hardly diaphanous, but it would be hard to decipher that from the heat of his gaze.

She might as well just start. “Mrs. Marshall took me on a lovely tour of the abbey today. There are so many books in the refectory I doubt I’ll ever finish reading them all.”

Quin took a step toward her, closing the distance between them somewhat. Aurora shivered. His eyes moved over her, possessing every inch of her body with his eyes.

“And the tapestries in the salon are exquisite. I doubt I’ve ever seen their equal.”

Another step. She could almost feel him. Heat poured from him in waves, cascading over the ebbs and peaks of her body.

“Tomorrow, she’s promised to show me the gardens and the park. She says the wisteria is particularly lovely this time of year.”

One more step. His hand reached across and took hers, seemingly enveloping her in his warmth. Aurora nearly wept from the simple touch. For days, they’d been so close, but yet so far. She’d sworn to herself that she wouldn’t capitulate. That she’d be strong and not allow him to seduce her with his touch. That he’d have to make amends before she capitulated to him.

Oh, dear good Lord. She couldn’t very well surrender now.

“I particularly enjoyed the gallery. The portraits showed such a strong family resemblance.” His hand stiffened over hers, but she pressed on. “I was particularly curious about your sister and your mother.”

~ * ~

“You’ve never spoken of them,” she said.

How dare she? How dare she go snooping around the abbey, prying into his past, poking at open wounds?

“I thought I told you to stay out of my concerns,” he said. He had to walk away. He had to get control over himself again. Now.

But Aurora backed away first, pulling her hand free and holding it to her chest. Her mouth was in a perfect O and her eyes nearly matched it. “Your concerns? But they are your family. I thought”

“Stop bloody well thinking. Stop prying. Stop going behind my back to find your answers.”

Tears formed in her eyes again. Good. He wanted her to cry.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’d only hoped I could meet them some day. My own mother passed away many years ago, and I’ve never had a sister before.”

Ha. What a sight that would be. “That’s not possible,” he barked. “Mercy is dead.” She didn’t need to know about Nia, either.

Then tears poured down her cheeks like a deluge. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know. Mind your own concerns.”

Aurora turned to her chamber to leave, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her around to face him again.

“Where are you going?”

Her eyes refused to meet his. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”

Bloody hell. Now that they’d been talking, he couldn’t just let her go off to bed. He needed something. Christ, he needed her.

Badly.

But she couldn’t know. He couldn’t tell her. That would make it all too real, too permanent. Quin pressed his fingers beneath her chin, forcing it up until she looked into his eyes. “Have you forgotten? We have an heir to conceive.”

Aurora’s eyes narrowed to darkened slits. Even as he brought his lips down to crush against hers, she pushed with all her might against his chest. He’d be damned if he wouldn’t have her in his bed that night. Beneath him. Above him. Around him.

Quin bit her lip, harder than he’d intended, but it had the desired effect. She gasped. He entered her mouth with his tongue, stroking and suckling against hers. Still, she shoved against him. Quin advanced upon her, using his weight to drive her backward until she bumped into the wall.

With one hand still keeping hers enslaved, he pressed a knee between her thighs, driving it against her sex. She let out a little moan against his mouth. He could feel her wetness through his trousers—could smell the musky aroma of her arousal mixed with rosewater and brandy and heat.

Another pass with his knee, and Aurora gave up her fight.

Quin dropped her hands and used his to rip the front of her nightrail open, delighted at her shocked gasp. God, her breasts were perfect. Smooth and full, with nipples as hard as diamonds practically begging him to touch them.

How could he resist? He splayed his hands against Aurora’s ribcage and slid them up over her breasts. Slowly. Painstakingly slow. Her eyes closed and her breaths came in rapid succession. The juxtaposition of her taut nipples followed by soft breasts against his palms was a sensation he’d never forget. Exquisite agony. Just like everything else about her.

She moved her hips against him then, sliding her moist heat over his leg in an all-too-familiar rhythm. Quin raised his knee to help her. With his thumbs and fingers, he rolled those pert little nipples around and watched his wife come to the precipice of ecstasy.

“Yes, love,” he crooned in her ear. “Almost there.”

She was, too—panting and rocking her hips and searching for release with her eyes rolled back in her head. Deep in her throat, soft, little sounds formed.

Aurora reached down and unbuttoned the flap of his breeches, placing her hand inside and stroking his length. He kissed her again, sliding his tongue over hers to mimic her hand. When she squeezed just so, he nearly lost control. “Oh, God. Just like that, Aurora. I lo”

He cut himself off before he could finish the thought. Quin pulled away from her. Aurora stumbled when his weight no longer pinned her to the wall. Her eyes spoke to her confusion.

Walking to his chamber, Quin called out over his shoulder, “If you want me to finish what I’ve started, you know where to find me.”

He couldn’t tell her. Not now. Not yet.

~ * ~

Oh, damn and blast. The door closed behind Quin. How could he leave her in such a state? If he didn’t keep touching her, Aurora thought she might die. Her body ached for the release that only he had ever provided her.

But she’d be damned if she would follow that blasted man and beg him to finish what he’d started. With a huff, Aurora turned to her own chamber and slammed the door behind her. Hopefully he heard it. Abominable man, toying with her like that.

She riffled through a couple of her chests, hoping to find another nightrail, since he’d torn the one she had on to shreds, but with no luck. It was all too new. She didn’t know where Rose had stored anything yet.

And she couldn’t very well ring for the maid now. Not with her bosom hanging out for all the world to see.

Sleep. She’d just go to sleep and worry about her nightrail in the morning, and forget all about Quin and the way his touch made her feel. Aurora climbed into her bed and slid beneath the counterpane, willing her mind to forget all that had happened.

Her mind might have complied, but her body refused. It still thrummed for Quin’s touch, aching for his mouth. Blast him. She tried rolling over, but the movement of the bedding against her sensitive flesh sent a jolt through her body. Oh, dear good Lord. Perhaps she ought not to move at all. Maybe it would go away. Aurora lay still for as long as she could stand it. Probably not for more than a few moments, at most.

She could, perhaps, make it go away herself. Couldn’t she? With a tentative hand, she slid it over one sensitive breast. Her eyes flew open. Oh. Oh, my. That was actually somewhat pleasant. She tried it again, pressing harder this time—and attaining only a slightly better result.

At this rate, she would only keep herself up all night with trying for something that would never happen. She had no idea what to do. But Quin always knew exactly what to do.

Blast, blast, blast, damn, blast.

Aurora tossed back the counterpane and marched through her room and the sitting room, throwing back the door to Quin’s chamber with all her might. He sat completely naked on the edge of his massive bed, fully aroused, surrounded by the glow of candlelight.

“I hope you’re well and truly happy with yourself.” Aurora reached his side in three strides, and then straddled his legs, rubbing her heated center against his length. She kissed him, getting drunk from the brandy still on his tongue. “Finish it,” she said against his lips. “Please, Quin. Finish it.”

He lifted her by the hips and settled her over him. As she lowered, he filled her. Aurora waited. She waited for him to flip her to her back and come over top of her, but he just smiled.

“You finish it,” he drawled with a fiendish glint in his eye.

Oh, gracious Lord in heaven. She never knew…

~ * ~

Thank God she’d come to him. Even through two closed doors, he could hear Aurora’s little sounds as she’d tried to pleasure herself. Or perhaps he only imagined them. Either way, it was enough to send him to Bedlam with need.

Quin had won that little contest.

He won another when she attempted to leave after they were both sated, by pulling her arm until she spun around and fell atop him, her nose landing only an inch from his. “Where do you think you’re going, love?” he asked as the tickle of her hot breath danced over his lips.

“Back to my chamber,” she said with a haughty tone. “Thank you for finishing.”

Aurora pulled at her arm, but he kept his grip firm and tight. She was not going anywhere. He wouldn’t allow her to leave.

Instead, Quin rolled to his side, pulling her over the top of him to settle in by his side. He draped an arm and a leg over her, effectively trapping her where she lay. “I would prefer you to stay,” he said, not truthfully as a preference. “‘Love, honor, and obey’, remember? At the very least you can handle the ‘obey’ part of the equation.” He’d handle the love for both of them, unless he could find a way to force it to cease.

Her scowl shone through the moonlit shadows of the room. Then she squirmed and wiggled until she had her back to him.

Quin pulled her closer, wrapping both arms around her and relishing Aurora’s outraged gasp when his cock pressed against her firm little derrière. However delightful the idea of making love to her in such a position may be, he needed sleep first or else he might fall asleep inside her. It had been a rather taxing couple of days. Just to goad her a bit further, though, he took a breast in each palm and massaged them until she arched her back, pressing further into his hands. Christ, her body was so responsive. She may not love him, but her body certainly did.

He whispered into her ear, “Are you ready, love?”

“What?” she screeched. “You can’t—you wouldn’t”

Quin laughed. “Oh, I can and I will. But not now. Go to sleep, Aurora.” Before he changed his mind.

Before he fell further in love.

Before he told her.

Chapter Eighteen

18 May, 1811

I still keep my journal hidden from Quin. I do not want him to know that I’m writing, even though the things I write are really only the silly musings of a lonely wife. What a pathetic soul I am. Regrettably, I no longer have the intense urge to write, to pour my heart and soul into the ink and parchment, to while away the hours creating tales. Perhaps I am too lost to find my way out of just such a tale at the moment. I no longer know.

~From the journal of Lady Quinton

They’d settled into much the same pattern as they had in London. Every morning, Quin rose and breakfasted without Aurora, and then left to meet with his steward, or to have a discussion with the butler, or perhaps to ride over the grounds so he could meet with his field hands and tenants. He might hole himself up of an afternoon in the undercroft, which he’d turned into a brandy-filled office, and go over the reports that Mr. Carruthers gave him, or he might instead go out to the Hog’s Head and enjoy the company of the locals.

She would wake in his big, empty bed when it felt cold without his heat and go about her day alone—discussing the meals with Cook, or managing the household accounts with Mrs. Marshall, or occasionally speaking with Forster about changes she wanted to make to the furnishings in the salon. Occasionally she would take some exercise by walking through the park, or speak with the gardener about the possibility of planting a rose garden.

When she ran out of things to do with the household staff, Aurora often escaped to the refectory and its endless supply of books. At least there, she could pretend she wasn’t quite so alone. The characters kept her company.

Occasionally Aurora would receive a letter from Father or Rebecca in the afternoon and she’d dash off to read it. Rebecca’s Season was turning out to be rather grand, as she’d somehow attracted three more amorous suitors in addition to the ever-present Lord Norcutt. Father was as busy as ever with Parliament. He missed her terribly, but kept himself entertained with a concert here and an opera there. She wrote back to them both immediately upon receiving and perusing their letters, careful to never let on how lonely she’d become. It would not do to worry them. So instead, she told them of grand country house parties they’d attended, and lied about how Quin would take her on picnics by the river.

The lies only hurt her, after all.

But then Aurora would wait for Quin to come home. She’d hold supper for him, hoping that he would return and share a meal with her even though she knew he never would. Then she’d go up to their sitting room and wait for him, often falling asleep due to the lateness of the hour while reading yet another book from the refectory, or working a piece of embroidery, or doing anything at all to keep her occupied other than writing in her journal.

When Quin returned home, he always smelled of brandy. He always tasted of it, too.

Each time he came to her, he’d take her book or her stitchery and set it on the table beside her, then lift her into his arms and carry her to his bed.

For as inattentive as he was to her during the day, Quin more than made up for it at night—at least in regard to physicality. Aurora had never imagined there were as many ways to perform the marriage act as he taught her. Forward, backward, upside down. Using their hands, mouths, tongues. On her knees, the floor, a table. His imagination in terms of pleasure knew no bounds. Every time she was certain he could no longer shock her, he did something even more outrageous and convinced her otherwise.

And then, after he spilled himself deep inside her womb, every night he would pull her against him, wrap his limbs around her, and sleep.

She would sleep too—eventually. After her heart slowed to a natural pace and his breathing came in even increments across her neck and shoulder, and after the light sounds of his snoring started in her ear so she was certain he was asleep, then she would allow herself a moment to cry, and finally she would sleep.

Lying there with him, tangled in his slumberous strength—that was when she felt more alone than she’d felt in her entire life. It was odd how the moment each night when she and Quin were physically connected, when he was inside her, was the moment she felt the most alive, the most loved. He very nearly worshipped her, with a level of devotion to her pleasure that was staggering when they came together. But then, only a few moments later, she would feel bereft and empty.

They had gone on in just this manner for nearly the first three weeks of their stay at Quinton Abbey. Nearly long enough for Aurora to expect her courses again, which undoubtedly would arrive like clockwork, just as they always had.

She did have one tiny glimmer of hope: the past few mornings, she’d been unable to keep her breakfast down where it belonged. Surely the magnitude of her despair had not reached such proportions as to make her physically ill. Surely it could be a sign of a babe in her womb.

But it was still far too early to allow for hope. Hope would only make it hurt worse when nothing happened. Much like how she’d allowed herself to hope for Quin’s love. That hope was dying a slow, painful death, further exacerbated by the dawning realization that—for some strange reason—she had developed a certain level of affection for him. Perhaps more than an affection.

Aurora shrugged it off and searched the shelves of the refectory for something new to read. She slipped past the sections of Burns’s and Wordsworth’s poetry, since she had read them in recent days. Blake seemed too bleak for her mood at the moment. She kept walking, trying to find something that called to her. Nothing did.

What she really wanted was to write. She hadn’t dared touch her journal, however, since their arrival at Quinton Abbey other than to make brief notes about her days—certainly not to write any stories. But perhaps if she could write a story, she could convince herself that she wasn’t actually falling in love with Quin.

Or maybe…

She could write of the marriage she wished they had. She could write of a husband who loved her and doted upon her, and actually spoke to her at times other than in the throes of bedding her. She could write of a beautiful baby with both a loving mother and a loving father. She could write her own happiness.

Perhaps if she wrote of that marriage, it could become reality. After all, she’d written of her marriage to Quin before she ever met him, and it had happened. She’d written of her fantastical ideas for in the bedroom, and they had happened.

Why should this not follow the same pattern?

Aurora dashed from the refectory to her chamber. She needed to write, and it simply could not wait any longer.

~ * ~

When Forster interrupted Aurora in the salon to announce, “Sir Jonas Buchannan, my lady,” she jumped halfway out of the chair she’d been in for the last several hours. In that time, she’d likely written a dozen pages of her new story.

Which was turning out to be delightful, to say the least. Granted, she already had some of it thought out, based on the lies she’d been writing to Rebecca and Father. But with her new additions, it was becoming ever more engaging with every stroke of her quill.

“Send him in,” she called over her shoulder as she put away her writing materials. “Oh, and Forster? Will you please have Mrs. Marshall send a tea tray in at her first convenience?” What was Sir Jonas doing in Wetherby? Perhaps Quin had sent for him out of boredom in his marriage. She would send for Rebecca if she could.

Once she had her ink pot capped and the journal and quill tucked neatly away, she stood and straightened her gown. Oh, bother. Some of the black ink had smudged over her fingers and was now spread across the rose lawn fabric of her gown.

But, there was nothing for it at the moment. Sir Jonas came across the threshold and bowed to her. “Lady Quinton, I trust that I find you well.” His dark features turned to a handsome smile.

Aurora wondered what might have happened had she met Sir Jonas before Quin. But wondering solved nothing, so she brushed the thought aside. “Indeed, you do. Please, have a seat.” She directed him to an armchair by the hearth. “Have you just arrived in Wetherby?”

“Mere moments ago, ma’am,” he said as he sat. His long legs stretched out before him, taking up nearly as much room as she imagined Quin’s would. She could only imagine, though, since she’d never seen him in the salon.

A maid came in and placed a tea tray before her, then curtsied and hurried on her way.

“Tea?” Aurora asked. On his nod, she set about serving him and continued. “And what brings you to Wetherby? Have you seen Quin yet?”

Sir Jonas reached across for his teacup and a scone. “I’d hoped to find him here with you. Is he not at home?” he asked with an almost imperceptible frown, swiftly replaced by a merely inquisitive smile.

“No. I’m afraid he is infrequently at home during the day, sir.” Aurora took a sip of her tea, grimaced, and then reached for more sugar. “I do not expect his return until rather late in the evening.”

This time, Sir Jonas openly scowled. “This is common for him, ma’am? He leaves you alone on a regular basis?”

Oh, dear. Had she gotten Quin in trouble with his friend? That certainly had not been her intention. “It is somewhat common, I’m afraid.” No need to tell the man just how common. “But it is for good reason, I assure you. He spends a great deal of time with his steward and his tenants.”

“And leaving you to your own devices,” Sir Jonas said rather pointedly.

Oh, bother. Did he think she was writing again? Oh. Right. She was.

But it wasn’t the same kind of writing. And no one was around to see what she was writing, or to take it from her. It was all truly innocent. It had been all along.

She simply needed to write.

But then Sir Jonas smiled, an affable, pitying kind of smile. “I’m afraid that your husband is not being a very good husband to you, Lady Quinton.”

Her eyes widened, and she fought to conceal her emotions. They were surely spreading all over her face. She couldn’t allow him to think that—despite how true it might be. “You are quite mistaken, Sir Jonas. He is an excellent husband.”

That didn’t sound very convincing. Not even to Aurora’s own ears.

“Of course, you’re right,” he said, nonetheless.

Perhaps he wouldn’t press her on the matter. That was very kind of him. Aurora had only met Sir Jonas on a very few occasions, but she was growing to like his company rather immensely.

“Is my husband expecting you?” she inquired.

“Actually, I surprised myself with my visit. I didn’t take the time to send him word.” Sir Jonas chuckled. “It should serve him right, after all the times he’s arrived at my door unannounced. Though I do apologize for any inconvenience it may have caused you, my lady.”

“Not at all. I rather think I’ll enjoy having a guest. The abbey is so large for so few people. It can be rather lonely.” Blast. She shouldn’t have said that. “Will you be staying at Quinton Abbey very long?” she asked, hoping he wouldn’t home in on her earlier comment.

“I hadn’t decided yet. Perhaps it will depend on how soon I overstay my welcome.”

“I hardly imagine such a thing is possible, sir,” Aurora replied. “I do imagine, however, that my husband would like to know of your arrival. Forster should know where he is. You could take one of the horses from the stables and go find him.”

Sir Jonas took another scone from the tray. “Yes. I suppose I ought to do that, since he didn’t have the decency to be at home when I arrived. Or,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “I could spend the afternoon entertaining you. It seems to be something you’re sorely lacking. And perhaps it will make him envious enough to want to do more of it himself.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed one booted foot over his knee. “And then I can go and find him. If you’d enjoy that, of course.”

If she’d enjoy it? How could she not, in her current attention-deprived state?

~ * ~

The sun had just begun its descent in the sky when Quin mounted his horse to make for the Hog’s Head. Yet again, he’d spent another thoroughly productive day. Two of his tenants had needed their fences fortified. Instead of enlisting one of his workers to perform the labor, Quin had decided to do it himself.

That had kept him occupied for almost the entire day, and the physical requirements of it kept his mind off Aurora. He felt good. Tired.

But now he wanted to eat, and drink a brandy or three, and forget about her tears staining his pillows.

He could never make her happy. If only there was a way to avoid making her utterly woeful. Quin missed that spark of life she had—the way she would argue with him and try to assert herself. The boldness she’d shown in riding off from their wedding astride a stolen horse. He feared she might be thoroughly losing that spark. If not, why would she cry at night?

But if he spent more time with her and observed her acting in such ways, he’d likely fall further in love with her, which would only put her in greater danger.

He couldn’t do that.

By the same token, if she was losing her vivaciousness—if she was truly as sad as he feared—he only had himself to blame.

Any way he looked at it, Quin was better off maintaining his distance.

He dismounted, tossed the reins to a groom, and then made his way inside the dark pub. He didn’t make it two steps beyond the door before a familiar voice called out to him. “Quin, you’ve got things to explain to me. And you’ll do it on our way back to the abbey.”

Jonas sat on a bench by the window, staring at the entrance and looking as dour as he had ever managed. Which, by the way, was saying something indeed.

“What are you doing here?” Quin asked. “Never mind that for now. Let me buy you a drink.” He looked for the barmaid.

But Jonas stood and came over to him, clapping a hand on his shoulder and pressing him out the door. “Let’s not and pretend we did. We need to talk.”

What the devil? Something had to be wrong. “Do you have news from Rotheby?” Quin asked on the way to the stables. Maybe the old codger had finally died. He could hope.

“I haven’t spoken to Rotheby in a few weeks,” Jonas said. “Not since you left without saying a word, and I had to hunt him down to learn why and where you’d gone.”

Is that what this was about? Damnation, Jonas was a bloody friend, not his keeper. Quin kept his mouth shut for the moment, though, because the pub’s groom was bringing over their horses. It wouldn’t do to curse the baronet in front of someone. Not without reasonably more provocation, at least.

When they’d mounted and were riding toward the abbey, he glanced at Jonas. “And you came to track me down because you’re angry I left without a note of explanation? Sending a letter would have sufficed.”

Jonas raised an eyebrow. “Like you ever read your correspondence. But no, that isn’t why I came.” He sighed and looked off at the horizon for a few moments. “Do you receive the society sheets here?”

He tried to keep the impatience out of his tone. “Of course not. Why the hell would I care which bloody debutante is wearing the wrong shade of pale, or which gentleman is being made a cuckold of this week?” Not to mention, why would he want to read more of the ilk that had been published about him and Aurora before they had left? He wouldn’t. It would only anger him more.

“I know, trust me, I know,” Jonas said. “But the gossip they spread about your wife? The one Rotheby showed you?”

Damnation. This couldn’t be good. But he supposed he needed to know, whether he would like what Jonas had to say or not. “Yes? Go on.” His words came out clipped.

“They haven’t stopped. In fact, a new gossip sheet has started up. They call it the Sordid Scandals and Titillating Trysts.”

“I see.” Quin’s teeth clenched and ground against each other. Even being gone from Town for weeks, even keeping his wife holed up away from the gossips, they couldn’t stop talking about her. Unbelievable.

Jonas cleared his throat. “The Scandals is only available at White’s and Brooks’s. No one is quite certain who is publishing the thing. The sheets just somehow arrive near the betting table. Quin…” His voice trailed off and he stopped his horse.

This was ridiculous. Why did he care about this new gossip rag? Gossip was gossip was gossip. That’s all it would ever be. Quin pulled his horse around to face his friend. And waited. “What?” he bellowed after long moments of silence.

“They’re printing stories—ones similar to those which the other rags only alluded to, but refused to print in order to protect innocent eyes.”

Printing the stories? Aurora was still writing them. She was writing them and sending them off to someone and having them printed and sent around to the entire ton.

He steered his horse around and took off at a gallop. Jonas trailed along behind him, yelling for him to “Wait!” But he couldn’t wait. He wouldn’t wait.

Aurora was going to answer to him this time. She would damned well give him a name, too. And then…

He didn’t know what then.

Quin rode neck-or-nothing all the way to the front door of Quinton Abbey and leapt from his horse. He flung open the door before Forster could get to it. “Where is she? Where is my wife?” he hollered, ignoring the shock on his butler’s face.

“In the salon, my lord.”

He stalked through the halls, neither stopping nor slowing for anyone in his way. A footman swung open the door to the salon just in the nick of time, or he would have likely pushed the door down, he was so furious.

Aurora sat at a table with her bloody journal and a quill in her hand, and jumped at his intrusion. Caught in the act. Perfect. She couldn’t very well deny it now.

“Quin,” she said. “I didn’t expect you home at this hour.”

Obviously. He glared at her as he made his way across the room. “Didn’t expect me to discover your little secrets, did you?” He hated the sneer in his voice but was powerless to prevent it.

Aurora frowned, and her eyes held a question. Such an actress. Just as she had always been. The minx had even snared him in her trap—had him falling for her.

Love. Ha!

“I don’t know what secrets you’re talking about. Do you mean Sir Jonas’s arrival? I told him we should let you know he’d come for a visit, but he suggested he could entertain me for a while first.”

Always trying to play the innocent. He’d been a fool for too long. No longer, though. He’d not suffer her playacting any more. “Oh, this has everything to do with Jonas. Or more precisely with what he’s told me of you and your activities.”

Tears sprung to her eyes. As usual. Aurora could cry on command, it seemed. “If I ever thought you’d be so upset over me walking through the park with him, I would never have done it.”

“Oh, this is hardly about a walk in the park.” Quin closed the last few steps to the table she’d been sitting at. He grabbed the journal. “Tell me, who’ve you been sending it to?”

Jonas barged into the room. “Quin, you didn’t let me finish what I was trying to tell you. I don’t think you should”

“Oh, you’ve told me quite enough already,” Quin shot back. “Thank you for your assistance, but your participation in this discussion is not required. Nor is it appreciated.”

Aurora turned her teary-eyed face to the baronet. “Sir Jonas? What on earth is he going on about?”

“Leave us, Jonas,” Quin bit off. “This is between me and my wife.”

The bastard didn’t take a hint, even though it wasn’t just a hint. “I don’t think she wrote them, Quin. Someone else is doing it.”

“Is that so? Well, why don’t we have a look at what I just caught her writing, hmm?” He flipped the journal open and leafed through the pages.

Aurora’s jaw fell open. “I haven’t…I haven’t written any stories in it since we left Town. Not until today. I’ve only been using it as a diary, Quin.”

“Liar. You have made a fool of me for the last time, Aurora.”

“No, I swear.” She started across the room toward him. “Please believe me.” Her big, innocent eyes implored him. Such a lark.

“I’ll never believe another word you say.”

She stopped short. “Sir Jonas?”

Bloody hell. The chit kept running for help. “Jonas. Out.” He wouldn’t get anywhere as long as his friend kept interfering. It was only making him lose his temper faster.

“I think you should listen to me, Quin,” Jonas said.

“And you should respect that this is my house and my wife, and I will deal with her as I see fit.” He faced the wall to calm himself. Blood roiled through his veins, and he didn’t know if he could maintain rational thought if he was provoked much further.

“Deal with me?” Aurora said haughtily. “Of all the”

That was all it took.

Quin whirled around without thinking and hurled the journal. Aurora flinched as it narrowly missed hitting her squarely in the face.

Damnation. He’d done it. He’d well and truly done it.

He was exactly like his father. Quin left without a backward glance.

Chapter Nineteen

18 May, 1811

How did it come to this? How did I make such a mull of things that I cannot see the way out? I truly believe he must despise me now, and all for something I do not understand. Perhaps I should never write again. Perhaps I should not even write these silly journal entries, which only prove to me how unhappy and how lonely I truly am when I read through them again. Pitiful. Pathetic. No wonder Quin wants nothing to do with me.

~From the journal of Lady Quinton

Aurora was too stunned for tears. She bent down to pick up her journal, but her hands shook so badly she dropped it again almost immediately.

“Allow me to get that, Lady Quinton,” Sir Jonas said.

She nodded and stood while he bent to retrieve it.

“Why don’t you sit?” he encouraged, guiding her to a nearby sofa and helping to lower her down. “You’ve had quite an ordeal just now.”

His voice was soothing. Calm. So very different from her husband’s.

Everything about him was different.

Sir Jonas placed the journal on the table before her and left for a moment. When he came back, he said, “Your housekeeper will be in shortly with tea, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” she managed. Aurora doubted she’d be able to drink any tea without spilling it all over. She certainly couldn’t serve it.

Sir Jonas took a seat across from her. “I owe you an apology, Lady Quinton,” he said, leaning forward over his knees. “I brought your husband some news, and he didn’t let me get the whole of it out before he flew into a fit of pique.”

“That’s a rather common problem of his, it seems,” she quipped. Perhaps the shock was beginning to wear off, if she was able to make a joke of things. Aurora looked down at her hands where they were clasped in her hap. Still quavering, but not quite so visibly.

“Yes,” Sir Jonas replied. “A rather unfortunate one, at that.”

Mrs. Marshall came in with a maid carrying the tea service. “Would you like me to serve, my lady?” the housekeeper asked. The maid scurried away once she delivered the service.

“That would be lovely, Mrs. Marshall.”

Sir Jonas must have told her of Aurora’s state. She supposed it was for the best, though. She couldn’t be angry with him for such a thing.

The housekeeper served first Aurora, then Sir Jonas, and actually poured a cup for herself as well. “If I may be so bold, my lady,” she said and settled onto the sofa beside Aurora, “his lordship is a good man, underneath all the bluster. He would never intend to hurt you.” Mrs. Marshall placed a hand on Aurora’s and looked into her eyes with a steadfast gaze. “Never.”

Oh, dear good Lord. Did the servants know everything here? It hadn’t seemed like bluster after all, like he would never mean to hurt her, when he had launched her journal at her. “Thank you, Mrs. Marshall. That will be all.”

The housekeeper squeezed her hand and smiled, then took her teacup and left.

“She’s right,” Sir Jonas said. “I know you don’t want to hear it right now, and you probably don’t believe it, but she’s right.”

Aurora absolutely did not want to hear it. She did, however, want to know more about this news. “Since the news you brought him apparently affects me and not only my husband, may I ask you to tell me as well?”

Sir Jonas dragged a hand across his face. “It seems I must, now. Where to begin?” He stood and walked to the window, as though searching for answers.

Answers he should be giving her. “I find that the beginning is typically a good place to start,” she said, trying and failing to keep the facetious tone from her voice.

“Indeed, you are right. Very well. I assume you know of the gossip article about you and your…um, your story, shall we say, that was printed in the society pages?”

When Aurora nodded, he proceeded to tell her of a ghastly new gossip periodical that was printing stories—claiming them to be her stories.

“Oh, gracious heavens,” Aurora breathed. “I swear to you, Sir Jonas, I did not write them. Well, I did write the first one I would imagine,” she said with a violent blush, “but I haven’t written anything at all since we left London, save letters and random thoughts and tidbits about my days. Blast, and I started to write another story today, but it was hardly illicit.” She didn’t want to reveal quite what she’d been writing. Not to him. Not really to anyone.

He looked across at her with a pitying expression. Blast him for that. She hated to be pitied. Hated it with the fire of a thousand suns.

“I believe you, ma’am. Truthfully, I do.”

“But my husband does not.” Why should he, after all, when he knew so much of the stories she had written?

“No, and he would not allow me to tell him why I think someone else responsible.”

“And why would that be?” Aurora inquired.

Sir Jonas shifted his feet. “I do apologize for having this discussion with you, as it is highly irregular. But I have read them all. When I learned what was being said of you, I wanted to know if it was true.” At least he had the courtesy to look embarrassed. “The other stories tell of depraved acts. They’re written in a much more forceful tone, and about things I cannot believe Quin would ever do to you—things he’d never ask you to do.”

Aurora closed her eyes. They’d done countless things she could have never imagined. If these stories even remotely resembled the actual events that had gone on behind their closed doors, Quin would never believe she wasn’t responsible for it all. “Such as?” she asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

“I’m truly sorry, ma’am,” Sir Jonas said, “but married or not, these are things I could never discuss with a lady.”

“How can I convince Quin I didn’t write them if I don’t know what they are?”

“I’ll talk to him after he’s calmed down,” Sir Jonas said. “I’ll make him listen to reason. I promise you, he will believe me.”

She could only hope he was right. After all, Quin would not believe Aurora about anything.

Sir Jonas headed for the door, but then stopped and faced her again. “Give him tonight. He’ll be more reasonable in the morning.”

“Pardon? Give him tonight for what?”

“Before you go looking for him. He’s gone.” Sir Jonas gave her that same pitying look again. “If you will agree to wait until tomorrow, I’ll tell you where he went. And if you refuse to wait, I’ll be forced to come with you for your safety.”

~ * ~

Quin slammed closed the door of the hermitage by the river, ignoring how the glass of the window panes shuddered from his violence.

He couldn’t stay there, at the abbey. He couldn’t be in the same room as her.

Not anymore. Not after what she’d done. Not after what he’d done.

He ripped back the doors to cabinets and closets, looking for the brandy he’d asked Forster to stock. Not that he had intended to use it quite so soon.

Some things couldn’t be helped though. Finally, he found the proper compartment and pulled out a decanter. No point in bothering with a glass. He intended to drink the whole damned thing. He pulled out the cork and took a long, full swill.

If anyone held any doubts that he was his father incarnate, Quin had now well and truly disabused them all of their skepticism.

He had nearly struck his wife with her own bloody journal. And he couldn’t even deny he’d done it, since Jonas was there as a deuced witness. Sure, there were no laws against it.

What did that matter? There ought to be. There should have been all along.

But no one bothered to protect women from men like him. Or children, for that matter. Quin took a bigger drink, relishing the burn as it slid down his throat. One thing was certain. He couldn’t allow Aurora to have his child. His child wouldn’t suffer like he had. It was bad enough he’d roped her into marriage, forced her hand. He couldn’t undo it now, not even to protect her from the monster he was. It was too late.

Damn Rotheby and his ideas!

If it wasn’t for the earl’s illogical need for Quin to reproduce, none of this would be happening. Quin would be happily off on the coast of Spain or in Athens, drinking and gambling—and Aurora would be some other sod’s problem.

Bloody hell. The image of Aurora with any other man did not sit well with him. He took another swig.

If he and Aurora didn’t have a child, Rotheby would take the abbey. All they’d have left would be Aurora’s dowry. It was a reasonable amount, but not enough for them to keep separate quarters—which would be the only safe option.

He’d have to either take a bloody profession or return to his ways of cheating at the gaming hells. Neither of which sounded like a good choice at the moment.

Quin needed to think. There had to be a solution. He just hadn’t found it yet.

A horse’s hooves sounded in the distance, coming up along the pea-gravel outside the hermitage. It had to be Jonas. None of the staff would dare to interrupt him. Not here. Not now. And Aurora wouldn’t have the first clue where to find him.

Quin staggered out through the door and stared at the approaching sounds in the empty darkness. “What do you want, you horse’s arse?”

“To start,” Jonas drawled, “you could tell me how many more bottles you have in there so I know how many I’ll have to dispose of before I leave.”

Fat chance in hell that would happen. “Go away.”

Jonas and his horse finally appeared in the moonlight, calm, in no hurry. He alit from his horse and tied the reins to a post beside the building. “Care to invite me inside?” he asked, letting himself into the hermitage before Quin had the opportunity to refuse.

“I told you to get out,” Quin half-shouted. God, it rang in his ears something awful. Another swallow would help. He downed some more as he followed Jonas back inside. The bastard had already settled himself into a chair by the window by the time Quin came through the door.

“Have a seat,” Jonas said, acting as if he owned the place and indicating the chair next to him. “We need to talk.” When Quin didn’t comply, Jonas roughly pulled on Quin’s arm until he sank into the chair.

Christ, that left his arse hurting. “Have a care, will you?” Quin said.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t care.” Jonas pried the bottle free from Quin’s grasp and tossed into the hearth. It shattered, sending tiny splinters of glass flying through the small room. “Now cork it and listen.”

“I’ll plant you a facer, for that.”

“Later. You can do anything you want later. But right now, you listen. Your wife didn’t write the damned stories they’re printing in the new rag.”

“Bloody balderdash, she didn’t,” Quin mumbled. All of a sudden, Jonas thought he knew everything.

Jonas pulled a stack of papers from inside his coat and thrust them before Quin’s nose. “You don’t have to take my word for it. Read them for yourself. Draw your own conclusions.” Jonas moved a lighted candlestick closer before he stood and paced.

“I don’t want to read the bloody”

“Read them,” Jonas interrupted. “I don’t want to hear another word from you until you’re finished with the entire lot of them.”

Who had died and made Jonas king? Prinny would never stand for it.

Still, he ought to read them. He needed to know how bad it was—how soon he should expect Rotheby to toss them out. His eyes scanned the top page, devouring the words as he had so often devoured the pages of Aurora’s journal. It was a perfect sample of her writings, exactly like all the ones he’d read before. He might even want to try this particular one with her. “You’ve lost your blasted mind, Jonas. This is clearly Aurora’s writing. Strawberries and clotted cream in bed”

“Close your mouth and read the next one,” Jonas snapped. He used the same tone that had been so common amongst Quin’s tutors over the years—every time he was caught neglecting to work assiduously at his studies. Which, of course, was a rather frequent occurrence. Even more frequent after his father’s death, when Quin had started to raid the man’s ever increasing supply of brandy, kept so well hidden from his mother. He half expected a rap on his knuckles or a rolled piece of parchment to swat against his head.

With a scowl, Quin turned to the next sheet of foolscap. He read, expecting more of the same. But within moments, the words on the page scorched his eyes. Aurora’s fantasies had always been so innocent, so tentative. A blindfold here, strawberries in bed there. Perhaps making love in the middle of the day instead of the dark of night.

Quin flipped through the stack as fast as he could while still allowing his mind to register what they contained. Tying her and using a horsewhip on her until she bled. Mass orgies. Putting her on naked display before a room full of lusty men. And somehow, those were the tamer stories of the lot.

Aurora could never have written such things. She could never have imagined them either, for that matter.

What a fool he had been. He was so bloody dicked in the nob, he should be carted off post haste to Bedlam. Or maybe Newgate would be a better option, given his present murderous state.

He felt ill. So ill in fact that he rushed from the tiny building. Quin barely made it to the side of the river before casting up his accounts.

“Do you believe me now?” Jonas asked quietly from behind him.

There could be no more question of belief. “Christ, who’s behind this?” Quin asked so softly he almost didn’t recognize his own voice. He had to know. And he’d find the bastard and rip his head free from his shoulders, amongst other things.

“Does Aurora have any enemies? Anyone who’d want to hurt her?”

Who could possibly want to hurt her? Save Quin, of course, each time he lost his mind and blamed her for something ridiculous, something for which he was far more likely to hold the blame. “None that I know of. I can’t imagine she has any.”

Jonas moved beside him and sat at the base of the great oak leaning out over the river, tilting back to rest against it. “I assumed as much. So then the question turns to you. Let’s make a list. Who would want to hurt you?”

Quin laughed. “Where should I begin?” Cuckolded husbands, cheated gamblers, scorned mistresses, Phoebe and her family…

Wait. Phoebe’s family. Now there was a real possibility. He’d run off to the Continent after that foolhardy engagement, without giving her father or brothers a chance to defend her honor. Not that she had any more honor to begin with than he did, but that was beside the point.

Could it be Laughton, hoping for retribution? No, this felt too underhanded for Phoebe’s father. The marquess had never been one to mince words. The same could be said for Darlingshire. Laughton’s heir would be far more likely to call Quin out, challenge him to a duel, than to launch an attack against his wife and cast aspersions upon her character.

But that blunderbuss Griffin would take the back door out of a tavern before being caught with his breeches down. The lout had never liked Quin to begin with. It would be just like him to seek revenge through such despicable means.

He’d have to question Aurora about Griffin. If she would even allow him near her person again.

Quin took a seat on the ground next to Jonas, draping an arm over a propped up knee. “I’ll sort it out. I’ll take care of it.” Somehow. Good God, everything about his life had become a blasted nuisance since Aurora came into it. “You know, I’d rethink the whole idea of finding a bride, if I were you. They’re often more trouble than they’re worth.”

“Says the man who’s done everything in his power to avoid his wife,” Jonas came back with. “You’re neglecting her, Quin. She deserves better than that, despite the mistakes she may have made along the way.”

“What would you know of it?” Quin barked. “You should mind your own affairs.”

As expected, Jonas failed to even flinch from the rebuke. “I’ll mind mine when I’m satisfied that you’re not going to ruin what could be a very good thing. I spent the afternoon with Lady Quinton. She really is rather delightful to be around. You should try it sometime.”

“I’ll take your marriage advice when you’re married. Until then, keep your opinions to yourself.” Quin ground his teeth. What did Jonas know of it? The baronet was almost thirty and had never seriously entertained the notion of marriage. At least not that he’d let on to Quin. He’d kept the same damned mistress for at least the last six years. “And stay away from Aurora,” he added as an afterthought.

“She’s lonely. If you don’t spend any time with her and you keep her virtually imprisoned here with no interaction other than with servants, she’ll go mad within the year. Your wife was not built to be idle, Quin.” Jonas faced him, his eyes holding a serious glow in the moonlight. “So either you start paying attention to her, or I will.”

“You’ll stay away from her or you’ll answer to me.”

“You’ll uphold your responsibility to her or you’ll answer to me,” Jonas said, his voice holding a quiet threat. “And you’ll damned well learn to stay away from the brandy or I swear to you, I’ll take her away from you and put her somewhere you’ll never find her. She deserves better.”

“Of course she deserves better. My mother deserved better! I deserved better. But we didn’t get it.” Quin pushed off the ground and stalked to the riverfront. “And instead, I turned into him. I became an exact replica of my father, and there is nothing I can do about it. Every day, I am more like him. Every moment, I feel more of him creeping through my soul, coaxing me to drink, driving me to strike something.”

“If you strike her, I promise you that you will never see her again. Mrs. Marshall and Forster have already sworn their assistance. They won’t sit by and watch you lash out against that girl the way your father lashed out against you and your mother. Going through that once was more than enough for this lifetime—for anyone.” Jonas came up alongside him and skipped a stone across the placid surface of the river. The ripples danced in the light of the moon. “But you are not your father. You don’t have to be like him. You are your own man, Quin, and you make your own decisions in life. Right now, you’re choosing to follow his path.” He turned and walked back toward his horse, pausing before he mounted. “I’m asking you to choose a different path. I don’t want to lose a friend. But it is your choice.”

~ * ~

Quin hadn’t watched the sunrise come up over the river by the hermitage since before Mercy died. Not until that morning, after sitting there by the great oak the entire night.

He didn’t drink any more of his brandy. There was plenty left in his stores, so he could have drank until he passed out, and then woke up and had some more.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he spent the entire night thinking of Mercy. He always thought of her when he went there. It had been their spot, almost as though it had been created just for the two of them—their favorite place to go when they wanted an adventure, or just to escape their tutor and governess for a while. Mother and Father had always made certain the servants kept it well stocked, with logs to burn in the hearth, pillows and bedding, changes of clothes, bread and sweetmeats. Quin and Mercy could escape there, for a few hours or the better part of the day, sometimes even spending the night and watching the sunrise together while they fished in the river, laughing and talking about how fun it would be to leap from the branches of the old oak, to swim in the water without a care in the world. They never did. The branches were too high. He had believed he could climb it, but surely she couldn’t. She was just a girl, after all. A girl with skirts and any number of other things to hinder her.

Still, it was perfect. Their secret place that wasn’t a secret. Their haven.

Until that one day when he came upon Mercy laying on the riverbank, beneath the great oak with a pool of blood around her head. The day she died. The day his life changed forever.

For the next two years, the hermitage was no longer an adventure. It was a place to hide when Father went into a drunken rage. A place to lick his wounds in private, so Mother wouldn’t know how badly he’d been beaten that time. A place to fear discovery, if Father ever came out looking for him.

After his father died, Quin hadn’t been back to the hermitage. Until now. Until he was running from himself. Maybe he thought a part of Mercy was still there, where she’d laughed and lived and died. Maybe he thought she would have the answers he sought, that she could still speak to him.

But she wasn’t there. She didn’t speak.

Mercy was nothing more than a memory floating away with the current of the river. Not even the perfection of the sunrise washing the meadow in gold could bring her back.

Quin couldn’t sit there any longer, waiting for the ghost of a girl who had died at thirteen to come to him. He needed to find a way to repair things with Aurora. He needed to put an end to the lies being printed.

He needed to tell her he loved her—and of the changes that must take place because of that love.

When he turned, he froze. Coming along the pea-gravel path over the hill, shrouded in the pastel glow of dawn, she came to him. Aurora, his goddess of the morning.

Chapter Twenty

19 May, 1811

There could be some hope, if I can make him listen to me—if I can make him believe I’m not responsible for these things. Perhaps then he will forgive me for my faults. Perhaps we can start over again, and try to behave as a husband and wife ought. Or perhaps my head is still in the clouds, wishing for things that can never take place, hoping for things when there is no hope. But how will I know if I do not try?

~From the journal of Lady Quinton

Aurora stopped in her tracks. With the haze of the rising sun at his back, she couldn’t read Quin’s expression. He stood in a meadow of delphiniums that overlooked a winding river, looking quite out of place amidst the natural backdrop. Part of her wanted to turn, to make for the abbey and never look back. But she’d never been one to run from a confrontation, not even when she likely should have.

She took another step. “Quin?” she called. “Sir Jonas told me I would probably find you here.”

He said nothing. He didn’t even move. Was he cross that she’d come here to find him?

Aurora took a few more steps. She needed to make him understand that she had not written those stories. She needed his forgiveness for ever having written any stories in the first place. If she hadn’t, none of this would ever have happened. “I was hoping we could talk. I wanted to apologize”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he bit off. Still, he remained where he stood.

She had everything to apologize for. If Lord Rotheby learned of these new stories, regardless of whether she’d written them or not, they’d likely be tossed out the door without a chance to explain. “But…?”

“But nothing,” he said more softly. “I’m the one who should apologize, Aurora. I’ve been drunk and belligerent and absent. I’ve done everything to you that my father did to my mother, save cudgel you. And I nearly did that last night.”

“But you didn’t,” Aurora said, moving closer to him, reaching for him.

He stepped backward, reestablishing the distance between them. “No, I didn’t. But I threw your journal and only missed you by inches. If Jonas hadn’t been there, I don’t know what I would have done. I lost control. I’m sorry. I’m so very, terribly sorry. I should never have married you. I’m not fit to be anyone’s husband.”

He looked so vulnerable. She’d never seen him vulnerable before. Quin’s eyes were big and sad, like a deep well of unshed tears. She wanted to soothe him, to comfort him. To hold him while he let it all out.

But again, when she stepped closer to him, he backed away. It felt like a mirror of how their marriage had been—always a certain amount of distance separating them, a permanent divide.

“You’re my husband,” Aurora said. “What’s done is done. You didn’t hurt me.”

“What if I do? What then?”

Oh, dear good Lord. If he didn’t stop it soon, she was liable to lose her patience. “You won’t. I seem to recall you telling me, rather angrily I might add, that you don’t strike women. So tell me why, all of a sudden, you seem so certain you’ll hurt me.”

“Because I’m just like my father.” Quin dragged a hand over his face, and then he turned and walked away.

“Wait,” she called out. He kept going. Blast him. Aurora raised the hem of her skirt and followed. “Slow down.”

He seemed none too inclined to comply. She hurried along behind him until she could reach him. “Please, Quin,” she said, taking hold of his hand and tugging until he looked at her. She could get lost in his eyes. They held a world of hurt and fear—a world she would never understand unless he talked to her. “Tell me about your father.”

“My father was a moral degenerate. He was the lowest creature in all of England. He drank and yelled, and if you were lucky he would only beat you with his fists. Mother was usually lucky, because she didn’t yell back.”

Quin looked out across the river, seeming to stare at nothing. “I wasn’t lucky.”

“You fought with him often?” Aurora prodded. She stroked his palm absently.

“Every time he came home smelling of whiskey and some other woman’s cheap perfume. Every time I caught him on his way into London to visit the gambling hells. Every time he struck my mother. Yes, I fought with him all the time. I’d fight with him again today if he dared to come within a hundred feet of my mother. We would see how tough he was against someone his own size.” Quin shook his head, the dimple on his cheek twitching as he clenched his unshaven jaw. “I’d kill him with my bare hands for all he put us through. He got off easy, being thrown from his horse. Fate was far kinder than he deserved.”

Aurora suddenly understood how very lucky she had been all her life. Her parents were not overly affectionate with each other, or sometimes not with her, but she’d never had to fear for her safety. She never wondered where the next blow would come from.

Her heart ached. She wanted to wrap him in her arms and soothe the boy trapped inside him. But that wouldn’t solve anything. His eyes still held too much anger, too much pain. “Was your father always this way?”

“It often feels that way. I remember those times so much more than the others—than when we were happy.” Quin led her to a soft patch of grass and spread his coat for her to sit on. “But the truth is, he changed. When Mercy died.”

His sister. The girl from the painting. “What happened to her?”

He frowned and squinted his eyes. “It’s difficult to remember all of it. I was only ten. Just a lad.” He swept a hand, indicating the area around them. “We used to come here a lot, Mercy and me. Always together. We were inseparable, even though she was three years my senior. But since she was thirteen and becoming a young lady, Father thought she needed to stop traipsing around all over the place with me. That she needed to behave like a young lady ought, and wear dresses, and learn to do embroidery. All those kinds of useless things girls are expected to do. Mercy didn’t particularly care for that idea. They had an argument that night—the night she died.”

He went still for a moment—long enough Aurora thought he might not go on. But just before she interrupted, he continued. “Mercy and I had been out riding through the hills again that day, when she was supposed to be with her governess. I had talked her into giving Miss Robson the slip. She wouldn’t have gone, otherwise. But she changed into one of the stable boys’ trousers and a shirt, and we rode off, laughing about what a coup it had been. Father caught us when we came back. He pulled her off the saddle, yelling about how ladies never ride astride, and dragged her into the house. They were at it for over an hour. I thought she was banished to her chamber for the rest of the day, so I tried to stay out of the way. I didn’t want Mercy to be in any more trouble because of me.

“Hours later, she hadn’t come for tea. Mother didn’t say anything of it, so I didn’t ask. But when she did not come to the table for supper, Father sent a maid to fetch her from her chamber. She wasn’t there, though. She was gone. The whole abbey was turned upside down with servants searching for her. Father told me to stay put, but I knew where she would be. She would be here—at the hermitage. Where we always came. So I ran out of the house and all the way here. I was too late.”

Quin’s voice hitched. A tremor ran through the hand Aurora held. “You found her?” she asked softly, holding him tighter when he tried to pull away.

“Under the tree,” he said and pointed to an oak just beside the hermitage. The lowest branch was easily higher than three men standing on each other’s shoulders. “She tried to climb it to dive into the river, but she fell. There was so much blood. It pooled around her and fell into the river. I still remember watching the trail flowing through the water. It went on forever. I thought it was my fault.”

“But you were just a boy!” she argued, cutting him off. He couldn’t still blame himself for such a thing.

“I was. And I thought it was my fault, because I’d convinced her to go riding with me that day. But then I blamed my father. He drove her to it. Only years later did I realize that it was no one’s fault. Only long after Father had died and blaming him didn’t make me feel better anymore.”

“Did he blame himself?” Aurora asked.

“Perhaps. I’ll never know. He had always doted upon her. When she was gone, he started to drink. He became belligerent. Whatever he felt, whether it was guilt or anger or grief, he took it out on Mother and me. Mrs. Marshall was my nurse at the time. She tried to interfere once, to stop him. Then she wasn’t my nurse anymore, but one of the maids. I was on my own. But by the time I was twelve, I had started to get taller, grow stronger. And I got a lot meaner, too. I was going to be just like him.

“One day, he went after Mother. I got in the way and pushed him off her. He came at me then, with his fists swinging like mad. I grabbed a candlestick and knocked him over the head with it. He stopped, but I didn’t—not until Mother pried me off him. Until then, I just kept hitting him everywhere I could with that candlestick and wishing it was enough to kill him. He eventually staggered to his feet and left. I never saw him again. His horse threw him that night. He cracked his skull open. I was only sorry it hadn’t been me with the candlestick to do it.”

Quin looked in her eyes then. He reached up and wiped a tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. She didn’t even realize she’d been crying. “You’ve married a monster, Aurora. I’m so sorry.”

~ * ~

Quin could have thrown himself from that oak tree just then. Why had he told her all of that? Why had he burdened her with his family’s horrifying past? It was bad enough that it haunted him at every turn, particularly here at Quinton Abbey, but now she would never escape it either.

“I’m not sorry I married you,” Aurora said. “You are not a monster.”

Her expression was sincere—clear, bright eyes, even through the shimmer of her tears. She couldn’t mean it. He must not have made her understand how depraved he had become in that moment. How he had grown to be everything his father had ever been. How she wasn’t safe with him.

Quin had to make her understand. “I tried to kill him. I would have, if I were only bigger. I might…I might hurt you. I wouldn’t mean to hurt you, but I might.”

She took his hand in her own, trailing her thumbs along the creases of his palm. “You were trying to protect your mother. You did the right thing. I don’t believe for a second that you would hurt me.”

Was she daft? Quin stood and paced to the riverbank. “I almost did last night.”

“But you didn’t.” Aurora followed him. Ever so carefully, she took his hand in hers again. “You won’t.”

He pulled away. “How can you be so sure of that? How are you so certain that I’m not the monster I believe—the monster that my father was?”

“Look at me,” she implored. When he didn’t, she took his face in her hands and pulled him to her. “You are not your father. You are Niles Thornton—the brave boy who protected his mother, now grown into a man. A man who, by the way, does not strike women. You won’t hurt me.”

If only he was so certain. Quin shook his head. “I can’t take that chance, Aurora. I love you too much. If I ever hurt you…”

Her eyes widened. “You love me?”

She didn’t return his words. Quin couldn’t very well expect her love. He damned well didn’t deserve it. But still, some small part of him had hoped.

“More than I could ever tell you with words. More than I could show you in a hundred years of trying. And because of that, I need you to leave. Jonas will take you away. Back to your father, if you’d like, or perhaps to stay with Lady Rebecca and her family. Somewhere away from me. Somewhere you’ll be safe.”

She should be relieved. She should be on her knees, thanking him.

Instead, she appeared affronted. No, that was far too tame a word. Aurora was livid. Her eyes turned to flames that licked at him, burning him to the core. She crossed her arms over her chest and planted her feet at shoulder’s width apart. “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my life. I’m not going anywhere, unless you leave. Then I’ll come with you.”

She spun on her heels and marched away, muttering beneath her breath something to the effect of, “Damned insufferable brute, thinking he can order me around, needs to learn a thing or two about how to treat a bloody wife.”

He ought to follow her. He should make her understand reason, or at least make her understand her place. A wife ought not to contradict her husband’s commands in such a manner, after all.

But instead of following her, all he could do was laugh—a huge bark of a laugh that shook the leaves of the trees around him and sent the birds aflutter. Quite a welcome change from his mood of late. Hearing such unladylike vocabulary from Aurora was a treat.

~ * ~

Send her home to her father, indeed. What did the blasted man think that would solve? Nothing! That’s what. If he sent her back to London, the gossips would double their already increased efforts at sullying both their names, she wouldn’t have a chance at giving him an heir (if that were even possible—she still had her doubts), and Lord Rotheby would take everything from Quin.

Ridiculous man. To tell her all about his troubled upbringing, then to tell her he loved her, and then to threaten to send her away? Over her dead body.

Aurora grumbled the entire way back to the abbey. If anyone were to happen upon her, they’d think her a madwoman.

With good reason, she must admit.

Aurora was well on her way to becoming that very thing, based on the way her husband was treating her at the moment.

She neglected to stop marching when she came through the door, peeling her gloves off and leaving them and her bonnet with Forster. Instead, she continued all the way through to the great hall, where Sir Jonas was enjoying his breakfast.

He labored to rise when she entered, a forkful of sausages halfway chewed in his mouth.

“No, no, it’s quite all right. Please remain seated.” She filled her own plate and joined him, settling into a high-backed chair across from him. “Actually, I was hoping we might talk.”

“Of course, Lady Quinton,” he said after he’d swallowed.

She took a small bite of baked eggs and chewed while she debated how to word her request. Finally, she blurted out, “Quin believes he will hurt me.” Sir Jonas looked ready to interrupt her so she rushed on. “I don’t. But whether he is right or I am, would you agree he is far less likely to do such a thing if others are present?”

“Others, ma’am?”

“Such as yourself,” Aurora suggested, sipping from her chocolate. “After all, he did manage to restrain himself at least somewhat in your presence, did he not?”

“Of course. He certainly would not want an audience. If he were to ever do such a thing, that is.”

“Indeed,” she murmured. An audience? Her initial idea of asking Sir Jonas to stay, and perhaps inviting Rebecca for a visit, seemed rather inconsequential compared to the thought currently swimming around in her head. “I believe I need a favor. I’ll need your promise to keep it a secret from Quin.”

Perhaps having a swarm of people around them would do just the trick.

Chapter Twenty-One

19 May, 1811

The blasted man clearly doesn’t know what’s good for him. He is so caught up in the past, he can’t see the present, let alone think about the possibilities for the future. Imbecile. Well, if he thinks the only thing that can save me from him and his blasted temper is having someone else around to witness it, then I’ll make certain he is surrounded. Endlessly surrounded, in fact. By people he would never dare to raise a hand against another living soul in their presence. I absolutely refuse to cower. And I will not run back to my father with my tail tucked between my legs. Quin needs to understand—I am not afraid of him. I might be afraid I’m falling in love with him—head over ears, and all that—but I will never be afraid of my husband. It is simply not in my power to do so.

~From the journal of Lady Quinton

After spending the entire morning by the river, Quin finally trudged up the path toward the abbey. He’d spent the time thinking, trying to devise a plan, but coming up with nothing feasible.

He could order Aurora to leave. Jonas would take her and be sure she was protected. Then she could be safe, but Quin would be utterly despondent. The thought of not having her by his side at night, of not being able to hold her, and savor the faint rosewater scent of her hair, and feel the fluid warmth of her body—it robbed him of his breath and felt as though a mountain were suddenly atop him, pressing him into the earth.

Quite simply put, he couldn’t live without her.

Damn it all to hell and back.

Which meant he was going to have to somehow manage to not become his father. No telling what that would entail. But the time to begin the process was upon him. The time had also arrived to discover, once and for all, who had taken the pages from Aurora’s journal.

When Quin came through the main doors of Quinton Abbey, Forster was sending a monstrous stack of letters off with a postman. “What is all that?” he demanded of the butler.

Forster somehow managed to raise a single, overly-arched eyebrow even higher than it normally rested. “Her ladyship’s invitations, of course.”

“Invitations?” Quin drawled. “She can’t possibly think to accept them. We’re not going back to London. Not now.” Who in bloody hell would be sending her invitations all the way to Wetherby? Particularly when such vile gossip was being spread about her. She ought to be a pariah in the ton at the moment, from what he could gather, not a social butterfly, being invited to every soiree and ball and concert.

“You misunderstand, my lord. These are the invitations Lady Quinton is sending out for the house party at Quinton Abbey. She said you insisted they go out in today’s post, as you wanted as many people to attend as possible.”

A house party. At Quinton Abbey. While he was trying to learn patience and to stop relying so heavily on brandy, no less.

This had to be Aurora’s idea of torture.

“I see,” he finally said. He couldn’t very well take his frustrations out on Forster. The man clearly thought he was doing Quin’s bidding by doing that of his wife. “And where might I find my wife at the moment?”

“I believe she is on her way in to luncheon with Sir Jonas. I can order a plate prepared for you as well, my lord.” The older man passed him a meaningful glance, one that clearly said he intended to do so whether Quin wanted it or not.

Quin only managed a nod in response, before making his way to the great hall. As expected, upon his arrival his position was prepared for him at the head of the table. Aurora and Jonas were already seated on either side of him.

“Oh, how lovely,” Aurora said as Quin stalked to his seat. “I was so hoping you would be joining us for our meal.” Her voice didn’t hold even the slightest hint of sarcasm.

For a moment, he envied that ability. Then he grunted.

A footman placed a plate of cold meats, cheeses, and bread before him. Only then did Quin acknowledge his overwhelming hunger. He could eat an entire boar by himself if given the opportunity. Perhaps he ought to have had more than just brandy the night before.

After shoveling down several mouthfuls of food, he turned to his wife. “So when did you plan to tell me about this house party you’re arranging? Or perhaps you meant it to be a surprise, so that I could not withhold my permission for such a thing?”

Aurora smiled at him then, easily the most charming smile she could muster. Almost charming enough to fool him into wishing he could return it. “I’d hoped to discuss it with you this afternoon, Quin. Sir Jonas was very kind in helping me to put together a guest list and to make out the invitations.”

Quin raised an eyebrow in the baronet’s direction. “Is that so? I’ll have to thank him later,” he responded dryly.

“Indeed,” she continued, seemingly unimpressed by his lack of enthusiasm over her pronouncement. “And all the invitations have already gone out. I do hope you aren’t too upset with me, but once the idea struck me that we should have some guests here at the abbey, I simply couldn’t wait to get started on it. Besides, there isn’t much time for our guests to make their plans.”

Of course she couldn’t wait. If she waited, he might have stopped her. If she waited, he could have at least limited the number of her planned guests.

He took another bite of cheese. “When should I expect this blessed event to occur?”

Jonas choked on a bite of his food and cleared his throat on a look from Quin. “Just over three weeks. Because of how soon it shall be, Lady Quinton has asked that I remain here until everyone else arrives.”

Perfect. Having Jonas around would become a thorn in Quin’s side in no time. He’d never been one to want another gentleman around while he seduced a woman, so why should he want one around watching as he tried to grasp his role as a husband?

“Oh, Sir Jonas, I do hope everyone we’ve invited is able to join us,” Aurora said, smiling prettily across the table at him. “It just wouldn’t do to have uneven numbers.”

Numbers. Yes, he needed to know the numbers. Quin would have to prepare himself for the invasion—and that stack of invitations had looked foreboding, at best. “Care to inform me who all you’ve invited?”

Then Aurora turned her smile on him. Oh, how he wished he could see that more often, perhaps sometime other than when she was plotting his downfall. It shone brighter than the sun coming in through the massive windows behind Jonas. “Well, we invited my father, of course, and Lady Rebecca Grantham and the duchess. Lord Norcutt required an invitation as well, since he can almost never be seen anywhere other than at Rebecca’s side these days. But we couldn’t stop there, since the abbey is so terribly large. It seemed a shame to not have the halls bursting at the seams with people.”

“That it did,” Jonas interjected, winking at Aurora from across the table.

“So we sent an invitation to Lord Merrick, because of his friendship with Lord Norcutt. And then we needed another lady, so I invited Miss Stephanie Osbourne and her mother, Lady Pratley. But she has a younger sister who is also out, so of course we had to invite Vivian, the younger Miss Osbourne. So then I thought, perhaps, Lord Tucker Flynn would be a nice addition, and his sister Lady Emily Flynn would have to come with him. And Lord Tucker is rather good friends with Mr. Garret Bentley, so that helped to sort out the problem with numbers quite famously.”

By Quin’s count, that had them at eleven guests. Twelve, if he counted Jonas. Not quite the even numbers of older guests to mingle with older guests, and younger guests to mix with the younger ones that he would have expected. But he didn’t think it would be a good idea to point that out and have her send out more invitations.

Jonas reached over to select a piece of fruit from the bowl situated by him. “I suggested my friends Lord and Lady Lipscombe as a younger married couple who could act as chaperones for all the younger, unmarried members of the party.”

Up to fourteen. Good God.

“I was so glad Sir Jonas made such a suggestion, too, since they are our near neighbors,” Aurora said. “I’ve wanted to make some acquaintances in the area, and he is helping to make that possible.” She took a sip from her glass and eyed Quin over the rim. “And of course, we had to invite your family.”

His family? Damnation. He’d string Jonas up to the great oak by his toes for interfering. The last thing he needed was for his mother to see what a mess he had made of his life. Quin shoveled in another mouthful of bread a bit more forcefully than necessary.

“Sir Jonas did tell me that Nia is a bit younger than the rest of our guests, and truly has not yet had her come-out. But that shouldn’t pose a problem for anyone, since he assures me she is a lovely young lady, and quite mature for her age. Besides, I could not bear the thought of having Sir Augustus and Lady Coulter here, but leaving your sister behind. Your younger sister. One you’ve yet to inform me of.” Aurora continued to prattle on, but Quin no longer heard her words.

He couldn’t allow this. The idea of his mother seeing him in this state was bad enough—but his step-father? And even worse, his sister? Nia couldn’t come. She couldn’t see him as he’d become. He had made a point since Nia’s birth to stay away from her, so she couldn’t be affected by his influence. She was better off staying in Sheffield, far from his debauched lifestyle. The fact that he was now married held no real significance.

He was an abysmal excuse for a husband, much as his father had been. He was an even worse excuse for a brother.

“I am so looking forward to meeting your family, Quin,” Aurora continued before he could formulate his thoughts. “Well, the rest of them, that is. I’ve already met Lord Rotheby, and I’ll be delighted to spend more time with him at our house party this summer of course. But I’m desperate to get to know your mother and your sister.”

Rotheby? She had to be joking. His wife could not be serious. The last thing Quin needed was his grandfather peering over his morning papers to scrutinize his every little action and lecture him at every turn. “Aurora,” Quin said with a warning in his tone, “you have not truly sent Rotheby an invitation, have you? You do realize that his presence would tremendously try my patience. Not to mention my mother”

“Oh, dear,” Aurora said. “I am so terribly sorry, but the invitations have already gone out. There is nothing to be done for it at this point. You shall just have to prove yourself a patient man amidst rather trying conditions, won’t you?” She sat back in her chair with an increasingly smug smile.

So it had been her plan all along. What was she trying to prove? Quin glared at Jonas across the table. The baronet ought to have known better. Jonas knew Quin better than anyone else in the world. He should have recognized the trouble Aurora would be inviting and found a way to discourage her from something so foolhardy.

But, no matter. Her house party would end up a crashing bore, since she was rather more infamous than at the height of fashion at the moment. Most of her invited guests would never dare to accept. Hopefully Rotheby and his mother would follow suit.

Still, he ought to prepare himself for at least a couple of guests to arrive. “How soon did you say this would all take place?” he asked with as much patience as he could muster, gritting his teeth while he awaited Aurora’s response.

She smiled at him triumphantly. “In just over three weeks. The Season will be coming to an end, and I did not want them all to go rushing off somewhere else where we could not find them.”

Three weeks. He had three weeks to learn to keep his temper in check.

Bloody hell.

~ * ~

Perhaps married life would not be so monotonous and prosaic as she had imagined it after all. Certainly after their talk at the riverfront, Aurora had an increased understanding of her husband. So, too, did their lovemaking increase in both frequency and fervor.

The frequency might only have increased because Quin seemed to be staying close by the abbey more often during the day. He would go out and meet with his steward or visit with his workers and tenants in the mornings, but then he would be home for luncheon. Then he would perhaps spend an hour or two in his library with his secretary, going over accounts and figures before joining Aurora and Sir Jonas for tea.

Some days after tea, the three of them would promenade through the park together, or perhaps take a picnic supper to eat beneath the willow trees next to the great pond.

But on other days, Quin would slip an arm around Aurora’s waist and pull her into a secluded corner and kiss her senseless. More often than not on those days, before much time had passed, they would be sneaking off to his chamber and making love in the full light of day.

Aurora loved those days.

She loved being able to see the coarse curls covering Quin’s chest and follow their path down below his waist. She loved watching the muscles in his arms and chest contract and unfurl as he moved over her, or as he helped to move her body over his. She loved the way his eyes darkened and closed in ecstasy when he spilled himself inside her. She loved the power displayed in his back and buttocks and thighs when he would rise to wash himself before bringing her a wet cloth to do the same.

Oh, dear good Lord. Who was she fooling? She loved Quin. Blast him.

There could really be no purpose in continuing to deny it. Perhaps she loved him even more for all of his imperfections (and Quin certainly could not claim perfection—her husband had a multitude or ten of faults). Aurora had already loved him before that morning by the hermitage, before he had bared his heart to her, before he showed her his true nature. Before he displayed his vulnerability. Before he admitted his love.

She loved him before she even realized she loved him. Best of all, it was all right that she did.

Because he loved her in return.

It shouldn’t really surprise her. She had written of their love, after all, and her stories always seemed to work out just the way she imagined them. Well, perhaps with a few detours from the plot and a handful of hiccups along the way. But that was beside the point.

The point was that, despite how they had ended up that way, Aurora and Quin had a marriage full of love.

They still had their disagreements, to be sure. But now that Quin was starting to actually spend some time with her other than only in bed, at least they were able to talk them out and find some sort of compromise.

She could hardly contain her excitement in telling him the best bit of all. But the timing had to be perfect. Aurora wanted for both of them to remember the moment forever. It was about time they started collecting good memories, after all, instead of all the traumatic, salacious, and otherwise scandalous memories they had to that point accumulated.

More than a fortnight has passed since Aurora had sent out her invitations. The house party would be a grand success. She simply knew it would. And she and Quin would have a lovely announcement to make to their guests after they arrived in a week’s time.

Still, she didn’t want to tell him quite yet.

Soon. Very soon.

~ * ~

One more day. In one more day, a hoard of expectant guests would invade his home, expecting him to put on a happy face and be a happy host and say happy things and think happy thoughts.

Damnation.

Quin should have sent a footman out to reclaim the bloody invitations from the postman. But he hadn’t. He ought to have written apologetic letters to Aurora’s entire guest list, informing them that, due to unforeseen circumstances, they would be unable to host the house party. But he hadn’t. He damned well should have done what he had intended and sent Aurora away with Jonas, somewhere she could be safe, somewhere he couldn’t hurt her, somewhere he could never find her. But, again, he hadn’t.

So now, in one more day’s time, he would have no option but to follow through with this farce she had dragged him into.

Quin had done his best over the three intervening weeks to behave as a proper and decent husband ought. He took care of his business affairs efficiently. He joined his wife for luncheon and tea and supper—chiefly because the thought of leaving Jonas to his own devices with Aurora didn’t sit well with him. Or at least that was the excuse he gave himself. Jonas had never (to Quin’s knowledge) been known to make a cuckold of other men.

Quin took the time to get to know more about Aurora—about her relationship with her father (how the man doted upon her), and what she remembered of her mother (chiefly only sadness and strife), and if she’d ever had a pet (none, but the idea of having a puppy of her very own thrilled her to pieces).

Aurora told him of her fear of heights that had plagued her since falling down a few stairs as a young girl. She told him how she came to be such dear friends with Lady Rebecca after her mother’s death—how no matter how forcibly Aurora had pushed against Rebecca to leave her alone to her misery, no matter how much she lashed out in anger and sadness and grief, no matter how deplorable her company must have been for a young girl, Rebecca stood staunchly by her side. She let him see tiny little pieces of herself that she normally kept hidden or firmly tamped down so as not to be discovered: the way she would always say “Thank you,” whenever a servant assisted her with a task, no matter how small; the way she would stealthily set aside her embroidery and begin work on a new gown for her lady’s maid as soon as the latter left the room; the way she picked up after Jonas so the maids wouldn’t have to come behind him and do it; the way she would set about discovering Quin’s favorite meal, or Jonas’s favorite dessert, and be certain to have Cook prepare them regularly; the way her eyes would light up when something struck her to write in her journal, and she would dart to the escritoire or her chamber to write it down before it was lost.

Quin no longer feared allowing his wife to write. She had erred in London, in allowing someone to take some of her pages. But it was just that—a mistake. But here, at Quinton Abbey, he had no fear that anyone would be able to hurt her in such a manner again, despite the fact that he still had not discovered the perpetrator.

At least, no one would be able to hurt her like that again once he sorted out who was behind the Sordid Scandals and Titillating Trysts and put an end to the slanderous rag.

If he were still a betting man (and sweet Christ, he wished he were), he would wager in the book at White’s that Lord Griffin Seabrook was behind the deuced pages. But since he had been forced into a respectable and honorable life, he could only hold tight to such a certainty. Who else would it be?

Laughton’s family always took a summer holiday to his principal seat in Harrogate, so he knew Griffin would be there soon. If Quin were not to have a houseful of guests, he’d head over there and confront the bastard on it.

But Rotheby would be in fits if Quin took off during a house party to either beat the man to a bloody pulp or call him out to duel. It just wouldn’t do. Doubtless, his grandfather would take the abbey from him on the spot, leaving Quin and Aurora not only with their reputations in tatters, but destitute and homeless, as well.

So he’d have to wait until the infernal affair was at an end.

Quin hated to wait.

He wished their guests would hurry and arrive, so they could get started. It wouldn’t very well end if it had not yet begun. And devil take it, every last invitation Aurora had sent out had been accepted.

She was so excited about it that she intended to throw a ball at the end of the fortnight, even inviting some of the gentry and merchants and workers who lived nearby to take part in the celebration. Quinton Abbey hadn’t hosted a ball as long as Quin could remember. Perhaps not ever. The whole town of Wetherby was abuzz about her ladyship’s ball. Quin couldn’t escape talk of it anywhere he went.

Not even in his mews.

Quin was just returning to the abbey from a visit with Carruthers, when his head groom popped around the corner.“Lovely afternoon, my lord, is it not?”

“Indeed it is,” Quin responded. “I was thinking of taking Lady Quinton to explore the kitchen garden before supper.” And perhaps ravishing her in the gazebo. Or on the warm grass beside it, just where the sun would be hitting it. Or both.

Jonas would most decidedly have to stay behind, this time.

“I’m sure her ladyship would appreciate the thought, sir. Indeed, she must be as appreciative as the townsfolk are for her thoughtfulness.”

If only the man knew what he was really thinking. Quin just nodded his agreement as they both turned to the sound of a carriage coming along the lane.

“Looks as though some of your guests have arrived early,” the groom said.

While Quin didn’t particularly care to have any guests in his home for any longer than they already would be, he couldn’t help but be grateful that an early arrival meant that finally, it was starting.

“That it does,” Quin responded. “If you’ll please pardon me, I must go and greet them.” Time to play the happy host. Blast it.

Chapter Twenty-Two

13 June, 1811

I am more addled by my husband than ever. His family is delightful. Why would he not want for me to meet them? Why would he not want them in his life? He can be so terribly contradictory. Everything that he wants, everything that he needs, he pushes away. Could that be why he has pushed so hard against me? He needs to stop pushing, or he’ll lose what he will hold most dear. Perhaps it is time to tell him.

~From the journal of Lady Quinton

A woman barreled out of the carriage and engulfed Aurora in her arms before she had a chance to give a proper greeting. She was tall, like Aurora, with lovely golden hair that glinted in the afternoon sun. She even smelled like sunshine, if that were possible.

But her encompassing embrace made it out of the question for Aurora to see any more of this woman than she had in that all too brief moment when she burst out of the carriage.

“Let her go before you strangle her, dear,” came a gruff yet somehow jovial masculine voice from the direction of the carriage. “Otherwise you’ll have to explain to your son just how, precisely, you managed to suffocate his wife upon our arrival.”

Her son? Oh, dear good Lord. Lady Coulter. She was early. Actually, they were early, since the male voice had to belong to Sir Augustus, and undoubtedly Nia was still tucked away in the carriage, waiting to be handed out.

She really wished Quin was here. He ought to introduce them. He ought to greet his mother.

He ought to be there to calm Aurora down, the blasted man.

But then Sir Jonas’s voice rang out from behind her: “Lady Coulter, if you do not let go of Lady Quinton this moment so that I can have one of those famous hugs, I’ll have to steal mine from Miss Coulter.”

Finally, Aurora could breathe again as Lady Coulter released her and swatted playfully at Sir Jonas’s arm. “Jonas, you rascal. You may be a grown man now and not the little boy running through my garden in his short dress stealing my daisies to take home to your mother, but I can still bring you to heel. Now come and give me a proper greeting,” she said, walking over to him and taking his face in her hands.

Aurora stepped back to watch the scene unfolding before her. Lady Coulter still had a jaunt in her steps, despite her advancing years. The golden hair she shared with Quin was streaked with grey, but generally looked vibrant. In the years since the portrait in the gallery was painted, she’d filled in about the middle just a touch. Enough to further emphasize the curves she wore very well. She was quite a sight.

Her husband, however, was balding and ruddy-faced, and rather more portly. But he smiled upon Lady Coulter with obvious affection—much as she smiled upon Sir Jonas.

Aurora looked for Nia, but the girl was still in the shadows of the carriage, peering out through the window to watch the proceedings. How odd for the girl to be so shy, with the gregarious Lady Coulter for a mother, and the rakehell to put all other rakehells to shame, Quin, as a brother. Aurora wanted to get to know her, to draw her out of her shell. That would be an excellent project for the fortnight.

“So very grown up. I haven’t seen you in an age,” Lady Coulter continued, latching her arm through one of Sir Jonas’s before turning back to Aurora. “And you—I could pull my son over my knee for not even sending word that he’d married, let alone not inviting us to come and meet you immediately, dear. You are truly a lovely thing, aren’t you?”

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” Aurora said, dipping into a brief curtsy.

“Ma’am? You may call me Minerva, dear. I certainly intend to call you Aurora. And of course, this is my husband, Sir Augustus Coulter,” the older woman said with a wave of her hand. “And Nia? Nia, come out of the carriage, dear, and meet your sister.” Lady Coulter lowered her voice and said into Aurora’s ear: “I fear my daughter has suddenly turned shy. She’ll warm up to you in no time.”

The young lady climbing out of the carriage was a vision. Oh, she was young and awkward, to be sure, perhaps even to the point of bungling. She stood taller than Aurora (who was on the tall side for a lady) with long, spindly limbs that made her seem more coltish than graceful. But her golden hair, porcelain skin, and blue eyes as dark and mysterious as the night sky held promise for when she would one day grow into her own.

Nia looked around, allowing her eyes to linger more on her mother and father than on either Aurora or Sir Jonas. Then she lowered her eyes to the ground to mumble out a greeting and dip a curtsy.

The sound of boots on the pea-gravel lane had them all turning. Finally, Quin was returning to the main house. Blasted man.

But before Aurora had a chance to say anything to him, Lady Coulter marched across to him with her fists planted at her hips. “You are an awful, horrid son to treat me this way all these years. Your sister has not seen you in so long that she will not recognize you. You neglected to even write to inform me of your marriage, which, by the way, I would have preferred to attend. You have not written to me since before you ran out on your betrothal to Lady Phoebe, and that was more than three years ago. If not for Jonas sending us word of your exploits on the continent, we would not have known if you were dead or alive. At least he behaves as a son ought, sending letters and coming for visits and generally behaving as a member of a family. I have half a mind to draw you over my knee right this moment.”

And then she wrapped him in the same engulfing hug she had given to Aurora moments before. “From now on, Aurora will keep me informed. Won’t you dear?”

“Of course she will,” Sir Augustus replied in his rough gravelly voice. “No one is brave enough to disobey you. Except Quin. Particularly not Sir Jonas and me, lass,” he whispered to Aurora conspiratorially with a nod in Sir Jonas’s direction. “It’s always a better idea to do what Minerva wants. Always.”

Sir Jonas raised an eyebrow and winked.

~ * ~

Quin spent the rest of the day being playfully berated by his mother, all while the woman doted upon Aurora as the three sat in the gilt-edged high-backed chairs near the windows. Jonas and Sir Augustus sat off near the hearth, discussing pheasant hunting season and crops and politics. Nia found a corner to herself near the tapestries where she could read a book or stitch away at some embroidery, generally lowering her gaze to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes, though occasionally, when it seemed no one was paying her any attention, she would glance up and stare curiously at Sir Jonas.

Which Aurora found to be a very interesting development, indeed.

The girl was more gangly than graceful—not quite fitting anywhere, but clearly a beauty in the making. Given a few more years, Nia would almost certainly be a diamond of the first water, perhaps even an Incomparable. She’d be able to snag any gentleman in London that she wanted.

But it seemed the only gentleman she wanted happened to be in Quinton Abbey at the moment.

“Do please excuse me,” Aurora said to Lady Coulter and Quin as she rose and slipped across the room to where Nia sat off by herself.

The girl colored up profusely as Aurora drew near, her perfect English rose complexion rising to a delicate pink. She hastily folded her stitchery to set it aside. “Lady Quinton,” she said in a soft voice, dipping her head ever lower.

“Call me Aurora. And I shall call you Nia, if I may. We are sisters now, after all.” And they were about to become co-conspirators, if the truth be told, but there was no need to worry Nia prematurely. She needed to ease into the discussion. Aurora slid down onto a plush settee next to the girl. “I can’t help but notice the way you sneak glances across at Sir Jonas. He is a very handsome man, is he not?”

Nia’s cheeks flushed to a somehow even more becoming shade. “Oh, my. I do hope you’ll not read anything into this. Jonas is…well, he is much like a brother to me. Even more like one than Quin has ever been.”

That blush made her out as a fraud, but Aurora wouldn’t call the poor girl out on such a tiny white lie. The truth would reveal itself in due time. Particularly if Aurora helped matters along. And she certainly intended to do just that. Perhaps she’d let Rebecca in on the plan, as well. Having a third conspirator might be called for in this situation, particularly since Nia seemed to be so terribly shy. The girl might not be cooperative.

“No, I don’t get the impression that Quin has been around you much, has he?” she prodded. If he wouldn’t answer her questions about his family (which he was still blatantly refusing to do after all this time), then at least she could learn something from them.

“I hardly recognize him, other than he looks rather a lot like Mama and me, doesn’t he?” Nia replied. “But no, he left to live on his own when I was just a small child. He hasn’t even come for a visit since I was about eight years old.”

Oh, good heavens. That was even more reprehensible than Aurora had suspected. “But Sir Jonas has?”

“Oh, yes. Ever since his own mother died, Jonas has come to spend his holidays with us, and has often paid us a visit in the summer as well.” Nia’s eyes were more expressive than Aurora had seen them to this point, large and round and virtually shimmering with excitement. “Mama and Papa look on him much as their own son.”

“And you look on him as you brother?” Aurora asked. She ought not to pry like this. She ought to let her sister-in-law off easy. But when did Aurora do as she ought? Now was certainly not the time to begin such a monumental change in behavior.

Nia’s eyes widened to the point that she looked almost inhuman. “Well…yes, of course I do,” she hedged.

The girl was a terrible fibber. That would make it all the easier for Aurora to understand her. Excellent. “Far more of a brother than Quin, I’m sure, since you hardly know him. Well, that settles that, then.” Aurora brushed her hands over the muslin fabric of her afternoon dress and rose to rejoin her husband and his mother by the windows.

“Settles what, Aurora?” the girl asked with her soft voice. She sounded as though she didn’t really want to know the answer to her question.

“Sir Jonas will act as your counterpart during this house party, of course. There will be many activities where all the unmarried young ladies and gentlemen will be paired off to do things together. And since you are so young—not to mention not yet out in society—you need to be paired with a gentleman who can act as more of a chaperone than an escort.” Aurora didn’t think Nia’s eyes could have grown any wider than they were earlier. She was wrong. “I had thought to pair you up with Quin, but clearly you will be more comfortable in Sir Jonas’s presence. He will be glad to take that responsibility, I’m sure.”

She’d make certain of it.

~ * ~

All around, Aurora’s plan for this house party was a bad idea.

Not only would Quin’s mother would be there for an entire fortnight, berating him for being such a negligent son, but he’d never seen such a wallflower as Nia before in his entire life.

Sir Augustus, at least, was genial and tended to stay out of the way as long as he had another gentleman or two to converse with and could sneak away from his wife long enough to smoke a cheroot from time to time.

But that was only his family!

It didn’t even include Rotheby, who would undoubtedly put a damper on any enjoyment Aurora’s other guests would care to find through the various entertainments she had planned. Quin regretted that he had done nothing to dissuade his wife from this debacle more and more by the hour.

Alas, as he climbed the stairs to his chamber for the night, it was too late for regrets. When he opened the door to the master sitting room of their suite, Aurora stood before him in nothing but a bold, diaphanous concoction that left nothing to his imagination. Well, in nothing but that and a devilishly sensual smile.

Good God, he wanted to rip that thing from her body and take her on the floor. More than two months into this marriage, he still hardened instantaneously just from the sight of her. Unbelievable.

A low growl came from his throat and he started across the room toward her.

“Not yet,” Aurora said, holding up a hand to stop him.

He pushed her hand aside and dragged her into his arms, burying his nose in the wild sea of her hair. “You can’t stand here looking like that and expect me to keep my hands off you.” Quin pulled her by the hips, until she was nestled—snug and firm—against his erection, then found her mouth with his tongue.

But she still didn’t cooperate. Blasted minx. Aurora kept her lips clamped and pushed against his chest with both hands. “I have something to tell you.”

“It can wait,” he bit off, trying to pull her back where he wanted her.

With a twist and a whirl, she was out of his grasp and halfway across the room. “No. It can’t wait.” Dropping down to one of the overstuffed armchairs by the darkened hearth, Aurora crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head, indicating he should do the same.

Damnation. He supposed he had no choice, aside from taking her against her will. Quin stalked over to the chair opposite hers and plopped down into it with a heavy sigh, dragging his hand through his hair in the process. “What is it now?” he barked.

The serious expression she had donned to get him to comply fled from her face, replaced yet again by that sly smile. “I have news for you. Good news. I’m sure you’ll want to inform Lord Rotheby as soon as he arrives tomorrow, in order to obtain his good will.”

News that would ensure Rotheby’s good will? That could only mean one thing, as far as he could see. “Go on,” Quin prompted. He needed to hear it. He needed Aurora to say it.

She leaned forward, resting a hand on his knee. “I’m with child,” Aurora breathed. There was something so very erotic about that, about the way she said it. It left him filled with primal, uncivilized lust. At that moment, Quin wanted his wife more than he had ever wanted a woman before in his life.

He wanted to take her. He wanted to love her. He wanted to protect her with every part of him. He wanted to never let her go.

“You’re certain?” he somehow managed to choke out.

Aurora nodded. “But there is still the possibility”

“That doesn’t matter,” Quin said, waving his hand as if to brush the idea away. “What matters is that you’re pregnant. With my child. With our child.” He rose and lifted Aurora into his arms, carrying her off to his bed. He wanted to make love to her—but not like he had ever done with her before.

Slowly.

Sweetly.

He wanted to savor every moment.

His wife was pregnant. He was going to be a father. He would finally have a family of his very own.

~ * ~

Gilbert Thornton, Lord Rotheby scanned the salon as he and the other gentlemen arrived from drinking their after-dinner port. As had been the case for the past few evenings, the ladies were all scattered about in groups—the older, married ladies on one side of the room and the younger, unmarried ladies on the other side of the room. Young Miss Coulter tended to find a darkened corner to hide, but often Lady Quinton or Lady Rebecca would finagle a way to draw her into a conversation with one group or the other.

Lady Quinton and Lady Lipscombe, being of the younger generation yet also married, could be found with either group, it seemed.

As the gentlemen would join them, they too would fall into certain predictable groupings. The older, married men sat off together near the windows, playing cards and wishing to slip outside for a draw of their cheroots. The younger, unmarried gentlemen followed after the younger ladies, trailing along in their wakes like dogs on strings. Pathetic, really. But still understandable.

Lipscombe and Quinton elected to choose the former group more often, rather than the latter. Gil was a little surprised, actually, that Quinton would choose to spend time in his company. After all, it had been shocking enough that the rascal had allowed his wife to issue him an invitation. But then again, he didn’t imagine his grandson had ever been one to chase the skirts of proper young misses who were hardly out of the schoolroom.

Even with his choice in a wife, he’d gone for a slightly older chit—and one that was hardly proper, though clearly she did sometimes try. It seemed it just didn’t come quite naturally to her. Why, even her decision to host such a gathering with the gossip currently traveling about Town proved her pluck. It was almost as though she was flaunting it in their faces—yet it required both courage and a certain sense of humor that was far too often missing from those of her station.

Which was all well and good. Actually, it suited Gil quite nicely. Propriety was boring, and Lady Quinton was anything but. She seemed to be the perfect choice for his wayward grandson, keeping him close to heel in a way that neither Gil nor Lady Coulter had ever managed to do. Not even the influence of Sir Augustus had provided the desired effect on the lad.

But now…now Quinton seemed different. Perhaps Gil had made the right choice after all, in setting an ultimatum for the lad.

Quinton was married to a respectable (albeit scandalous at the moment) lady. He was finally caring for his responsibilities with Quinton Abbey (and yes, Gil had met with both Carruthers and Forster to ascertain just what level of involvement his grandson had assumed in the running of affairs). He was becoming the upstanding family man Gil always thought he could be. He’d even managed to impregnate his wife, from what they had informed him of upon his arrival three days previously.

Not that he would truly toss Quinton out for a failure on that particular task. God played as much a role in the task as man. But his grandson needn’t know that just yet.

Gil held no illusions about why his grandson had continued to sow his wild oats long past the age when it was acceptable. Quinton’s father—Gil’s son—had become something of a degenerate, to say the least, after that horrible tragedy. He’d been weak, and had turned a what should have been only a single tragedy into multiple other tragedies. For years, Gil had wondered if Quinton was not a lost cause. The damage caused by the lad’s father might have been too much to recover from.

But Gil had entered his seventy-fourth year. He couldn’t fool himself. Each breath he took could easily be his last. He had to make one more effort. One more try.

Finally, Quinton would be prepared to assume the role he’d been born to. Gil could only claim so much credit for the turnaround his grandson had made. Truthfully, most of the credit belonged to the indomitable Lady Quinton.

The chit had proved to be quite the force to be reckoned with, at least from what Gil had seen. Quinton could roll over or barrel through nearly anyone, but she held her own against him. Yes, she may have started a few scandals. But who hadn’t? Gil himself had even been involved in a few, in his day.

The ton was fickle. They would move on to some new on-dit as soon as the stories being falsely published as hers stopped being published. Obviously Quinton hadn’t managed that yet, since Gil had discovered a new issue of the Sordid Scandals at White’s the day before he left for Wetherby. He had no doubt that Laughton’s youngest son, Griffin, was behind it. The whelp couldn’t resist peeing in someone else’s flower bed, particularly if that someone happened to be Quinton.

So, since his grandson had yet to rectify the situation, Gil had decided to urge things on.

Harrogate was not all that far from Wetherby, after all.

He sat back in his chair near the window and watched the youngsters at their games. Charades, this time. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the asinine gestures that fool Norcutt was making. After all, he’d been a young man once, himself. He knew what it was to be in love and willing to do anything, even make an utter cake of himself, if it might earn him the attentions of his lady love.

In fact, if memory served (which was an infrequent occurrence these days, but this time he believed it did) a particular game of charades at a house party many years before had been what eventually caught the eye of Lady Rotheby.

Chapter Twenty-Three

21 June, 1811

Truthfully, the younger generation ought to listen to me when I attempt to match them up. After all, I sit and watch them all day. I see the ways they look coyly upon each other from across the room, the stolen glances, the thinly veiled lust. I see it all. They should simply capitulate and agree that I know best. It should not matter that I am also one of ‘the younger generation.’ I am a married lady, after all.

~From the journal of Lady Quinton

“I thought,” Aurora said over the din in the salon one afternoon, about a week into the house party, “that today might be a lovely day for an excursion into town for some shopping. The sun is finally shining again, after several days of rain. And the ladies and I are all feeling rather cooped up in the abbey and wish to get out. Would you gentlemen be so kind as to escort us?”

Many of the unmarried gentlemen in the room promptly snapped to attention with, “Of course,” or, “It would be my pleasure,” as their responses, eager for an excuse to get away from the prying eyes of the older chaperones for a bit of time. Quin and Lord Lipscombe did not appear to be quite as keen as their unmarried counterparts to join. However they had little choice since Aurora and Judith, Lady Lipscombe, were each firmly intent on going.

Indeed, Aurora’s house party had been a resounding success so far. Certainly, the weather had not cooperated as much as she would have liked, but she had planned for enough indoor activities that it had not presented a true problem.

And, much to her delight, her first attempt at matchmaking with Nia and Sir Jonas was also going rather well. At least it seemed that way, since Nia was no longer hiding in the corner quite so frequently, and Sir Jonas seemed all-too-content to remain by her side as often as Aurora positioned him there.

Her matchmaking attempts for Rebecca and Lord Tucker were not proving quite as auspicious, however. Just when she thought the two were well and securely situated together for some entertainment or another, if she turned around for a mere moment, somehow Lord Norcutt had finagled himself into Lord Tucker’s position by Rebecca’s side, and Lord Tucker had replaced Norcutt’s position with Miss Vivian Osbourne.

The four of them were being highly uncooperative.

Soon, the entire group was ready to go out for the day. Her Grace of Aylesbury, Lady Pratley, and Lady Coulter also decided to come along, with Aurora’s father offering to escort them. Sir Augustus and Lord Rotheby preferred to keep court at the abbey. Once all the ladies had fetched their gloves and traded soft caps for bonnets, and the gentlemen had donned their beaver hats and gloves and fetched parasols to carry for the ladies, they made their way outside to the four awaiting carriages.

“Miss Coulter,” Aurora said, attempting to direct the members of the shopping party to the appropriate conveyances to achieve the pairings she preferred, “why do you and Sir Jonas not ride with Quin and me? Then perhaps Lord Tucker and Lord Merrick would be so kind as to escort Lady Rebecca and Lady Emily in the second carriage…”

Her voice trailed off as Lord Tucker placed Miss Vivian Osbourne’s hand upon the crook of his arm and guided her into the third carriage with Mr. Bentley and the elder Miss Osbourne, leaving Rebecca to (once again) be paired with Lord Norcutt. Blast them all. They were ruining her fun.

“Come along, love.” Quin placed a hand at the small of her back and guided her toward the first carriage, where Nia and Sir Jonas were already firmly seated—on opposite benches, pressed back against the squabs as if their lives depended upon it—leaving her no choice but to take up the seat next to the girl.

She let out a huff of air as she sat, crossing her arms over her chest and thoroughly resisting the urge to hide her sulk.

“Are you unhappy?” Nia asked in her soft, sweet voice. “I thought you wanted to go shopping today. We could stay behind”

“We most certainly will not stay behind,” Aurora responded a mite more sharply than she intended. But she would not give Nia an opportunity to avoid being in Sir Jonas’s company. Not if she could thrust them together at every turn. And clearly, they needed some encouragement. “I do wish to go into town. And I wish for you to have a lovely time today. I’m sure Sir Jonas will be certain you see everything you wish to see, so please do not fret on my account.”

The carriages rolled to a stop almost before they had started, it seemed, and the coachmen stepped down to let out the steps and hand them out on High Street. The shops here certainly did not hold the appeal of the finest in London, but they would have to do for an afternoon excursion in the country.

Indeed, Aurora had not yet visited town to discover the wares for herself. But Forster and Mrs. Marshall had assured her that the goods they sold were of excellent quality, and that the young ladies would certainly find something upon which to spend their pin money.

It seemed they were right. The milliner boasted any number of lovely straw bonnets lined with ribbons and flowers. At the haberdashery, a broad assortment of ribbons and bows were found that the ladies could then use to make their gowns for the upcoming ball a bit more special than they already were. The linen draper even had a number of lengths of fine muslins and silks available. Down at the end of the street near where their carriages waited for their return sat a small sweet shop.

The various pairs set off, the ladies to make their purchases, and the gentlemen to carry them. Except Nia did not seem to want to leave Aurora’s side. In fact, she latched on to Aurora’s free arm (the other one being occupied with holding Quin’s) instead of allowing Sir Jonas to escort her. It was almost infuriating how shy she was.

“Oh, look over there, Nia,” she said after several minutes of walking about High Street in a group of four, instead of the intended groups of two. “Do you see that lovely bonnet in the window? The one with the bluebells upon it. I think that would look lovely with your coloring, don’t you agree?” Before the chit could respond in the negative, Aurora slipped Nia’s hand free and placed it upon Sir Jonas’s waiting arm, then practically shoved them across the street. “Sir Jonas, would you be so kind as to take Miss Coulter to visit the milliner?”

Nia turned her head with her mouth open, as though to protest.

“Oh, dear. Perhaps your father has not given you enough pin money,” Aurora continued, fishing around in her reticule to pull free some coins. She shoved them into Sir Jonas’s free hand. “This should certainly be enough. We shall meet up with you later! I daresay I cannot wait to see how stunning you look in that shade, Nia.”

And with that, she walked away, nearly dragging Quin along behind her when he did not come as soon as she would have liked.

“What was that about?” he asked when they were out of earshot of the other couple and finally slowed their pace.

Aurora frowned at him. “What was what about?” Really, it wasn’t as though she was making any secret of her intentions. The man would have to be daft not to realize that she was matchmaking.

“I don’t like that you’re perpetually putting my sister together with Jonas. He’s nearly old enough to be her father.”

“But he’s not her father,” Aurora said with a roll of her eyes. “And you can hardly say anything about it with how you have avoided the girl her entire life. Besides, Sir Jonas is almost like a brother to her, she tells me. That’s all.”

“You’re fooling yourself if you believe she thinks of him as a brother,” Quin retorted. “I’ve seen how she watches him. He isn’t good for her, Aurora.”

Oh, dear good Lord, the man had picked a rather inopportune moment to suddenly recognize his brotherly duty. “Her mother and father don’t seem to agree with your assessment. Nor do I. In fact, I think Sir Jonas is rather perfect for Nia. Far more important than any of that, however, is what Nia thinks. You said yourself that you see how she”

Aurora stopped short when a sharp pain stabbed her midsection. She placed a hand to her abdomen and bent over slightly. It felt similar to those pains she would often get with her courses. But she couldn’t…

“What is it?” Quin asked, bending over her. “What’s wrong? The baby?” He looked at her with his blue eyes awash with fear.

But just as soon as it came, it was gone. It was almost as though she had imagined it, as though it weren’t real. Perhaps it had only been her imagination. “Nothing. I’m all right.”

Aurora straightened herself and started to walk again, but Quin placed a hand on her arm, his grip like a vise. He implored her with his eyes.

“Truthfully, it was nothing to worry about. I’ll be fine. The baby will be fine.”

She hoped.

~ * ~

Quin didn’t believe her. He didn’t believe his wife was fine or that his baby would be fine. She hadn’t looked fine when she had nearly collapsed on High Street, doubled over in pain and with her face as pale as a sheet.

He didn’t believe Nia or Jonas, either, when they climbed into the carriage for the return to the abbey, claiming that nothing had happened between them, despite the fact that they returned to the carriage with guilty expressions upon both their faces. Nia was looking up at Jonas far more often than she was normally wont to do, and now Jonas had started to peek across at her as well.

Neither of which sat well with Quin. He may not have been the best brother for Nia all along, but he was still her older brother, by Jove. And the thought of Jonas, at thirty years of age, chasing after the seventeen-year-old girl’s skirts was enough to send Quin’s blood to boiling.

Blast his meddlesome wife. She ought to put her mind to her own matters. After all, they certainly had more than enough matters in need of minding, at the moment.

Or, perhaps more importantly even than those matters, she ought to rest. Was it not important for an expectant mother to rest? Wasn’t that why they had their confinement periods and the like? Quin really wanted to send the entire lot of their guests away, however inappropriate such an action might be. Aurora didn’t need the added worry of finding ways to entertain all of these people, let alone of planning a ball.

Needless to say, he was caught woolgathering later that evening, when Norcutt came over to him in the salon after supper.

“Might I beg a moment of your time, Quinton?” the man asked when he finally caught Quin’s attention. “There is a favor I must ask of you.”

Quin nodded his agreement and followed as Norcutt led him out to the veranda.

Once outside, the marquess clenched and unclenched his hands repeatedly, shifting from one foot to the other. There were damned better uses for Quin’s time.

“Out with it,” he half-shouted to the nitwit standing before him, causing the other man to jump.

“Y-yes, of course,” Norcutt replied. “I do apologize for my nerves, Quinton. It is just that I intend to make an offer for Lady Rebecca tomorrow afternoon. I have already obtained His Grace’s approval, of course. We discussed matters long before I traveled. But I wondered, if she should accept, which I do hope with all that I am she does because I will feel quite the fool otherwise, but if she should accept, might we make the announcement to your guests at supper tomorrow evening? If it wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience, of course. I would not want to impose upon either you or Lady Quinton, as you’ve been such agreeable hosts.”

Quin chuckled. “Stop rambling, man.” Gesturing to a bench, he made his way over and took a seat. “You are more than welcome to make your announcement at any time. Just give me a nod, and I’ll get everyone’s attention for you.”

A mass of air flew from the man’s lips as he took a seat beside Quin. “Oh, thank you. Thank you so much. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you”

“Slow down and breathe, to start,” Quin said jovially. Thank God he hadn’t had as much time to think about making his offer to Aurora. There’d been no time for nervous behavior at all. Not that he was the nervous sort. “Honestly, there is nothing to repay. Now, tell me. Have you decided how to go about it?”

Norcutt nodded vigorously. “I shall take her for a walk. Through the park over there,” he said, pointing toward a copse of trees alongside a path. “And once I have her alone, I’ll get down to my knees and ask the question.”

Hmm. The path Norcutt had chosen was not a particularly beautiful path—not something memorable, like Lady Rebecca would likely prefer. Ladies did tend to have rather grand ideas about how certain events should play out, after all. There were at least a few things Quin had learned in his marriage.

“Instead of the path you had chosen,” he said, “perhaps I might make a suggestion?” Quin pointed over the hill off to the side of the abbey. “If you follow the pea-gravel path over the hill, you’ll come to a lovely spot beside a small hermitage at the river. I’ll have Cook put together a picnic basket for you. Sit beneath the great oak and ask her there.”

That spot needed more pleasant memories. It needed more beauty. The time had arrived to move on.

~ * ~

Aurora sat in the shade of a beech tree just off the kitchen garden with the older and married ladies, watching as Nia and Lady Emily and the two Miss Osbournes all painted the landscape with their watercolors. She’d never had a taste for painting. Perhaps because she was a rather poor artist. She preferred to think her dearth of talent in that arena stemmed from her distaste for it rather than the other way around.

Quin and the other gentlemen (save Lord Rotheby, who had declared it high time he took a nap of an afternoon) had snuck off earlier to do a mite of game hunting, which didn’t particularly bother Aurora, since the weather was lovely and the ladies wished to be out of doors with their feminine pursuits.

What did bother Aurora, however, was that Lord Norcutt had not gone with the other gentlemen. Not only that, but Rebecca was not out with the other young ladies. Instead, the two of them were off by the river having a picnic. Alone.

Scandalous. And Aurora couldn’t for the life of her understand why Rebecca would choose to do something scandalous with Norcutt, of all the gentlemen she could have chosen from. It made absolutely no sense. But Lady Aylesbury had seen no harm in it, and had even neglected to insist a maid go along to chaperone them. It was hardly Aurora’s place to contradict the duchess, despite the obvious flaw in her line of thinking.

So off Rebecca had gone on Lord Norcutt’s arm, up and over the hill and out of view.

They’d been gone for almost two hours before they returned: Rebecca, smiling from ear to ear until the whole of her face was alight with pure joy, and Norcutt, looking as though he would cast up his accounts on a moment’s notice, walking along hand-in-hand—hand-in-hand! —with the picnic basket Cook had prepared for them swinging along beside Norcutt as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

From the other direction, she heard the hoots and hollers of the rest of the gentlemen coming back from their hunt. Aurora couldn’t turn to look at them, however, because her attention was focused squarely upon Norcutt and Rebecca.

What was his game? She would have to pull Rebecca aside later that evening and have a serious discussion with her. This kind of behavior simply could not continue, regardless of what her mother had to say about it. Rebecca was not built to live a boring life.

Then the gentlemen were upon the group of ladies, bustling about and laughing, and generally having a grand, merry time of it. Could they not see Aurora’s distress? Or did it not matter to them? And then they were milling about amongst the ladies, with “My, that is a lovely rendition of the wisteria,” here and with “I daresay we killed enough pheasants for tomorrow’s luncheon,” there. Then one of them called out, “Here comes Norcutt with his ladylove! Come on now, bring her over to join the rest of us.”

His ladylove, indeed. Rebecca ought to have spurned his attentions long ago. Leading the man on in such a way was downright despicable. Even Aurora wouldn’t have been so cold and unfeeling as to have allowed his ardor to have intensified to this point. Perhaps she ought to pull Rebecca aside now, to save Lord Norcutt from as much embarrassment as she possibly could. She may not particularly like the man, but he was a guest in her home.

But just before Aurora rose to her feet and did just that, she noticed something rather odd. Lord Norcutt searched someone out in the sea of faces gathered beside the kitchen garden, and gave an almost imperceptible, but very deliberate nod of his head.

“What?” she started to ask, but then stopped herself since she didn’t honestly know what she had intended to ask. Who had he looked for? Aurora scanned the faces as well, looking in the direction of Norcutt’s gaze, but only finding Quin. What could he want with her husband? That made no sense at all. Quin and Norcutt hardly had an acquaintance before the house party. Certainly not any real sort of friendship.

Quin cleared his throat and almost the entire group turned to look at him. “If I may ask you all to be quiet for a few moments, Lord Norcutt has something he wishes to announce.”

Something to announce? It wasn’t possible. Surely Rebecca hadn’t…

Aurora couldn’t allow this to happen. She abruptly stood and dashed to Rebecca’s side. “I do apologize, Lord Norcutt. I know this is highly irregular. But I must insist on having a word with Lady Rebecca.”

Quin’s voice thundered across the small clearing. “Aurora, you may have your word with Lady Rebecca later.”

Later would not do. It simply would. Not. Do. “I am terribly sorry, but I must insist upon having a word with her right this moment,” Aurora said. She took Rebecca’s free hand in her own and tugged.

She didn’t expect Rebecca to tug back. “I’ll not come with you now, Aurora. We can discuss anything you wish later.” After another, firmer tug, Rebecca continued with, “Later.”

Oh, dear good Lord. Rebecca wouldn’t cooperate. Quin clearly wouldn’t assist her. There was only one other person Aurora could think to ask for help. “Your Grace,” she implored, only to be cut short.

“Lady Quinton, I would very much like to hear what Lord Norcutt wishes to announce,” the duchess said. “Do sit down.” That final bit was delivered with the authority—and finality—which only a duchess, or perhaps the queen, could muster.

“But”

“Aurora, sit down!” Quin roared. “For once in your life, would you think of someone other than yourself?”

Aurora immediately plopped back down onto the blanket spread over the grass. Her face felt as hot as a smoldering blaze in the hearth. The rebuke from Quin before their guests was bad enough—but it was accompanied by a churning in her stomach.

She studied her hands in her lap and tried to pay attention to Lord Norcutt and Rebecca. Was she thinking only of herself and not of her friend? Had she always done as much? She looked up and studied Rebecca’s face. Her friend seemed happy. Glowingly happy, even.

Could Aurora not see past her own dislike for the man in order to see the good in him Rebecca obviously saw?

“Yes, well…” Norcutt said, seeming to search the air for his words, since his gaze rested solely on the sky. “Lady Rebecca has…er, that is I have asked…Oh, blast. I don’t know what to say.” His eyes widened when he realized he’d cursed before a crowd of ladies. “Oh, dear. I do apologize profusely for my language. I’m truly making a mull of things.”

Rebecca patted his arm gently and whispered something in his ear. He frowned and thought for a moment, then gave her a single, short nod.

“What Lord Norcutt is trying to say is that he asked if I would become his wife—and I accepted.”

The small gathering burst into applause and shouts of “Bravo!” Everyone, it seemed, was overjoyed by the news.

Everyone except Aurora. She was too busy wishing she could bury herself under a rock for behaving so churlishly.

Chapter Twenty-Four

24 June, 1811

I am a horrible, vile, utterly despicable friend. It is a wonder anyone puts up with me at all.

~From the journal of Lady Quinton

Everything was in place for the scavenger hunt to begin. After Lord Norcutt and Rebecca made their announcement, Aurora had made her exit from the gathering, claiming to feel not quite the thing.

Truthfully, she hadn’t, and it had nothing to do with Norcutt. The clenching pain in Aurora’s abdomen had returned only moments after Rebecca had informed the revelers of their engagement. She didn’t tell anyone about that specific ailment—especially not Quin. The last thing she needed at that moment was for him to be relentlessly by her side, worrying that something was wrong with the baby. She couldn’t allow herself to think like that. It just would not do. Aurora’s emotional distress her own behavior—that was all.

So she had gone back to her chamber and laid down for a rest while Quin had continued to entertain their guests. When she woke from her nap, the pain was far less intense—down to a dull throb instead of a sharp, shooting tightening. Clearly, rest had been precisely what she needed.

After Rose helped her to dress again, she set to work making certain the clues were all sorted out properly. Quin was only too happy that he wouldn’t have to participate, since Aurora would be judging the activity and determining the winner. Because of that, she sent him off to do some of the more rigorous work of hiding the clues about the abbey and the grounds.

Once she had everything situated just so, supper time had arrived. She ate and tried to put on a happy face for all and sundry, even though her heart broke a bit more each time she looked at Rebecca or Lord Norcutt. She couldn’t believe her own behavior. Aurora had never seen anyone behave as gauchely as she had done that afternoon. When the meal was finished, she adjourned the ladies to the salon so the men could enjoy their port. She sat and talked and laughed with them all, even though her heart was not in it.

And then she excused herself and retired to bed. Aurora was so exhausted that she fell asleep at the escritoire while writing in her journal. Only when she awoke the next morning did she realize that Quin must have come in at some point and carried her to his bed.

His heat enveloped her. He had her pulled against him, his front to her back, with her derrière held snug to his hard length. Aurora rolled over to greet him with a good morning kiss, only to discover that he was still firmly entrenched in sleep. How could he possibly be so hard and ready if he wasn’t even awake? Perhaps she would never learn all there was to know of her husband.

She watched him in his slumber, taking advantage of the rare moment when he was entirely at peace. His breaths rose and fell in slow, even measures, almost in time with his heartbeat.

Aurora could watch him like this for hours. Quin was so peaceful now. So sweet, even. She chuckled at the thought of calling him sweet to his face. Her husband would not care for such a term.

While his eyes were still closed, Aurora leaned in and placed a soft, chaste kiss upon his lips. Apparently, that simple touch was all it took to wake him. Quin rolled over atop her and deepened the kiss.

“Good morning,” he said to her a moment later, raising his face to smile down at her. “I could get used to waking up that way. How are you feeling today, love?”

Aurora shoved him so he would roll off her. “I feel perfectly robust.” The untruth was only a tiny one, not really significant. She didn’t want him to worry about her. Not today.

Quin did roll over, but essentially just exchanged places with her, pulling her atop him as he went. “Have you thought more about your response to Norcutt and Lady Rebecca’s betrothal?”

Aurora frowned. “I’m trying to be happy for her. She is my dearest friend and she looks truly happy. I just don’t know that he’s right for her…”

“He is a good man, Aurora. He will treat her well. He won’t…” His voice trailed off into silence and he looked away from her.

“He won’t what? Hurt her? Like you think you’ll hurt me?”

Quin nodded but refused to look at her.

“You haven’t, though. You haven’t hurt me, even though you’ve been scared you would. You haven’t hurt me though I’ve tried your patience more than any reasonable man should have to endure. You haven’t hurt me, because you don’t hurt women.”

Finally, his eyes returned to hers. “So you would wish a marriage such as ours upon Lady Rebecca?” he asked, his voice breaking slightly at the end.

Oh, dear good Lord. She hadn’t thought about it quite in that way. Quin and Lord Norcutt were about as opposite as two gentlemen could be and still be considered gentlemen. For that matter, some might not consider Quin a gentleman at all. But their marriage was…what, precisely?

He loved her. He had said so himself, on that morning out by the hermitage. And she loved him. She even enjoyed his company, now that he’d finally begun to trust her and share some of his secrets with her, his pain.

“Yes,” Aurora finally whispered. “Yes, I would wish a marriage like ours upon her, complete with all the arguments and disagreements, with the scandals and the passion. I would wish that on them a thousand times over.”

“And who is to say,” Quin said, “that Lord Norcutt and Lady Rebecca will not have just such a marriage when it is all said and done? Do you honestly, in your heart, believe they will not?”

How dare Quin think reasonably, again? That was a terribly boorish habit he seemed to have. Blast him. “I suppose I cannot,” Aurora conceded. Even though she would never be able to look at Lord Norcutt in the way she looked at Quin.

Then again, she wasn’t the one marrying the man.

~ * ~

And so they went about their day as it had been planned, with the scavenger hunt serving as the culmination of a long day’s events. By the time it was set to begin, Aurora was exhausted. The dull throb in her belly had continued throughout the day, intensifying at times and then lessening at others. She still felt it best to keep that fact from Quin.

When the gentlemen joined the ladies in the salon following their after-supper port, a frisson of excitement hung in the air. In fact, most of the guests had been anticipating the evening of the scavenger hunt almost as much as the grand ball Aurora had planned for the final night of their stay.

After all, a scavenger hunt allowed for pairs to go off along dark paths only partially lit by lanterns and candles, in search of both hidden treasures and perhaps a few stolen moments alone.

Since Lord Norcutt and Rebecca had taken it upon themselves to destroy Aurora’s plans for a match between Rebecca and Lord Tucker Flynn, she had no choice but to redouble her efforts where Nia and Sir Jonas were concerned. Tonight would be a perfect opportunity.

Aurora clapped her hands to gain the crowd’s attention. “All right, if everyone is ready, the scavenger hunt is set to begin. Gentlemen, do please select a lady to be your partner for the night’s adventure.” As expected, Norcutt immediately bustled over to Rebecca’s side. In fact, the gentlemen almost all took up their expected partner in record-setting time—all save Sir Jonas.

Nia sat in her corner again, looking down at her hands where they rested in her lap with a blush coloring her cheeks to a furious red. Sir Jonas looked about, as though searching for a respite, for any other young lady not yet partnered. There were none to be found, of course.

Aurora raised an eyebrow at the blasted baronet, indicating Nia in the corner. Slowly, almost as though it pained him to do so, Sir Jonas shuffled across the floor to where Nia sat. He bowed low to her and murmured something Aurora could not make out, and finally she nodded her assent.

All was as it should be.

“Very well,” Aurora continued. “Now, gentlemen, each of you must come and fetch a slip of parchment. On each slip is a clue to your next clue. You must all find a series of ten clues, though they will all be different, save for the very last one. Whichever pair finds the final item and returns it here, to me, first shall be declared the winner.”

“And what shall be our prize?” called out Mr. Bentley.

Oh, goodness. How could she have forgotten a prize? What a hostess she was turning out to be, forgetting such things as that.

But then Quin stepped out from near the window, where he had been playing whist with some of the older crowd. “The winning pair shall select what is to be the first dance at Friday’s ball,” he declared.

Oh, yes. That would be lovely. And it seemed to suit the gathered hunters rather well, also, as they all mumbled to their counterparts.

Then the gentlemen came over to her to fetch their thrice-folded clues before returning to their partners for the hunt to begin. Still, once they were all set to go, no one made a move to begin.

“What are you waiting for?” Aurora asked. “The hunt is on!”

Without further ado, each of the partnerships opened their clues and huddled their heads together, interpreting what they were to look for and determining where they ought to begin their search.

Within moments the salon had cleared out except for Quin and his fellow card players. Aurora sat back on a nearby settee and sighed. The difficult part, for her at least, was over. Now she merely had to wait for the winners to arrive.

Hopefully the hunt would not go on so long that she could no longer keep her eyes open. That would be rather badly done on her part. But with the way she was feeling, she might very well fall asleep where she sat if she had to wait more than about thirty minutes. Oh, blast. Why had she made it so there were ten clues? She could have done five, and that would still have been more than enough to provide ample entertainment for the evening.

In the quiet, she watched Quin from across the room. He still seemed rather carefree and relaxed, much as he had that morning when they awoke. When had the change taken place? She couldn’t be certain. Sometime since he had told her of Mercy’s death and of his father.

It was good to see him this way. To see him actually enjoying himself. Indeed, just at that moment, he played a card and laughed out loud at the frustrated harrumph her father gave. There was something very different about Quin now from when they first married. His eyes no longer looked haunted. They seemed alive—still with a devilish gleam, to be sure.

A rush of footsteps scurried past in the hall outside the salon, complete with excited voices and a feminine giggle or two. Out the window, a single lantern seemed to be floating along in the air of its own accord, headed toward the orangery.

After a few more moments, Lord Merrick and Lady Emily reentered the salon. “I’m quite certain that very tapestry is in here, my lord, and not in the great hall like you thought,” Lady Emily said. They slipped past Aurora, moving purposefully along the length of the room almost to the windows. “See? This is the one.”

Merrick lifted the bottom corner to reveal a clue placed between it and the wall. He unfolded the parchment and read aloud: “In the room where once they came to pray, beneath Lord Rotheby your next clue shall lay.” He crinkled his nose and frowned. “I do not believe I wish to look beneath Rotheby, ma’am.”

Several barely muffled snickers sounded from the card tables, plus one very loud, “I beg your pardon,” from Rotheby himself.

“His portrait, silly. The abbey’s chapel was turned into a portrait gallery. Come on, let’s go find the clue.”

Just as rapidly as they had come, they were gone again.

For the next while, the only sounds other than the card game were those of deciphering clues in the hall.

“An armed babe?” from a masculine voice. “I have not seen a single child in this entire abbey. What could that be?”

“Perhaps it is the sculpture of Cupid? Shall we go off to check the kitchen garden, then?”

“Indeed.”

Then more silence, before: “Where else will we possibly find a ceiling that looks like a star?” This was from a lady. “We’ve already been to the dormitories and the portrait gallery. I don’t believe I’ve seen that anywhere else. We could spend hours trying to find it.”

“I know I’ve seen it elsewhere. But where was it? I can’t seem to recall at the moment.”

“Well, we’ve already checked this entire floor. Shall we go up or down?”

“Down, that’s it! The undercroft. Quinton keeps his office there.”

From the sounds of things, Aurora had done an excellent job with her clues. They made the couples stop to think. Not only that, but some were clearly going to be more familiar to the ladies of the group, and others would be more appropriate for the gentlemen. She couldn’t help but be rather proud of herself.

A few moments later, Rebecca and Lord Norcutt came bursting into the salon, laughing so hard there were tears in their eyes and they held their stomachs in a doubled-over position. Norcutt was dripping wet from head-to-toe.

“Have you won, then? Where is it?” Aurora asked, barely concealing her amazement that a dull dog like Norcutt could have her dearest friend in such stitches. That sort of laughter was usually reserved for Aurora, not Norcutt. She supposed, given that they were to marry, it was only appropriate.

“N-n-no,” Rebecca finally managed. “We have hardly won. For that matter, we haven’t even found our third clue.”

“After I fell into the pond, attempting to see if a clue hung from a tree branch, we decided that perhaps the two of us would be better off allowing the remainder of the water to remain in your pond, ma’am,” Norcutt added.

His comments also earned a few chuckles from those at the card tables.

“But perhaps,” Rebecca suggested, “Lady Quinton might appreciate it if you stopped dripping the contents of her pond all over the floor of her salon.”

It took every fiber of self-control Aurora possessed to refrain from saying, “Indeed,” but somehow she managed it. Quin ought to be proud of her for that. She was most decidedly proud of herself.

Maybe she was growing a bit—becoming less selfish.

“Oh, dear,” Norcutt said, looking down at the large and growing puddle at his feet. “I do apologize, Lady Quinton. I shall rush off to have my valet make me more presentable at once.”

She chuckled and nodded in his direction. Who would have ever thought she’d find Lord Norcutt amusing? Certainly not Aurora.

A sharp pain shot through her stomach, and she fought to keep her gasp as silent as possible. Once it receded, she glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. Luckily, Rebecca had gone over to watch the game of whist after Norcutt had quit the room. No one was paying her any mind.

Aurora remained where she was, carefully monitoring her breathing so that if another pain overcame her, she would not be discovered. Oh, dear good Lord, please let someone come to claim their prize soon. She doubted she could last much longer without expiring on the spot. It would be much easier to deal with whatever was happening if she could be alone in her chamber.

But who was she lying to? With whatever was happening…Aurora knew precisely what was going on inside her body. She had been right. She had the same problems as her mother.

She could only hope that the miscarriage would hurry and finish its course, that it would not be a long ordeal. The sooner it was over with, the sooner she could move on with her life—however her life would be.

The only thing she really had left to worry about was how to tell Quin. If only they hadn’t already informed Lord Rotheby of the pregnancy. He still expected Quin to produce an heir. Which really meant he expected Aurora to produce an heir. Something her body was making it abundantly clear it was not prepared to do.

Would Quin seek an annulment? Was that even possible? She still didn’t know, but she wouldn’t be able to stop him if it was lawful. Maybe it would be best, after all. Then she wouldn’t have to see him each day, to be reminded of all that had passed between them.

A commotion sounded from the hall, with footsteps coming their way. “We have it, my lady!” Was that the elder Miss Osbourne’s voice?

“Indeed, we do,” called out Mr. Bentley. Aurora had been right about which Miss Osbourne she had heard. “But I’m not certain what we’re expected to do with it.”

What on earth could he be talking about? Aurora stood to meet them as they entered, but then froze to her spot when she heard a bark. A dog’s bark.

“What is that?” she asked of no one in particular. But before anyone could respond, Miss Osbourne rounded the corner and turned into the salon with a puppy in her arms, squirming around and licking her all over, and generally doing as puppies do. Oh, good God in heaven.

“I’m afraid that is not what your clue sent you to find” she started to say, but Quin cut her off.

“Indeed, you are the winners, Mr. Bentley and Miss Osbourne. How very clever of you to solve that final clue.”

Quin had gone daft. “But the last clue told them to bring back a delphinium from the hermitage,” Aurora sputtered.

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” he said. “The final clue read ‘From whence you might go to find Cook or a cup, seek out a maid holding Lady Q’s pup’. It seems that they have brought precisely what the clue demanded.”

“I never wrote that clue. I don’t have a pup.”

But then Miss Osbourne came across the room and transferred the wriggling, excitable little angel into her arms, and it immediately started licking Aurora all over her face and arms and everywhere else it could find with its tongue. “It seems, my lady, that you do now.”

“Indeed, I suppose I do.” How delightful. But oh, dear good Lord. Why had Quin decided to do something nice for her? Why now, when she was on the verge of crushing his dreams?

Her puppy stayed with her as they waited for the rest of the hunters to return to the salon. Slowly, one grouping at a time, they all made their way back, once they realized that the pup had already been delivered.

All except Sir Jonas and Nia.

Indeed, more than a quarter of an hour passed after the rest of the hunters had returned, including Lord Norcutt in dry attire, before those two made their reappearance: she looking shame-faced, and he looking angry. Oh, dear. She wished they would simply accept the fact that they were destined to be together. Aurora couldn’t imagine a more perfect match. However, it seemed that couples Aurora found herself intent upon putting together tended to find themselves intent upon staying apart.

Perhaps she ought to stop trying, altogether.

She likely wouldn’t.

But for the moment, she had a puppy asleep on her lap, and far more to worry about than the mistakes others chose to make.

Chapter Twenty-Five

26 June, 1811

I give up. I tried to match Rebecca with Lord Tucker Flynn, as I thought they would suit. Rebecca then affianced herself to Lord Norcutt. Lord Tucker seems all too inclined to chase after Miss Vivian Osbourne’s skirts, though for the life of me I cannot imagine why a handsome, virile, and engaging man such as himself would want to associate himself with a chit hardly out of the schoolroom. And while it is quite obvious to me that Nia and Sir Jonas have far more than a simple attraction between them, they are both far more inclined to ignore each others’ existence. They ought to listen to me, every one of them. But since they refuse, I’ll leave them to their own devices at tonight’s ball. In the meantime, I have decided it is best to focus my attentions elsewhere. Such as naming my puppy. I rather like the name Zeus, but Quin claims that is far too important a name. He prefers Thief, since the pup likes to steal the position in bed Quin believes to be his. We’ll have to find a compromise eventually.

~From the journal of Lady Quinton

“Would it be terribly gauche of me to allow Zeus to join us at the ball?” Aurora asked from where she sat while her lady’s maid dressed her hair.

Zeus. She couldn’t name the blasted puppy after a god, for Christ’s sake. Least of all the most formidable of all the Greek gods. Quin had given her the hound because he thought it might make her happy—somewhat as a peace offering for the brutish way he’d treated her when they first married—but he never imagined she’d coddle it quite the way she had been.

Not that he minded. It was rather endearing, actually. If she was this head-over-ears in love with a pup after less than two full days, he could only imagine how she would be once their baby was born. Or how it would be if she loved him half as much as she loved the dog. He had to admit, he was more than only slightly jealous.

“I do not think any of our guests would think you gauche or ill-mannered for such a thing, Aurora, particularly since all of the ladies seem to be of one mind where Thief is concerned. But what will you do if he decides to relieve himself on Lady Aylesbury again? Her Grace may have been willing to forgive once, but if he destroys a ball gown? Not as likely.”

“Zeus has made great strides in that area today, actually,” she retorted. “We only found three messes in the salon all day.”

“Only three?” he replied with more than a small dose of skepticism. The pup was too young to have control over his needs yet.

“And two more in the refectory. Perhaps another in the gallery.”

He laughed. “Perhaps?”

“Yes, perhaps. But you must admit that is far better than the dozen or more accidents he had yesterday.”

Her desperation to convince him of the dog’s improvement was his own fault. Just last night, Quin had threatened to put Thief in a baby’s nappy after stepping in an unexpected pile in his office. Which, of course, meant more work for his valet in preparation for tonight’s ball, since it had smeared all over his Hessians.

But he never would have done it. One can’t keep a dog in a nappy, after all. One must simply teach the dog what to do and where to do it. “Yes, the dog has made great strides. Perhaps he will only need to wear the nappy for six months,” he said with a smile, earning an annoyed swat from his wife’s fan.

Her lady’s maid stepped away just then, smiling at the work she’d done with Aurora’s coiffure. Quin wasn’t sure what to make of it. It looked lovely, to be sure. But she looked lovely with it falling about her shoulders in waves, or pulled into a simple chignon at the nape of her neck, or a multitude of other ways. He couldn’t understand the need to spend so much time on the task.

“Are you ready now?” he asked. “We should head down to the ballroom. It is time for our guests to begin arriving, so we should be there to form the receiving line.”

She nodded and took his arm. They made their way through the winding hallways of the abbey, down a stair and into the grand foyer. Every flower in the county had to have been somehow collected in his home. Quin hadn’t seen the like at Quinton Abbey since before Mercy died, when joy still resided here.

But there would be joy here again. Tonight, in fact. And if he hadn’t been so intent on achieving misery, perhaps he could have enjoyed more of the past fortnight. Aurora was doing everything in her power to provide him with all that had been lacking in his life, and if he would quit fighting against her so much, perhaps he could experience a bit of it.

Forster directed them to the entry of the ballroom, which fairly glimmered in the wash of candlelight.

“The townspeople won’t believe their eyes,” Quin said to his wife. “You’ve more than outdone yourself with all of this.”

Aurora just smiled up at him and settled in to her place by his side. With his arm around her waist, Quin couldn’t help but think how perfectly she fit him, like they were truly made for each other.

Just before giving Forster the nod to begin allowing their guests entrance, Quin leaned down to whisper in Aurora’s ear, “Have I mentioned lately that I love you? Because I do. Love you, that is.” He really ought to tell her more often. That would be his new goal. He would make a point to tell her every day.

He gave Forster the signal, and the doors opened. In only moments, a line formed before them, filled with both the guests who had been in his home for the last fortnight and people he hadn’t seen since he was a small boy.

Aurora smiled up at him with such joy he thought the ice of his heart would melt into a puddle on the ballroom floor. “And I love you,” she whispered back.

He must have misheard her. She couldn’t have meant it.

But he had no opportunity to question her on the matter, as Norcutt was standing before him with Lady Rebecca on one arm and Lady Aylesbury on the other. It was time, once again, to play the dutiful host.

Within a half hour, the ballroom had filled to overflowing and more people were still trickling in. Not only were the twenty members of the house party all present and accounted for, but Aurora seemed to have invited everyone old enough to walk who lived within a ten mile radius.

Quin glanced down the receiving line to determine how much longer they might be rooted in place. What he saw nearly evaporated his newly-found joy.

Griffin.

And Phoebe, too, blast her.

The evening had just taken a decided turn for the worse. Quin wanted a brandy.

~ * ~

“Mr. Poole, I am so glad you’ve come this evening,” Quin said, taking the guest’s hand in his own. Something was wrong. Aurora heard it in the tone of his voice, in how it had suddenly gone from cordial to tense within the span of a moment. “I do apologize, but I must excuse myself.” Turning to Aurora, he said loud enough for only her to hear, “There is something I must attend to. Please continue doing what you’re doing. And no matter what happens, stay inside.”

He stepped back and away from her. She wanted to go with him—to find out what had happened. But a swarm of people still waited to be greeted and ushered inside, so she must stay put. But did he have to make whatever was happening sound so terribly ominous, like such a portent of evil and doom?

For only a moment, Aurora watched her husband stalk down the receiving line and out of sight before returning her attention to the guests before her. “Mrs. Poole, was it? So very nice to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”

“Oh, my lady,” the pretty red-headed woman before her gushed, “it is so very kind of you to issue an invitation to your home. Why, we haven’t ever been here other than to tour it once while his lordship was away on the continent. But to see it all alight with candles and adorned with flowers and fashionable people? I daresay I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

“Well, I hope you and your husband enjoy yourselves this evening,” Aurora responded. “Do be sure to come back for”

The crowd in line jostled forward, pushing into Mr. Poole’s back and cutting Aurora’s thoughts short. The young farmer protectively reached out his arms to encircle his wife.

“Outside!” Was that Quin’s voice? “Right this instant, Griffin. For that matter, you ought to join us too, Phoebe. I don’t recall inviting you into my home.”

Lord Griffin and Lady Phoebe? Aurora hadn’t sent them an invitation. She didn’t think Quin would feel too kindly about having his former fiancée in his home. And no matter what, Aurora didn’t want Griffin there. Not after what he’d put them through.

Oh, dear good Lord. Could he be the one behind these new stories that were surfacing? Of course he was. She ought to have known right from the start. She just hadn’t been thinking much about that, because of the baby and the house party, and so many other things going on in her mind.

She ought to have told Quin all along. To have trusted him to do what was right. But instead, she kept it quiet. To protect whom? Quin? Herself? The only person she had actually protected was Lord Griffin, the last person on earth who needed her protection.

Except he might just need it at the moment. The crowd convulsed toward her again, with dazed gasps and shouts mingling together in the cavernous hall. If they were to tussle, Quin was easily twice the man’s size. He could probably kill him with his bare hands, particularly after all those days spent boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s.

She had to put a stop to it. Right this instant.

Aurora pushed her way through a crowd that seemed to be moving in the opposite direction. Even though she was somewhat tall for a lady, many of the men still towered above her, and she couldn’t see how much further she had to go.

“Come with me,” Quin ground out.

Oh, dear good Lord. He sounded positively murderous. No matter how large or small the previous scandals swirling around the two of them had been, no matter how truthful or filled with lies they may have been, there would be no stemming the flow of damage if Quin murdered a man in front of a ballroom full of people. In his own home, no less.

She couldn’t let that happen. She had to talk some sense into him. Surely this could all be resolved in a civilized manner.

Just when she thought she was finally making some headway in coming through the crowd, it shifted directions. Now, they were surging her forward, almost like she was caught in the tide and being pulled out to sea.

The front doors were open and wave upon wave of people unfurled out into the open night air. Having the murder take place outside instead of inside would do nothing to quell the rumor-mill, as long as the crowd did not disperse.

“I am an invited guest,” Lord Griffin shouted over the din of murmurs. “This is how you would treat me?”

Aurora continued to push through the crush of bodies in an attempt to see what was happening. She finally reached a point where, looking between the shoulders of the two gentlemen in front of her, she could see Quin and Lady Phoebe, and on occasion Lord Griffin, though he was moving around quite a bit in the midst of the circle.

“No one invited you,” Quin spat out. “Neither my wife nor I would ever invite you to do anything. Save perhaps go straight to the devil without looking back. Not after what you’ve done.” He was right, of course. Aurora hadn’t invited them. But how could Quin know anything of what Griffin had done? She’d never mentioned a name, not even when her husband had begged of her to do so.

Griffin brandished a scrap of foolscap and thrust it toward Quin. “Have a look at it yourself. You’ll clearly see that you are wrong.”

Quin took the paper and frowned. As he read its contents, however, his frown turned to the sternest scowl Aurora had ever seen upon his face. He turned to the crowd and bellowed, “Rotheby! Explain yourself, you arse.”

Gracious. This could not be good. What did Lord Rotheby have to do with anything? Oh, how she wished her husband would stop cursing so very much. There were ladies present—rather young ones, for that matter.

The crowd behind her shoved forward again, and Lord Rotheby’s voice came through the muddled whispers and gasps. “Let me by. I am a very old man, and I am not above using this cane as a weapon.” When he passed Aurora, he turned to her and winked—surely he had and it wasn’t simply a figment of her imagination—before continuing through the crowd.

What was his ruse?

“Would you care to explain,” Quin asked with a deadly calm tone after his grandfather emerged into the center of the clearing, “why you took it upon yourself to invite guests into my home? Particularly guests whom you know very well that I have no desire to step foot anywhere near my property?” He indicated Lady Phoebe.

A pain assaulted Aurora’s abdomen, much stronger than before. She bit her lip to keep from calling out. Now was certainly not an appropriate time.

“If you will recall,” Rotheby said, “technically, this is still my home. I will invite whomever I see fit. I saw fit to invite this piece of garbage” he waved toward Griffin “because you have yet to put a stop to his treachery. His sister was invited in case she has also played a part in it,” he added as an afterthought.

Griffin’s treachery. So Lord Rotheby knew about the scandalous new gossip rags, and he thought Griffin responsible?

Another pain gripped Aurora. She doubled over with a whimper. But she couldn’t allow herself to indulge in such self-possession for long. As soon as the clenching pain passed, she straightened.

“I hadn’t handled it yet because I wanted to avoid a scene just such as this one. The fact that he has dragged my wife and her good name through the mud, spreading his vicious lies about her has hardly passed unnoticed by me, I can assure you.”

“This is slander, all of it,” Griffin said. “I’ve done nothing against your wife. Certainly nothing that would hurt her reputation worse than you already have, Quinton. A blackguard with your history could hardly help her, but then to force her into an impromptu marriage by ruining her in the middle of a ballroom? To allow gossip about her and her writings go without any attempt at a denial of their veracity, running away to hide in the country? What else could the good people of the ton think but that it was an admission of truth?”

Quin stepped toward Griffin, grasping him by the starched points of his collar. “You and I both know that the first was hers. I don’t know how you got the pages. That is beside the point. But the fact remains that you took from my wife”

“And that is somehow worse than what you took from my sister?” Griffin interrupted. “You offered for her. You signed the contracts with my father. And then you disappeared on the morning of your wedding, not to return until just before you dragged poor Lady Quinton into your sordid affairs. You couldn’t even be bothered to take the time to inform either your intended or anyone in her family that you were crying off, so we could not have the opportunity to call you out for your cowardice. For that matter, the staff of your own home did not learn of your whereabouts for months.”

Quin tightened his grip, his lips forming a snarl. “So you decided to gain your revenge through attacking my wife. Do you even realize what your sister is? Why I could not marry her, or even why I would never wish her upon my greatest enemy?”

Yet again, pain coursed through Aurora’s center, nearly blinding her this time with its intensity.

“My lady,” said a vaguely familiar voice from behind her with a great deal of insistence. Someone she’d met only that evening, surely. Aurora turned to see who it was, still caught in the grips of her pain. Oh, the sweet, young woman from just before this all started. What was her name again?

“Mrs. Poole?” Aurora finally said when the name came to her.

Quin’s voice ripped through her pain. “She beat a stable boy with a horsewhip,” he bellowed to the entire crowd. “For the sin of placing her saddle upon the very horse she had him saddle for her the previous day. She whipped him until blood seeped through every inch of his clothing, until he was passed out on the ground in the stables, until he could no longer cry from his pain.”

Oh, dear good Lord. The pain. Aurora couldn’t handle the pain much longer.

“My lady, please,” Mrs. Poole insisted, placing a hand upon Aurora’s arm and tugging gently. “The blood. You must come away at once, ma’am.”

She couldn’t concentrate. Her mind wouldn’t cooperate. “This all happened years ago, Mrs. Poole. There is no blood now.”

“The boy likely deserved a good whipping,” Lord Griffin said. “If Phoebe hadn’t delivered it, rest assured he would have received worse from someone else—someone stronger. Are you afraid of a lady? Were you afraid that she would beat you?”

“Not the boy, ma’am,” Mrs. Poole said. “You. You’re bleeding, all down the back of your lovely gown.”

Aurora looked down at her gown. Bleeding. She was bleeding.

The baby.

Her child was gone. Their chance at appeasing Lord Rotheby was gone. Her chance to make Quin happy…to be what he needed her to be…

“No child deserves such treatment,” Quin said, so softly Aurora almost couldn’t hear it. “No boy or girl. No man or woman. And I would not spend the rest of my days aligned to someone who would think it appropriate to mete out such punishments. I’ve lived enough of my life in such a manner. Never again.”

“Mrs. Poole, I…” Aurora didn’t know what to say. What could one say at such a moment?

But the young woman looked on her with kind eyes and took her hand into her own. “Come with me,” she said, and then she pushed her way through the throng watching the spectacle in the courtyard.

“And a lady deserves to be left at the altar without a backward glance? Without a by-your-leave, or even a letter of explanation?” Griffin hollered. “You ruined my sister’s chance at making a respectable match, so I decided to ruin your wife’s chance of upholding a place in society. After the things she’s supposedly written, she’ll never step foot inside the grand ballrooms of London again.”

“And you’ll never step foot on my property again.” A loud thud sounded. The crowd let out a collective gasp.

Then all went silent.

Chapter Twenty-Six

26 June, 1811

It’s all over now.

~From the journal of Lady Quinton

Mrs. Poole helped Aurora back into the house. Thankfully, the entire ballroom had emptied. No one, save Mrs. Poole and the servants, would see her in such a state of distress. Indeed, tears had been pouring down her cheeks the entire way through the crush. Her only saving grace had been that Quin and the scene he was causing held everyone’s attention rapt.

Once inside, she thanked the young woman for her assistance, then found Mrs. Marshall to take her up to her chamber.

Rose helped her to clean herself and change clothes. She tried to dry Aurora’s eyes, as well, despite the pointlessness of such an endeavor. The tears would not cease. For that matter, they might never dry up again. Aurora waved her maid off. She needed to be alone. She needed time to think. To write.

Now, for the first time in her life, Aurora understood her mother. She’d always loved her mother. She had often felt pity for her—which might have something to do with why she abhorred pity coming from anyone else. Aurora never wanted to be bleak, full of grief and sorrow and pain. She never wanted to be in an empty marriage, one without love.

One with love, but too much hurt to bridge the gap to where love could matter more than pain. Yet here she was. Married to a man she loved more than breath itself, yet unable to be the wife he needed. Full of all the heartaches of life and devoid of the joys.

Aurora took a candle from the mantle and sat down at her escritoire. She ought to go back down to the ballroom. Surely by now, Quin had sent Lord Griffin and Lady Phoebe off, and the revelers had returned to their evening of mirth. Surely she would be missed. It just wasn’t done, for a hostess to abandon her own guests at a ball, to leave them to their own devices while she wallowed above stairs in her misery.

But she couldn’t face them. Not tonight. Not now.

Not Quin.

Though she feared she might never be able to face him again, he needed to know. He deserved to know.

So Aurora picked up her quill and dipped it into the inkwell.

And she wrote.

She wrote their story—their true story, and not the fantasy she had imagined. She wrote her parents’ story. She wrote until she could write no more. Tears splattered the pages of foolscap, but taking the time to rewrite it would only instigate more tears. The tears would have to stay.

But Aurora could not.

She took her journal into Quin’s chamber, placing it upon the pillow of his bed.

And she left.

~ * ~

“I don’t believe a single one of your guests has left,” Jonas said to Quin as they stood off to the side of the ballroom.

Quin scanned the room, taking in a mental count of the people. Amazingly enough, it seemed Jonas was right. The scene between himself and Griffin and Phoebe had been badly done on his part (on theirs, too), but all indications pointed to it being one of those moments the townspeople would talk about for years to come—but only in derision when it came to speaking of Griffin.

Somehow, Quin came up aces on this one. He’d never understand it in all his life.

But when he had returned, he wanted Aurora. He wanted to hold her, to kiss her, to tell her again that he loved her. He wanted to see the sly smile she always gave him and to hear the sassy tone of her voice.

She was nowhere to be found.

Mrs. Marshall informed him that her ladyship was feeling rather under the weather and had gone up to her bed early. She begged his forgiveness for deserting him with a ballroom full of guests.

It was probably best that he allow her to rest. She was carrying his child, after all. Their child. And he was not so oblivious to not recognize that she was having difficulties with it.

So he carried on with the ball without her, entertaining their guests, dancing with the wallflowers, charming everyone in sight. Without flirting, of course. To be honest, it felt rather odd to not even have the inclination to flirt with a young lady or three. The only one he wanted to flirt with was Aurora.

Instead, he went through the night as though nothing was amiss. Now, after much dancing and discussion and a supper suited for a king, followed by still more dancing, the final set of the night was upon them.

“Have you put your name on anyone’s dance card yet?” Quin asked his friend. Jonas had already danced the opening quadrille with Nia, and the supper dance too—a waltz. Quin ought to have voiced a complaint about Nia dancing a waltz, since she wasn’t out yet. She didn’t yet have permission to dance the waltz from one of the patronesses of Almack’s. But his mother had reminded him that they were not in Town. The rules of propriety need not be adhered to quite so strictly in the country. The remainder of the sets he had spread out amongst various ladies from the house party and a few from the town.

Nia hadn’t managed to be quite the wallflower she would have liked, either, with a partner for every set but one, when she instead chose to go for a walk around the kitchen gardens with her father. Quin barely managed to get his name on her card before it was filled, and he knew Aurora would never forgive him if he had not acted the part of the older brother.

Jonas looked across the floor at a grouping of young ladies, refusing to meet Quin’s eyes. “Yes, I’ve made arrangements.”

On the dais, the violinist tapped his bow against the floor, signaling their readiness to begin the final dance. Odd, that Jonas was avoiding giving more answer than that. “I suppose we ought to go and fetch our partners then,” Quin said.

“Indeed we should.” With that, Jonas turned from him and walked away.

There was no time to ponder Jonas’s reaction at the moment, however. Quin must fetch his mother. He’d requested that she waltz with him—something he had never in all his life done.

With her on his arm, they took up their positions on the ballroom floor. Quin looked around to find Nia, to be certain she had a partner for the final dance of the evening. “What the devil?” he said when he finally found her. “Mother, why have you allowed Nia to dance a third set with Jonas tonight? It isn’t proper. They’ll think her fast.”

“I see nothing improper or fast about it. And you really can’t say anything about impropriety, since abandoning me without a word and not writing to me to tell me you were alive for years is hardly proper. Being married for months, without a brief note to inform me of such is hardly proper.” His mother frowned up at him as the music started and they began to dance. “A third dance with a gentleman who is virtually family, at a country ball no less, is perfectly fine.”

As usual, Mother’s tone brooked no argument. Quin had to chuckle. Despite his thirty-two years, she could put him in his place in the span of a moment—without even batting an eye. “You are right, of course.”

“Of course I am. I’m always right. You ought to have learned that by now.”

“Consider the lesson complete,” Quin said.

Mother raised a single eyebrow. “And you ought to also realize that the same goes for Aurora, too. She is always right. You’ll save yourself years of heartache if you learn that one simple fact right in this moment.”

Apparently it was a lesson Sir Augustus had learned many years before. The man did seem to let his wife take the reins far more often than was Quin’s inclination—but he also seemed to have far less conflict within his marriage.

Damnation.

They finished the dance, keeping up their playful banter as they did. Then Quin saw his guests out to their conveyances. Most of the house party seemed inclined to stay up enjoying themselves a while longer in the salon. That was more than all right. It was the final night of the house party, after all.

But he missed his wife.

After he’d seen to their comforts and made certain the staff would not work too late into the night, Quin excused himself and went up to their chamber. He half expected to find Aurora asleep on a settee in their sitting room, as had been her habit for the majority of their marriage. But she was not there.

Then he went into her chamber, thinking she might have been too exhausted and fallen asleep in her own bed. Again, she was not to be found.

Finally, Quin went to his own chamber. Instead of his wife, however, he found her journal. It lay carefully positioned on his pillow, open to a certain page a little past the halfway point. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he took the journal into his hands gingerly, almost as though it would disappear in the same manner Aurora seemed to have done. He held it to the candlelight and read.

We, neither one of us, wanted what we now have: a marriage full of more silence than laughter, of more pain than joy, of more secrets than truths. Even just tonight, I learned yet another truth that has been hidden away from me for these last months—the truth of why you refused to honor your agreement with Lady Phoebe.

Which led me to another truth: no matter how much I may wish otherwise, no matter how much I love you and want the best for you, no matter how many years have passed, you are still the boy whose father beat him when he couldn’t handle his own grief. Perhaps you will always be that child—lost and hurt and seemingly alone in the world.

There is a truth about me which you should know. However much you believe yourself to be like your father (and mayhap you’re right), that is also how much I am like my mother. I had hoped this would not be the case—that her problems with bearing healthy, living children would be hers alone and would not pass down to the next generation. Alas, they are not. Her problems are now my problems.

Which means, as my husband, they are yours as well.

The babe I carried is gone. Indeed, it is doubtful I can ever carry a child long enough for it to survive. Out of my mother’s countless attempts, I was her only success. And what a success I have been, earning the scorn of the ton, whilst failing in the one task you had set for me.

I cannot bear the thought of continuing along my mother’s path—of trying and failing again and again until all that is left of my soul is an empty shell, all that is left of our marriage is the memory of love with the reality of heartache. And if there is one thing I have learned about myself through our marriage, it is that I am, generally, a selfish person. I wish for what is best for me, rather than what is best for my acquaintances. I wish for what is best for me, rather than what is best for my dearest friend. I wish for what is best for me, rather than what is best for you, my husband. I had thought I might change, but now I am not so sure.

What is best for me right now is to be alone.

By the time Quin came to the end, he was baffled. The baby was gone. Aurora was gone. But where could she have gotten off to? Mrs. Marshall hadn’t said anything about Aurora leaving, so she must still be in the abbey somewhere.

He had to find her. He couldn’t allow her to be alone. Not now. Not after losing the baby. She needed comfort. She needed to know that he loved her, regardless of whether they had a baby or not. That he didn’t care about Rotheby’s blasted edicts. That he needed her more than brandy, more than gambling or boxing or any of his other pursuits, even more than air.

Quin rushed from his chamber down to the salon. “She’s gone,” he said as he burst through the door. “Aurora is gone. She’s lost the baby and she is gone.”

The house guests leapt to their feet, all talking at once.

“The baby? What baby?”

“Where on earth could she have gone?”

“It’s the middle of the night. Surely she couldn’t have gone far.”

Quin shook his head. “There’s no time for explanations. We have to find her.” He sat in the nearest chair, eyes wide, with Aurora’s journal still in his hands.

“Let’s all work together,” Jonas called out over the general commotion. Every eye turned to him, including Quin. “We’ll break into pairs to search the abbey and the grounds. The servants are still setting things to rights after the ball, so we will gain their assistance as well. Question everyone—Cook, the grooms in the stables—everyone you run across. Find out if they’ve seen her this evening. We will all report back here, to the salon, in thirty minute increments as to where we’ve searched and what we’ve learned. Lady Aylesbury and Lord Rotheby will remain here to keep track of our efforts.”

Thank God for Jonas. Lord knew Quin’s head was anything but level at that precise point in time.

Within moments, pairs formed and cleared out of the salon, beginning their search.

Quin left alone. He couldn’t sit and wait for someone to find her. He couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to her when she was alone, when he wasn’t there to protect her.

He had to find her.

~ * ~

Zeus hadn’t stopped licking Aurora’s face since they had arrived at the hermitage hours before, other than a brief stint where the pup was too tired to keep his eyes open and he fell asleep on her lap where she sat in the leather chair. But then her sobbing had started anew, and Zeus returned to his vigil.

She oughtn’t to have brought him with her. She ought to have left him at the abbey, where he could be petted and played with and loved by all the young ladies after the ball had finished.

But as was her wont, Aurora had taken the self-serving path.

Zeus had just moved to lick dry the salty tears on the other side of her face when the hermitage’s door flew open with Quin on the other side of the threshold. He stood there gasping for breath, with his eyes ablaze and hair flowing free about his shoulders, unmoving.

For long moments, they merely stared at each other. Why had he come? There was nothing he could do, nothing that could repair what had been lost.

Zeus left her and waddled over to Quin’s feet, barking and jumping up for affection. How lovely it must be to be a dog. They were always free to show their love, leaping into a lap or licking a face whenever the mood struck. A simple nudge or a bark was all it took to receive love.

How much more complicated to be a man or a woman.

Quin reached down and scratched behind Zeus’s ears. “I wondered if you might come here,” he said into the stillness.

With each word, another piece of her heart broke off.

“Everyone has been looking for you, you know. You’ve given us all quite a fright.”

Aurora nodded. She couldn’t trust her voice yet, couldn’t speak without fear of falling completely apart at his feet. That just would not do. She could not become a weak ninny, crying and begging him to love her despite her failings.

When Zeus wouldn’t stop stretching up Quin’s long legs to nudge his hand with his wet nose, Quin finally reached down to scoop the pup into his arms. “May I come in?” he asked. His voice was calm. Measured.

Again, Aurora nodded.

He stepped into the hermitage, his massive frame nearly filling the small room, and took a seat in the chair opposite her.

“I love you,” he said. “I love you more than I know how to”

Aurora raised a hand to stop him. Tears welled in her eyes again. She couldn’t listen to this—couldn’t bear knowing how much pain he was in. Her own pain was more than she was prepared to carry. The added weight of his would suffocate her.

Taking her hand into his own, he lowered it to her lap. “Yes, I have to tell you this. And you have to listen.” Quin closed his eyes and inhaled sharply. “I love you more than I know how to handle, and I can’t live without you. I can’t exist without you. Do you realize what you’ve done for me? I have a reason to enjoy life again—a reason to be the man my father never managed to be.”

It wasn’t enough, though. It could never be enough, as long as she couldn’t give him the heir that his grandfather required. “But Lord Rotheby”

“Rotheby can go straight to the devil without a backward glance,” Quin said.

“But the baby. The baby is gone, Quin. I’ve miscarried. Did you not read my journal?”

“I read it and understood perfectly well. That doesn’t matter. If marrying you and learning to live a proper life isn’t enough for him, then he can have the abbey. I’ll take up a profession. I’ll do whatever it takes to support you, Aurora. Because I can’t be without you. And it doesn’t matter to me if we never have children, if we never provide an heir to become Rotheby after me, as long as I have you. After all, once I’m in the ground, I won’t give one whit who holds the title. It could go to Norcutt or Jonas, or anyone else under the moon, for all I care.”

He dragged a hand through his shaggy hair, which looked as though he had done just that countless times already that evening. “Do you understand what I’m saying? There is nothing—absolutely nothing—I won’t do to convince you of my love. To convince you that you mean more to me than anything else in the world. Please, love. Please tell me you love me too. I need to hear the words.”

“Words? Words can repair nothing,” she said. “Words are fleeting, impermanent—gone as soon as they’re uttered. I said them to you earlier this evening. Not that it matters. Love can’t solve everything. It couldn’t restore my parents’ marriage, not once it was filled with such distress and suffering. Why should ours be any different?”

Quin stood and paced through the small room, causing Zeus to leap down from his arms and regain a perch on Aurora’s lap. “How is it that you, who cannot go a day without writing her every thought in a journal, you, whose writings have been the cause of such scandal and turmoil, believe words to be so invaluable? Do you not recognize your own power, Aurora? Do you not see how the world reacts to your words?” He faced her, searching her eyes. “Your father has spent the past fortnight hoping to catch a smile and a word from you. Nia, whom you had never met before she arrived here, has hung upon your every word as though it is the gospel, to the point that she has actually tried to act upon some of your half-witted suggestions. Lady Rebecca, while she might not have valued your opinion about Lord Norcutt as much as her own, still seeks you out for conversation at nearly every point in the day, forsaking the conversation of all others including her betrothed. And they are far from alone, Aurora. I could go on all night. Even the blasted dog on your lap is drawn to the sound of your voice, coming to you when you call, all the while ignoring anyone else. Why, in God’s name, is it so difficult for you to understand that I need to hear some simple words from your lips?”

“Simple?” she replied. “Love is the furthest thing from simple.”

“Precisely!” he said. “Love is complex and twisted, and it is different every time it occurs. Who is to say that our love will wind up in the exact manner your parents’ love did? That is about as unlikely as the idea of me becoming a replica of my father. You happened to tell me once that I am not him, though we may be alike. Do you recall that?”

She nodded. Of course she did. Aurora could recall nearly every conversation they had ever had. She remembered every touch, every kiss, every tremble when he drew near. He consumed her.

Quin dropped to his knees before her, taking her hands into his own. “You are not your mother. You may be like her, but you are not her.” He lowered his chin to their joined hands, eyes closed. “I know that you love me. If it wasn’t clear from the fact that you are here, in my special place, your journal would have made it abundantly obvious. You love me despite all your best intentions and against all odds. I hardly deserve your love, but I intend to spend the rest of my life trying to earn it.”

Zeus spun around on Aurora’s lap to face her husband, now that they were eye-to-eye. The dog nipped his nose, earning Quin’s laugh. “Yours too, pup. But tell me, Aurora. Tell me you love me.”

“I do,” Aurora said through a fresh wave of tears. “I love you so much it terrifies me. I might have loved you since before I met you, when you were just a pirate in my stories and not a real in-the-flesh man, but I love you more now. So much it hurts.” And therein lay their problem. “Love ought not to hurt—not like this. It seems rather contradictory, do you not think?”

He had the effrontery to chuckle at her. She ought to swat him. It was downright churlish to poke fun at her distress.

“I think,” he said once he pulled his mirth back under control, “that unless one has experienced the lowest of lows, one cannot truly appreciate the highest of highs. That one must experience pain and sorrow in order to appreciate joy. If love didn’t hurt like this, how would we know when we finally had it right?”

Which was rather circuitous thinking, if one should ask her. But when had Quin ever been known to ask her for anything? Only just now, when he wanted to hear her say she loved him. The truculent boor. He ought to ask her for things more often.

They would have to work on that.

“So what will happen when we return to the abbey and inform Lord Rotheby about my miscarriage?” Aurora asked. “Do you think he’ll send us away immediately? If so, perhaps we could stay at one of Father’s estates, at least temporarily.”

Quin took her hand and led her from the hermitage. Zeus ran along beside them, nearly tripping them with almost every step as he weaved in and around their feet. “We won’t know until we go tell him, will we? There is no time like the present.”

Oh, dear good Lord. Would it not be better to wait until the morning at least? But she and Quin, they could face anything together. Even Lord Rotheby.

Epilogue

13 June, 1812

If this child does not stop kicking me in the ribs, I swear I will not wait two more months for its birth. It is inconceivable to allow a baby that has not even been born yet to continue to abuse its mother. Quin will have to give this child a serious talking-to. Or else, perhaps, I will have to break out the Mother Voice. Minerva has been giving me lessons on how to use the Mother Voice to great effect. We’ve been practicing on Quin, of course, since he is the one who went and mucked everything up in the first place by impregnating me again, so he clearly deserves to be practiced upon. I daresay it will prove to be invaluable to me in future relations with him, too, not just with our child. For that matter, I might be inclined to use it more with him than with the babe. After all, he is a grown man of three-and-thirty. He ought to know how to behave by now, and to know how to refrain from annoying me. Sadly, it does not seem to be the case. Tomorrow morning and afternoon, we expect the remainder of our guests to arrive. Everyone who joined us for the house party last summer will be back, though there have been a few changes. Namely, of course, Rebecca being the new Lady Norcutt, and Miss Vivian Osbourne is no longer a miss, but is now Lady Tucker Flynn. How very wrong I was last year about the four of them.

~From the journal of the Very Pregnant Lady Quinton

“Quinton,” Lord Rotheby shouted from the card table in the salon at Quinton Abbey. “Your wife is in need of assistance. Move your arse.”

“I can manage perfectly well on my own, Grandfather,” Aurora said. Which was not entirely untrue. She could manage to raise herself up from the settee upon which she sat without help, but only with a rather indecent amount of huffing and puffing and straining to raise her added girth from where it preferred to rest on her lap like Zeus always had. These days, there was no room for him. Her belly wasn’t the only thing that had grown by leaps and bounds, after all.

She was not given the chance to prove her mettle, however. Both Nia and Sir Augustus were at her side before she had finished her objection, each taking an arm to help to pull her up.

“I honestly don’t know what I’ll do if I get any larger,” Aurora said to them. “But thank you both very much for your assistance.”

Quin rushed into the room then, looking around with an addled expression. “What’s wrong?” he asked finally, glaring at his grandfather as he did so.

“Your wife needed help rising. You ought to pay closer attention to her,” Rotheby grumbled. “I will be rather cross with you if anything should happen to my great-grandchild. Or great-grandchildren, as the case may be. Are you certain there are not twins in there, Aurora?”

It was touching how he had come to dote upon her in the last year. Indeed, after their first house party the previous summer, he had taken to calling upon them rather often. Not because he didn’t trust that Quin would maintain the new lifestyle he had taken upon himself—Rotheby assured them he was quite satisfied with the turnaround Quin had made in his deportment and so the abbey and its profits were theirs until such time as Quin inherited everything—but because he was an old and lonely man, and it was his prerogative to do as he pleased.

Which, he claimed, it pleased him greatly to be in Aurora’s presence. Any chit who could convince his grandson to leave behind his wayward path had to be an entertaining young lady, to be sure.

After six months had passed with Rotheby making regular visits, Aurora took it upon herself to give the earl an open invitation to come stay with them whenever the mood struck him. After all, the abbey was vast. Quin’s grandfather could have an immense amount of freedom staying there, but he could also have company when he so chose. And she and Quin would be there to care for him, should he become ill or frail. Most days it was hard to imagine the curmudgeon as frail. But time was no longer on his side.

Quin hadn’t been overly pleased with the arrangement, but he eventually gave in to Aurora’s request, particularly because it proved to him she was no longer thinking primarily of herself. It seemed he was beginning to heed his mother’s unremitting refrain: Aurora is always right. Except in those instances when she was egregiously wrong, like in her assessment of Lord Norcutt the previous year.

Now that Aurora was rather well along in her pregnancy, Lord Rotheby had taken it upon himself to be her protector. Of course, Quin also thought himself to be just that. And Zeus, being her diligent companion, also thought it to be his job.

Needless to say, Aurora could hardly sneeze without one of them yelling at another to do something about it.

Which was rather nice, actually. But also rather tedious.

Perhaps, once the abbey was once again filled with other guests, they would have someone else to look after at least some of the time. It would be rather unsporting of them to expect her to do it all.

But then again, Rebecca and Nia had both promised to assist with Aurora’s plans for all of the entertainments, and Minerva had requested permission to take over the responsibility for planning three full days’ events. She would not be alone in her efforts.

Indeed, all of the assistance she would be receiving might be just the thing she needed in order to resume her matchmaking enterprises. Aurora looked over to where Nia sat with her mother by the hearth, working on her embroidery.

Perhaps she ought to direct the girl’s attention to another gentleman this summer—someone other than Sir Jonas. Perhaps then the two would realize they were destined for each other and stop fighting against it. The wheels of Aurora’s mind set to turning as she planned how she would go about it, schooling her features into a placidly content look as Quin came over to steal a hurried kiss before returning to his business affairs in the undercroft. No reason to raise anyone’s suspicions. Least of all his.

Aurora made her way over to the escritoire by the window and took a seat. She pulled out some foolscap to set upon the blotter, and then dipped a quill into her inkpot.

It was time to write again. A smile threatened to consume her entire face. This time, she would not write of her own life. Nor would she write of her fantastical, imagined life.

Indeed, she would not write of the lives of anyone she knew, real or otherwise.

This time, she wanted to write a story. A novel, to be precise. It wasn’t quite fashionable for a lady to be a writer, but when had Aurora cared about being fashionable? Scandal was, after all, her middle name, it seemed.

She would ask for Quin’s favor later. After all, it was much easier to beg forgiveness than permission.

About the Author

Catherine Gayle has been an avid reader of romance novels (and almost anything else she can legally get her hands on) for as long as she can remember. Her mother might say it started in the womb. When she is not writing or reading, she can often be found buried beneath her sleeping cat or chasing the Nephew Monster.

Catherine would love to hear from her readers. You can send her an email at catherinegayle.author@gmail.com.

Saving Grace

© 2011 Catherine Gayle

The blasted man will not stop following her. Well, he isn’t following her…not exactly. They are just always thrown together, and he is everything she wants but cannot have. It is downright infuriating—especially when he kisses her.

Lady Grace Abernathy has been ravished and left pregnant (and thoroughly unsuitable for any honorable gentleman). This would not be such a gargantuan problem if Lord Alexander Hardwicke would simply stay away from her as she asked. But leave it to her meddling Aunt Dorothea—who means well, of course—to continually thrust the two into each other’s company. Against both their wishes. These distractions are almost more than a reasonable lady should be forced to bear, let alone one who is dealing with all the difficulties inherent with both an unwanted pregnancy and a dire lack of a husband.

Alex left London to get away from his mother and her matchmaking schemes, only to run into more of the same at every turn. Why can he not determine for himself the course his life will take before everyone pushes him to take a wife? But the more time he spends in the company of Lady Grace, the less he finds himself able to ignore his growing attraction—and his burgeoning need to protect her. Must he cause a scandal in order to protect her from one?

Look for Saving Grace in May, 2011.