A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle

by Catherine Gayle

  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 t
hat 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 recognize
d 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.