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 nerve
s.
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.
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