A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle

by Catherine Gayle

  ~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 see
n 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 a
lluded 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.”