“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.
Twice a Rake (Lord Rotheby's Influence, Book 1) Page 7