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 f
lesh 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.
Twice a Rake (Lord Rotheby's Influence, Book 1) Page 8