She would be perfectly content to never take another breath so long as he never stopped looking at her like that. Aurora tingled everywhere he touched her, with the delicious gooseflesh spreading through her limbs, up to her head, and then plummeting all the way down to her toes—which somehow curled beneath her.
“Yes. You are the mysterious Lord Quinton.” And he would think her an utter dolt if she did not manage to remove the derisible grin from her face. There was also the rather embarrassing problem of a blush spreading over her cheeks and all the way to her bosom. The heat flowed like gauze in the wind. She looked down to see how bad it was, only to realize too late she had drawn his gaze to that very same place.
“That I am.” He stared at the low bodice of her gown, or rather at the display just above it, for an inordinately long period of time. Finally, his eyes moved slowly up her chest to her neck, to her chin, to her lips—where they paused yet again.
She felt parched. She needed something—something—something to calm her nerves and to cool her off. Yet all she wanted to do was move closer, still.
Aurora licked her lips.
Lord Quinton’s hand at her waist flinched and grew tense, pulling her in as though on command.
“I am also, Miss Hyatt, not the kind of gentleman a proper young lady should have anything to do with—not if she wishes to keep her reputation intact.”
“I am aware of that.” Too aware. But that was the last thing she wanted to think of at the moment. She preferred to focus on the day’s growth of stubble lining his jaw and to imagine how it might feel if she drew her hand across it.
The corners of his lips quirked up in the slightest hint of a rakish grin. It looked lascivious. Fiendish. And entirely too appealing. “Then you must also be aware, Miss Hyatt, that every eye in the room is trained upon the two of us. Including those of your chaperone. Perhaps even your father.”
“Yes,” she said, with a slight tremor in her voice. Blast him for reminding her of all the reasons she should run screaming from him. And blast her for not doing as she ought.
Lord Quinton’s eyes smiled at her then, a smile only a true rogue could muster. “And yet you remain with me. Dancing.” He twirled her about so fast she would have lost her feet, but for his strong arm at her waist pulling her ever closer. “Waltzing.”
At this new distance she smelled his cologne, much like she had imagined it in her story. “Yes,” she whispered, no longer trusting her voice not to fail.
He stood still and held her steady before him. “Lovely,” Lord Quinton growled just before his lips descended upon hers in a kiss. A kiss nothing like what she imagined.
This was nothing tender or chaste. It was needy and possessive and hot.
He pulled her closer until her body was melded into his, her curves tucked neatly into his angles and planes like they had been made just for that purpose. One hand moved up into the chignon at the nape of her neck, fisting and tugging and drawing her ever closer.
His lips were hard and demanding. The stubble along his jaw assaulted her tender skin in a way that left her panting for more. He bit her lower lip and she cried out, but it was muffled against his tongue as it moved inside her mouth.
Aurora tasted his brandy—smooth and dark.
Lord Quinton moved his tongue in and out and around. When he suckled, her toes sang and the tips of her fingers trembled and something both terrible and wonderful happened between her thighs.
She wanted more.
She wanted to do the things to him he was doing to her, to make him feel these wanton feelings.
She wanted it never to end.
But then he pulled his head back, the absence of his lips leaving hers aching for their return.
Lord Quinton stepped away from her. Removed his hands from her. He bowed his head briefly. “Miss Hyatt. I bid you good evening.”
And he left.
Chapter 6
2 April, 1811
Oh, dear good Lord, I only thought my life had ended yesterday. Now I know it has. But oh, what a way to die. I wonder, can one still kiss in heaven? And would a kiss in heaven feel as fiendishly sinful as that kiss? If not, perhaps I would prefer not to go to heaven when I die later today. Perhaps somewhere else would be preferable.
~From the journal of Miss Aurora Hyatt
“Up. You must get up now, Aurora.”
From Aurora’s position fully buried beneath her bedclothes, Rose’s voice sounded eerily like it belonged to Rebecca. And since when did the maid think she could use her first name, anyway?
“What’s the point in getting up only to march to my funeral? Kindly inform Father he can handle such matters in here. I’ll not assist him.” Truthfully, she’d already done enough.
What on earth had come over her last night? She’d flirted outrageously with Lord Quinton from across the ballroom, danced with him without being properly introduced (and a waltz, at that!), ignored her dearest friend, and become totally and irrevocably smitten with the scoundrel (for what else could he be considered?). All right. Fine. The totally smitten part occurred the moment she heard mention of his existence and then intensified when she heard he had a pirate-like demeanor. But the irrevocable part did only just occur last night. And to cap off the utterly disastrous night, she had allowed the rogue to kiss her.
In the ballroom.
In front of half the ton.
With her stupendous luck, Father had returned to the ballroom just in time to see the kiss. He had been too stunned by what he saw to confront Lord Quinton as the blackguard made his escape.
Instead, it seemed he intended to take out his wrath upon Aurora.
She, however, intended to remain precisely where she was until the moment of her impending death. Never in her life had she felt such sheer, utter mortification as she did when Lord Quinton had walked away from her last night, leaving her alone on the ballroom floor with the entire world reveling in her social demise.
Perhaps the entire world was a bit of an exaggeration. Still, Aurora noticed: their slack jaws; their bold stares, followed by a deliberate turning of their backs; the matrons shooing their daughters away from her presence; the sudden lack of gentlemen hoping to place their names upon her dance card; the forced, heavy silence gradually being overwhelmed by a calamitous medley of whispers, most all of them containing her name.
The look of bewildered defeat upon Father’s face.
The derision and disgust in Aunt Sedgewick’s voice as she ushered Aurora from Eversley Hall.
More hurtful than all the rest combined—the pity in Rebecca’s brief and gentle grasping of her hand as they parted.
The blankets were ripped back with fervor, and she was blinded by the sun just starting to rise outside her window. Sure enough, Rebecca held the untidy remnants of Aurora’s warm bed, not Rose.
Rebecca frowned down at Aurora from her exalted position as the angel of death, with the rays of the sun lighting her frame. “I sincerely doubt there will be any funeral today, and if there is I suspect it might be for Lord Quinton and not for you, so do please cease your moping.”
Aurora rolled over and buried her eyes in her pillow. “Go away. It is ungodly early in the morning. Why are you here? I don’t want your pity.”
“You’re doing a poor job of showing that.” Rebecca took a seat on the edge of the bed. “But you’ll get none of it, whether you want it or not.”
“Humph.” Aurora rolled over again to show her scowl to its fullest effect. “Some dearest and most especial friend you are proving yourself to be. Abandoning me in my darkest hour?”
“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 abhor
red 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?”
Twice a Rake Page 7
