“Why would he do that? I’m not nearly as hopeless a fiancée as Lady Phoebe.”
Besides, the man had to have some honor.
~ * ~
Quite simply put, sleep was out of the question.
In fact, Aurora wondered if she would ever be able to sleep again. If the first time Lord Quinton kissed her hadn’t been enough, then the kiss that afternoon in her father’s library ensured she would never be able to close her eyes without thinking of him.
The way he’d used his mouth over her breast.
The feel of his hands gripping her thighs, rough and gentle all at once.
The low growl emanating from his throat—primal, almost inhuman.
The heady scent of the overheated air between them.
She flopped about in her bed for what had to be hours, trying to fall asleep. Lord knew she would need rest before the day ahead of her. But that precious, blissful state proved elusive.
Aurora closed her eyes and imagined herself drifting off into the netherworld, staring at a cloudy sky—only to have the images of clouds somehow turn to the confectionary fabric of her gown bunched up about her waist. In the next instant, her nightrail bunched up like her gown had been, and she found herself covered in a sheen of perspiration, remembering the feel of Lord Quinton’s body pressed up against hers.
They had fit, like they were molded just for each other. If that weren’t enough reason she should follow through with marrying him, there was the delicious thrumming sensation deep in her core. Something she’d never experienced before. Something she doubted any other man capable of producing within her.
How could she possibly deny their attraction?
Still, was that attraction enough? It was not love—at least not on his part. Surely not on her part, either, despite her apparent inability to think of anything at all without wishing he were there and kissing her again—or more than just kissing. After all, she’d only met Lord Quinton the evening before. Love took time.
Didn’t it?
Or was it possible that men and women simply loved, or didn’t love? Perhaps her parents had never been destined to love each other. Maybe Aurora and Lord Quinton were destined to fall in love.
One thing she knew for certain: she would never gain another wink of sleep if she didn’t find a way to get him out of her mind. Aurora knew herself well. She would never manage that if she didn’t write.
She tossed back the counterpane and slipped out of bed as quietly as she could. No point in waking Rose. The maid meant well, but would undoubtedly bring some sort of tonic if she knew Aurora wasn’t sleeping the night before such an important event. Barefoot, she padded to her escritoire and found a candlestick, then tiptoed out to the hallway to light it on one of the sconces.
Aurora dipped her quill into the ink pot, placed the tip to parchment, and let the words flow.
Our wedding night finally arrived. Though it felt like years, in truth it was only hours after the ceremony. I already knew that Lord Quinton’s kisses did inexplicable things to me, sending my heart aflutter and causing my body to overheat and making it impossible to form two connected words. But when he moved behind me and I felt the strength of his hands upon the bare skin of my arms and the rough tickle of his jaw line against my neck, I shivered.
Surely this was sinful. Surely husbands did not see their wives in their nightrails and touch them in the intimate ways my husband—my husband!—touched me. But I could not bring myself to care in the least.
He moved his hands from my arms to wrap around my waist, pulling me closer to him until only the thin fabric of my nightrail and the sturdier fabric of his shirt and pantaloons separated us. That delightful and wonderful hard, heat-filled length pressed against my bottom and
And what? Drat. Sometimes, being an innocent could be a deuced curse.
Aurora pushed the parchment aside. She couldn’t very well go on from there until she knew what it was. And what it was for. It must have something to do with the wedding night. But without someone to tell her—or without Lord Quinton to show her—she’d never decipher it.
It was rather inconvenient that he hadn’t taught her just a bit more in the library that morning. They’d have to have a discussion about his lack of instruction. He should have taught her what she would need to know in order to perform her wifely duties. Granted, she wasn’t his wife yet, but that would change shortly. Why wait?
Unless he felt her incapable.
Was that why he had jilted Lady Phoebe? Had he kissed her and touched her in that manner, and found her lacking in some way?
Lord Quinton had stopped their kissing rather abruptly that morning, and with no explanation. If he’d been enjoying it—if he’d felt half of what Aurora felt at that moment, with electricity flowing through every pore of her skin and a need she could never explain—he surely wouldn’t have stopped. Would he?
Blast. He was going to jilt her. She just knew it.
Unless, of course, she jilted him first.
~ * ~
“You look stunning, miss,” Rose said, twisting a tendril of Aurora’s dark hair into a soft curl about her face.
Truthfully, she did. But what a sight she would be in a few moments’ time. She hoped Father would not be too terribly disappointed in her, but there was nothing to be done for it.
“Thank you, Rose.” Aurora gave her maid what she hoped was a nervous-but-excited smile. “You should go into the church now. I’d like a few minutes to myself before the wedding, please.”
Rose placed one more flower into Aurora’s coiffure and smiled. “Of course.”
When the door clicked to a close, Aurora took a breath. It would be better if she could change out of her wedding gown, but that would be virtually impossible to do alone. There were far too many buttons along the back. She’d just have to make do.
The Spencer she’d worn on her way to the church was draped across a chair. She fastened it about her, secured the matching bonnet atop her head, and looked one more time in the mirror. The coquelicot velvet did little to hide her gown. Gads, she might be mistaken for a harlot, with the oddity of her attire.
There was no time to worry about that, though. Aurora turned the lock on the door before she moved to the window, raised it, and hurtled herself out and to the ground. Luckily, the small church was not too high; she only fell a couple of feet, rolling over a few times before coming to a stop.
Aurora took a look around. No one was watching her. She dusted the debris from her gown and walked—hurriedly, but quietly—to the mews.
If only she knew how to unhook one of Father’s horses from the carriage. Becoming a horse thief had never been high on her list of priorities. But after a moment’s inspection of the rigging, she knew she’d waste far too much time in attempting it.
A few horses stood in a stall near the entrance. Two of them were even saddled and ready to go—traditional saddles, not side saddles, but a horse thief couldn’t very well be picky.
Aurora took one more look around. The last thing she needed was for a groom to come upon her unawares.
All clear.
She moved up alongside the smaller of the two and gripped the reins. Thank the good Lord Father had taught her to ride. One foot in the stirrup. She hitched her gown up to her knees and tossed the other leg up and over and settled in to the saddle. Oh, dear good Lord. Even with this small horse, her feet could not reach the stirrups.
The mare pranced around, surely uneasy from having an unfamiliar rider atop it. Aurora leaned forward and whispered into the horse’s ears, “Calm down, girl. It will be all right.”
The door creaked at the opposite end of the mews. Blast. She had to go.
Aurora flicked the reins, and they were off.
~ * ~
Ten minutes. Ten bloody minutes he had been standing at the altar, waiting for his deuced bride to arrive. Quin was ready to explode. He clenched his jaw and prayed that he would not strike the next person who spoke.
The
vicar kept sending anxious looks his way and tapping his feet. The few guests in the pews stared at him.
He’d been bang up to the mark, by God. They could not blame him. They’d better not try, least of all Hyatt. The man ought to have done a better job of teaching his daughter punctuality.
If this was a sign of things to come within their relationship, Quin would have to learn patience. Either that or he’d have to tell Aurora to be ready an hour before he expected her.
That might be the better option. He doubted himself capable of adopting patience.
The vicar gave him yet another pointed look.
“Where in God’s name is she?” Quin yelled, startling everyone in the church, including Lord Hyatt, who jumped long enough to cease pacing at the opposite end. “What is taking her so bafflingly long?”
His bride’s maid and friend stared back at him with huge eyes. Jonas stomped on Quin’s foot and glared at him.
Christ, he shouldn’t have lost his temper like that. But really, how long must a man be kept waiting? “I apologize,” he gritted out to the small gathering. “Hyatt, would you go and check on your daughter? Hurry her along.”
The older man looked at him with disdain. “Perhaps, Quinton, you ought to go and check on your bride. It is, after all, your fault all of this is taking place.”
“Excuse me, please,” said the young maid. “I will check on Miss Hyatt.” She slipped out of her pew and rushed down the long aisle, disappearing from sight.
Well. That eliminated the likelihood of Quin and Hyatt cursing at each other over whose responsibility Aurora was at the moment.
Quin paced before the altar. He wanted to rip the fussy cravat from his neck and toss the overcoat aside, but Jonas would give him hell if he did. With every sound, from the creaking of a seat to a muffled clearing of a throat, his head snapped about, expecting to see Aurora coming down the aisle to meet him.
But she didn’t.
Finally, after the maid had been gone for what had to have been another ten minutes, she came back.
Alone.
He tried to maintain his sanity as he returned to his position. “Where is Miss Hyatt?” he asked through clenched teeth.
The poor girl trembled before him. “The door is locked,” she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper. “She won’t answer.”
“Bloody hell.”
A chorus of shocked gasps sounded around. Blast, Quin thought he’d only said it in his head, not aloud.
She couldn’t be doing this to him. She could not leave him standing at the altar. He’d be damned if he let her get away with it.
Quin marched down the aisle, into the hall, and to the changing room where his bride had been supposedly getting dressed and taking a moment to calm herself before their nuptials. He tried the knob. It didn’t budge.
“Aurora! Open the door.” He pounded out an impatient rhythm. “This is neither the time nor the place for this.”
Nothing. He didn’t hear a single sound, not one peep.
A crowd gathered behind him, Jonas in front of them all. “Do you think something has happened to her? Perhaps she is unwell.”
“She will be if she doesn’t unlock this door in the next thirty seconds.” He’d make certain of it himself.
Everyone started talking at once behind him.
“Should we ask the vicar for the key?”
“Perhaps someone ought to break down the door.”
“I can’t believe the nerve of her. Ungrateful chit.”
“Sir Jonas! Sir Jonas.” This voice rang out urgently amongst the din of the others. Quin turned to see a groom pushing his way through the small crowd. “Your horse, sir.”
“We are busy here, man,” Jonas responded. “The horse can wait.”
“But, sir! Your horse was stolen. She rode off with it before I could catch her, she did.”
She.
“Damnation,” Quin muttered. He rammed his shoulder repeatedly into the door. By the third time, Jonas joined him. After a few joint efforts, the hinges gave way and the door fell open.
“Of course,” Quin said. Aurora’s belongings were strewn about the small chamber as a slight breeze blew in through the open window, fluttering everything about.
Aurora Hyatt, however, was nowhere to be found.
Chapter Nine
3 April, 1811
There is an art to horse thievery. Or at least there is an intelligent manner of going about it and an unintelligent manner of going about it. The intelligent manner, should one be of the female sex, would be to either steal a horse that is saddled with a side saddle, or else to be certain to wear breeches instead of a gown. Particularly troublesome is a wedding gown. It is rather unbecoming, not to mention curious (and conspicuous), to ride astride through Mayfair while draped in ivory silk. This is not an act I recommend.
~From the journal of Miss Aurora Hyatt
His bride was an imbecile. What other explanation could there be?
Quin had thoroughly and completely ruined her. He had offered her a chance to salvage her reputation—and she ran. He would damned well catch her, too. Whether he would return with her to the church or take her straight to Bedlam was still up for debate.
The horse he’d borrowed from Jonas was close to foaming at the mouth, he had been pushing the animal so hard. He had no choice. Aurora must be found.
Immediately.
The groom said she rode off with the skirts of her gown bunched up about her knees, for Christ’s sake. Idiotic. Rash. Gauche. Why on earth had he ever thought it a good idea to marry her?
But after what he’d done, not only did she not have any other option—he had no other option. He’d never find a respectable bride after his behavior at that ball. No one else would have him, and then he would be unable to do what Rotheby required.
She was the closest thing he would find to it.
And she would marry him.
Aurora was not at Hyatt House. Nor was she at Grantham Manor on Grosvenor Square, where the Duke of Aylesbury had been none too pleased to find Quin pounding at his door, demanding entrance and to have the house searched at such an early hour of the morning. But he had to check. Lady Rebecca had suggested that Aurora might seek solace there.
Quin turned down Piccadilly, headed toward Hyde Park. It was illogical for her to go to such a public place—certainly not if she was trying to hide—but nothing the minx had done of late made any blasted sense.
The park was virtually empty at this hour. Only a small group of matrons strolled along the Serpentine from what he could see on first glance. Blast. Where else could she have gone?
Devil take it. Did she have other friends? Surely she did. This was one moment it would help if he knew just a mite more about his intended. Quin turned the mare and headed back into Mayfair. He’d ride up and down every damned street, if that’s what it took to find her and drag her back to the church.
He’d already searched both Cavendish Square and Grosvenor Square. Might as well try some of the other elite areas. Her closest friend was the daughter of a duke, so the rest of her acquaintances likely came from families of equally elevated ranks.
Berkeley Square. He’d go there first, with it still early in the day. Perhaps Rotheby would still be abed and not up, wondering if Quin had actually gone through with it and leg-shackled himself. The last thing he needed was to run into the man and have to explain this current mess he’d gotten himself into.
If there even was an explanation to be given.
When Quin turned the corner, he nearly fell off his horse. He’d never seen anything so utterly farcical (not to mention bizarre, ignominious, and indiscreet) in the whole of his life.
Aurora Hyatt, impeccably clad in a white satin wedding gown and some silly Spencer and bonnet, sat astride a horse outside Gunter’s. Her stockings were visible up to her knees, with the gown draped in an unwieldy fashion across the saddle horn. Dangling above the stirrups, one foot kicked about for something to grab onto, w
hile she attempted to swing the other over. However, her slipper continued to catch upon the satin gown, and if she didn’t stop her flailing about, she’d fall and crack her skull on the pavement.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” he bellowed, ignoring the aghast looks of passersby. They could all go hang. Quin rode over and took her reins.
Twice a Rake Page 10
