“Stop pushing me,” he warned, his voice low.
“Stop pushing you?” Aurora taunted. “Why? Can’t a big man like you handle a lady? You big, drunken oaf.” Once again, she pushed a hand against him, harder this time. “You’re a drunk and a scoundrel, and I’m sorry I ever met you. Is this how you handle your problems? By resorting to drink?”
He’d have preferred some gambling and a whore or two, but the brandy would have to do this time. Quin took her hands into one of his own and squeezed to get her attention, then he forcefully pushed her back a step. “You’re not half as sorry as you should be.”
The vixen didn’t take the hint. She shoved her way into his face again, pressing against him with both hands. “Half as sorry as I should be? Oh, that’s right. I suppose I’m the unfeeling lout between us, the one incapable of communicating apart from blackmail or threats.”
He’d had enough. Clearly, the minx was unaware of his limits, let alone of the proper way a wife ought to deport herself. Quin turned to leave, but Aurora reached out and pulled against his arm. “We aren’t finished here,” she said.
“Oh, we most certainly are finished.” His hand was in the air, positioned to strike her across the face before he recognized what he was doing. Aurora flinched, pulling back, hiding her face behind her arms.
He had almost done it. He had almost become exactly like his father in that moment, in that one instant. The only difference remaining—that he had not actually struck his wife—was now on the precipice of withering and dying before his eyes.
And she’d been the one to drive him to the brink.
Quin lowered his hand to his side, slowly, methodically. He spoke in measured tones. “Get in the carriage, Aurora.”
Then he walked from the townhouse without looking back to see if she followed.
Chapter Sixteen
27 April, 1811
The silence is almost unbearable. Yet I have no words. I feel as though I’ve been stripped naked and placed on display for the world to deride me and all the mistakes I’ve made. It would be nice to have company for such a humiliation, but I would not wish the pain upon even Lord Griffin.
~From the journal of Lady Quinton
How had Aurora’s life gone from carefree to utter misery in less than a month? Everything about it was hopeless, right down to the ache in her back from spending the better part of three days in a poorly sprung carriage. In silence. Except for the creaking of the axels and the clip-clop of the horses hooves, and, of course, the sniffles coming rather audibly from herself and the grunts coming rather frequently from her husband.
He refused to speak to her the entire journey. Even over their meals at coaching inns, he would stare icily at his food or the copious amounts of ale or brandy he drank each night.
Quin didn’t even insist on sharing a bed with her at night, as he had throughout their entire farcical marriage, instead situating her in an entirely separate room.
Which was just as well. Aurora had no intention of willingly participating in any marital activity with him. He could take her by force if he wanted, but he would have to do just that—use force.
There weren’t enough curses in her vocabulary to accurately describe what he was—what he’d become to her.
So for the duration of their journey, she sat on her bench, staring out the dusty window to her right and watching the rolling landscape they were leaving behind. And he sat on his bench, likewise staring out the window to his right, watching what lay up ahead. Both staunchly refused to look at the other. At least not when they’d draw notice. Aurora did steal a few peeks while he slept, noticing the furrow of Quin’s brows and the clench of his jaw, even in repose.
She wanted to write. There were so many emotions roiling beneath the blasé exterior she was trying to convey to him, that they threatened to overwhelm her if she couldn’t find a way to express them. Sadness over leaving Father and Rebecca behind with little more than hastily scribbled notes of explanation. Guilt at being the cause of her husband’s turmoil, however unintentional it had been. Fear of her inability to provide him with the heir Lord Rotheby demanded. Devastation at ending up in precisely the marriage she’d always intended to avoid.
More than anything, though, the loneliness ate her from the inside, devouring anything good or hopeful she had left.
Writing would help her to work through it all—to find a way of moving forward. But she couldn’t do it with all the bumps and jumps caused by the carriage. Besides, Quin would likely be furious with her for attempting it. Her writings, after all, were the impetus of their current scrape, even going back to their very meeting. He’d likely forbid her to ever lift a quill again, not that she desired his approval.
Aurora could only hope that Quinton Abbey would be a massive structure—one large enough that she never had to see him, if she so desired. One where she could lose herself and forget that she’d married the least understanding man in all of England.
One much like Fairfax Priory, where her mother and father had spent their days as separate and distant as two people could be.
~ * ~
Darkness started to fall when they were still a good hour from Quinton Abbey. Good. Quin couldn’t stand to see Aurora’s tears any more. The cover of night was his only refuge from the storm of her misery.
Misery he’d caused. Quin held no illusions about that. The long road from London to Wetherby had provided him ample time to ruminate over all the ways he’d failed, not the least of which would be as a husband.
Hell, he’d failed Aurora starting before he ever met her.
Now he was bloody well failing himself, too. Through all the years since his father’s death, he knew he was far too much like the man for his own good. The drinking. The gambling. The whoring.
But never—not once in twenty years—had he ever taken that last step. Until Aurora.
Since he married her, he’d been traveling down that path without even realizing it. He rationalized his daily visits to Jackson’s as just working out some tension. It was a lie. She was far more right on that front than she knew. He was lying to the worst person possible—himself.
Quin was becoming just as violent as his father had ever been, and had nearly taken it too far when he came so close to striking Aurora.
What if he couldn’t stop himself the next time? What if he lost that thin thread of control completely and struck her? Would he stop with one slap, or would he take it further—like his father had so often done?
He couldn’t trust himself. Not anymore.
It was easier at night. He could place Aurora in a separate chamber and lock his door, and not have to wonder what he’d do.
But during the day, it was just the two of them. All day. In the carriage.
Fighting to avoid each other’s eyes.
The tears that continued to well up in his wife’s eyes ripped him to shreds inside. She tried to hide it. She would wait until she thought him asleep, and then she would stare out her window and let them flow.
It nearly killed him, watching her agony and being unable to do anything about it. In all truth, he deserved to die. He’d taken all the euphoria and vivacity and life from her. And what had he given her in return?
Nothing. Not even himself.
Ha. Like he would be any sort of a gift. Most days, he detested being saddled with himself.
The carriage turned from the main road down the path leading to Quinton Abbey. Thank God. Perhaps here she could find some happiness. Perhaps here he could put enough distance between them to stop his maddening descent into both depravity and love.
Perhaps here it could all change.
~ * ~
Aurora jolted awake when the carriage rolled to a rickety stop. Quin tossed the door back and climbed down without waiting for the driver to set out the steps. Apparently they had arrived. So very kind of him to inform her of such.
Her husband’s voice rumbled outside the carriage. She could only assume he was giving the dr
iver and outriders some instructions, since she couldn’t make out his words. And then he was gone, marching up a long walkway which cut through what was likely an impressive garden. It was difficult to tell, however, without any lanterns about to light the way.
For that matter, Aurora could hardly make out lights in any of the windows of Quinton Abbey—and there were ample windows, to be sure. The abbey was easily double the size of Fairfax Priory. Perhaps thrice the size. The moon was only a sliver, its light far from ample this evening.
After her husband had disappeared from view, the coachman set down the steps and handed her out of the carriage. “His lordship requests that you hold onto my arm and walk with me up to the main house, ma’am. He does not wish for you to lose your footing in the dark.”
“Thank you,” she murmured. Why could Quin not take the task upon himself, though? Was he so averse to her presence after what had taken place that he couldn’t even walk alongside her? That must be the case. After all, the carriage had hardly come to a stop before he had leapt from it and run off to his precious abbey.
The path leading through the gardens went on much further than Aurora initially thought. Several moments had passed as she walked along it on the arm of the coachman, and still they seemed a reasonable walk away from the main entrance. Quinton Abbey grew ever larger in her mind the closer they came to it.
And then lights began to pop up in the windows, a few at a time. Footmen came down the path toward them, pausing before her to bow, and then continuing on their way back to unload the carriages.
By the time Aurora arrived at the entryway to her new home, a small but growing contingency of servants stood before her with Quin at their helm. He took her hand from the arm of the coachman and placed it on his own. “Thank you for your assistance,” Quin said to the man. The coachman bowed and left.
Quin turned her to face the line of servants.
Directly before Aurora, a curmudgeonly-looking man with silver hair and spectacles waited for her attention. He executed a stiff and precise bow. “Welcome to Quinton Abbey, Lady Quinton. Please call me Forster. I must apologize for our lack of preparedness for your arrival, ma’am.”
Quin stirred at her side. “The fault lies with me. I failed to send word of our journey.”
“Nor that of your marriage, or even that of your return to the country,” said Forster under his breath, garnering Aurora’s attention.
Return to the country? Goodness, how long had Quin been away from his estate? Aurora eyed her husband warily, wondering what he’d been doing before his arrival in London.
Quin frowned at him before he looked down the ever-growing line of his employees. “These introductions can wait for tomorrow, Forster. It has been a long journey. Her ladyship requires rest.”
Aurora fought back a scowl at his declaration. He’d not said a word to her in days, nor had he listened to a word from her. How would he know what she needed and what she didn’t need? Insufferable despot. But it would not do to call him to task for such a thing in front of his servants—particularly not when they’d only learned of her existence moments before.
“Of course, my lord,” the butler said. He glanced over his shoulder as three maids scurried into the grand foyer, issuing hasty curtsies as they joined the line of servants. “It appears her ladyship’s chamber is prepared. Mrs. Marshall, would you show Lady Quinton to her suite of rooms?”
A squat, round woman with greyed hair and a mess of keys tied to her waist curtsied. She clearly held the post of housekeeper. “If you’ll just follow me, my lady,” she said before bustling off toward an imposing hall, easily three times as tall as her husband if not more so. “I’ll be glad to give you a tour of the abbey tomorrow if you should like. And any time you’re ready, we can go over the household accounts and such. But I daresay you’d prefer a bath before you even think of anything like that.”
“Indeed, a bath would be just the thing.” Aurora left Quin’s side, gently but insistently tugging her arm free from his hand, to follow Mrs. Marshall through a labyrinth of hallways and up an opulent staircase, listening to the older woman natter on like a magpie until finally they reached an elaborately furnished stateroom.
Ornate plastered designs covered the ceilings, standing at odds with the rest of the architecture. From all indications, the abbey had been built centuries before. A mammoth, curtained, four-poster bed stood at one end of the room, surrounded by Queen Anne trunks, chests, armchairs and divans, all made of rich walnut and covered with burgundy cushions. The walls bore gold satin-silk linings.
The chamber was terribly elegant, even though the furnishings looked to have remained in their current position for decades, at the very least. On the opposite end of the room, a series of maids were filling the tub with steaming water. Rose stood beside it, ready to assist Aurora with her bath.
“Well, my lady,” Mrs. Marshall said after Aurora took a moment to inspect her new surroundings, “I hope this is to your liking, at least for the time being. Nothing’s been changed in the mistress’s chambers since Lady Rotheby, may she rest in peace, was still Lady Quinton. Your husband’s mother never saw fit to make changes. I’ll leave you to it with your maid. Let me know if you need anything else. Otherwise, I’ll expect to see you tomorrow.”
Aurora stepped closer to the bath, pulling her bonnet free and tugging at her gloves. “Yes, of course.” The housekeeper turned to leave, but stopped when Aurora called out, “Oh, Mrs. Marshall? Would it be possible to have a tray sent up this evening?” A meal after her bath was most definitely in order. She felt ravenous after the journey and had no intention of gracing her husband with her presence at the supper table—wherever that may be.
The older woman winked. “I’ve already ordered it, ma’am.”
~ * ~
Quin didn’t go to Aurora that night. Nor did he insist she join him in his chamber. He’d have to bed her again, eventually. An heir couldn’t very well be produced if he never touched his wife. Instead, he found a supply of brandy hidden behind a desk in the refectory—a rather dismal supply, actually—and proceeded to drink himself into oblivion. He’d have to have Forster replenish the stash.
In order to touch Aurora, he would likely have to speak to her. And if he spoke to her, he might say too much.
Like I forgive you. Or possibly I’m sorry. Perhaps I’m a blundering oaf and could never deserve you in a thousand lifetimes. Or worse yet I love you.
He did. He loved her, despite his intentions to avoid just such a scenario, despite her dramatics, despite the fact that he hardly knew her. He loved Aurora, primarily for all the things that threatened to rob him of his sanity: her willful streak; the pluck she showed in refusing to cower from him; her wild imagination; the way she wore her emotions all over her face, yet still tried to hide them from him.
But loving her could serve neither of them.
It left him thinking of her all the time. It left him breathless for wanting to be with her, to touch her, to smell the rosewater scent of her hair as it fell like silk through his fingers. It left him hard and frustrated.
It left him vulnerable. Worried. Worried that he would lose her.
Like he’d lost Mercy. Like he’d lost his father. Like he certainly would have lost his mother, too, if he hadn’t built a fortress larger than the abbey around his heart and lost himself instead.
Being a heartless rakehell with a penchant for every vice he could imagine had kept him safe all these years.
Safe and alone.
Now he was neither.
~ * ~
Morning took forever to arrive. Quin knew. He laid awake in his bed the entire night, waiting for the sun to break over the horizon outside his window. Thinking about Aurora. Thinking about Rotheby’s demands.
No amount of brandy could have eased his mind.
All that time spent alone with his thoughts helped him to realize one thing. There was, admittedly, more to what his grandfather wanted of him than just an heir. He neede
d to start to take care of what he’d been given. Forster’s thinly veiled criticism upon their arrival last night only further emphasized the point.
Three years. More than three years, actually. Quin hadn’t stepped foot on the property, sent a missive, or even glanced over his steward’s reports in all that time. He’d left Forster to take care of the household staff and Carruthers to handle the tenants and workers, and hadn’t given any of it another thought as long as he had funds coming his way.
The funds had never been lacking, so why worry? Particularly when he could better spend his time with a buxom French madame and her girls, or placing wagers on the bullfights in Spain, or engaged in any number of other, more intriguing pursuits somewhere along the coasts of the Ottoman Empire.
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