In that time, he had merely glanced over any correspondence from Carruthers. As long as there was nothing amiss that would affect his ability to engage in his rather more interesting version of the Grand Tour, he had tossed the letters aside and ignored them.
But now? Now he was here. Now, he had a wife. And hopefully, he’d soon have a baby on the way.
Perhaps Rotheby was right. Perhaps it was time he took more interest in his own affairs. And if Quin had any business expecting Aurora to come to heel and learn her proper position in his life, then he had a responsibility to do the same.
If he couldn’t sleep, there was no sense in staying abed trying. Tossing the counterpane aside, Quin rose and rang for his valet. Mrs. Marshall would be meeting with Aurora so they could work out the household accounts. No need for him to participate in all of that. But he could meet with Carruthers and learn in more detail what was going on with his property.
And maybe that night he’d attempt to speak with Aurora.
~ * ~
“This room was initially the chapel, my lady,” said Mrs. Marshall. Her voice was pleasant to Aurora’s ears—cheerful and bright, full of energy. “But when the fourth Earl of Rotheby acquired it in the Seventeenth Century, he redid the room and turned it into a portrait gallery.”
Light shone into the room through massive Palladian windows, illuminating the long wall of paintings. Some stood almost as tall as the room itself, reaching up toward the vaulted ceilings like gods.
Aurora perused the portraits one at a time. They worked almost as a family tree, tracing centuries of Quin’s family through the generations. The men all seemed to have some bits and pieces of him—the strong, square jaw here, or perhaps his golden hair. A couple of them even had his dimples.
Very few of the portraits were of women. Down near the end of the line, however, a few began to be sprinkled in. Aurora stopped before an oil of a rather handsome women with laughing blue eyes—Quin’s eyes—and rich chestnut hair.
Mrs. Marshall gazed at the woman in the painting with a wistful expression. “That was the late Lady Rotheby, back around the time Lord Quinton’s father was born. I was not employed by the earl at that point, but sometime later. The countess was always kind and loving.”
Aurora wondered what else Quin might have inherited from his grandmother aside from the shade of his eyes.
After a moment, she moved on down the line to a man who looked to be her husband, only with shorter hair. He wore all black, much as Quin was prone to do, but there was something hollow in his expression.
“And this was the late Lord Quinton, ma’am.”
“Is there a reason the men of this family wear black so frequently?” Aurora asked. It didn’t matter really. She was just curious, as usual.
“His lordship has not explained his difficulties, ma’am? Lord Quinton and his father before him, they both have difficulty with distinguishing colors. The doctors have never been able to explain it, but they will look upon something red and think it green, or see something orange and believe it to be yellow. But I was not the one to tell you, my lady. Do not place the blame upon my shoulders.”
Well, apparently Quin was not perpetually in mourning, at least.
Mrs. Marshall clucked her tongue and shook her head. “They are rather alike in many ways. Such a shame…” Her voice trailed off.
“What is such a shame?” Aurora asked.
“His lordship has not told you that, either?” the older woman asked, incredulity coloring her tone.
Told her what? The man had hardly told her anything. Anything of import, at least. He seemed inclined to perpetually keep her in the dark, much like his wardrobe. Aurora shook her head.
Mrs. Marshall put her hand against her back and gently but forcefully coaxed Aurora toward the next painting. “Well, then, it is hardly my place to speak of such matters. You’ll see here the former Lady Quinton, now Lady Coulter.”
Quin’s mother smiled cheerfully in the painting, but the mirth did not quite reach her eyes. There was something terribly wrong in this family—something very sad. Perhaps this something could explain Quin’s moodiness, the cause of his silence.
Two more portraits hung at the end of the gallery: a young boy, perhaps ten years old, seemingly bubbling over with youthful exuberance, and a girl with Quin’s same clear, blue eyes and dimples.
“This, my lady, was your husband many years ago. He was quite the rambunctious cherub, always very sweet.”
“And the girl?” Aurora asked.
“That is Miss Mercy, of course. Lord Quinton’s older sister.” Mrs. Marshall spoke abruptly, rushing through the words. “Shall we move on to the salon? I’m sure you’ll love the tapestries.” The older woman bustled out of the room, the keys at her waist jingling as she went.
Older sister? Aurora stood rooted to her spot. He’d never mentioned a sister before. For that matter, he’d never mentioned any of his family other than Lord Rotheby. She’d have to convince him to introduce her to his sister. His mother, too, for that matter. However, convincing him to introduce her to his family would be made immensely easier if they were speaking to each other. Maybe she could try over supper. If he returned by then, at least. By the time she rose from bed this morning, he’d quit the house. Forster had told her that Quin had gone off to meet with his steward and inspect the property.
The housekeeper disappeared through the long hallways that snaked throughout the abbey. Aurora hurried to catch up to her. “Mrs. Marshall, will his lordship be back for supper, do you suppose?” The woman certainly moved briskly for as short and squat as she was. Aurora was huffing for breath by the time she caught up to her at the entry to the salon.
“I’m certain I do not know, ma’am,” the older woman said. “The last time he left was to visit with his intended. He was gone for more than three years without so much as a by-your-leave, only returning yesterday.”
Chapter Seventeen
29 April, 1811
So many secrets. The abbey is awash with them. Quin is filled with them. Alas, I also have my fair share. I no longer like secrets, but wish instead for communication, understanding, honesty. It is not enough to find such things amongst the household staff here. After all, why ought I to trust them? They work for my husband. Perhaps they are telling me what he would want me to hear. But then again, if that were the case, why would Mrs. Marshall have told me of the lovely Miss Mercy? She still left me with more questions than she provided answers.
~From the journal of Lady Quinton
The day with Carruthers had been rather more pleasant than Quin had ever expected. Who knew handling one’s affairs could be so satisfying? Granted, he’d nearly scared the man out of his wits when he arrived at the door to his cottage on a hill along the outskirts of the abbey property.
“Good God,” Carruthers had almost shouted, pulling a coat on at the same time as he attempted to fasten the tiny buttons at his collar. “My lord, I am terribly sorry to be in such a state of dishabille. I did not know you had returned.”
Neither had anyone else. The tenants and workers they visited that day all gaped at him. Their surprise at his presence proved to be more disarming than Quin could ever have prepared himself for. Still, the day turned out to be rather insightful. His tenants were happy with the way Carruthers had handled their affairs over the years. His workers felt their pay was fair for the work they performed. Generally, everything seemed to run more smoothly than he could have hoped.
Afternoon was fast giving way to evening as he and his steward rode back toward the cottage on the hill. He ought to return to the main house. It would be the responsible thing to do.
But Quin had finished all the brandy he could find at the abbey the night before, and doubted Forster could have replaced it yet. “Carruthers, what do you say we pay a visit to the Hog’s Head and have a meal?” His steward raised his eyebrows in an unasked question. “I’ll buy you some drinks and we can talk more about the abbey.” And he could avo
id rushing home to Aurora, where he might slip up and say something he preferred to keep to himself. All things considered, a much safer plan.
“Of course, sir.”
They changed direction and in no time descended upon the pub at the heart of life in Wetherby. Leaving their mounts with a groom, they entered the dark, lively establishment and found a table near the window.
A barmaid sidled up alongside him almost before he was fully seated, her creamy bosom jiggling and virtually spilling over the top of her too-tight dress. He cringed at the sight—a shocking realization—and hastily looked away. “What will you have tonight, gents?” she crooned in his ear, doing her best to tempt his eyes back to her.
Damnation! What the devil was wrong with him that he couldn’t enjoy such a lovely view when it was offered? Quin shook the odd sensation off. “Two shepherd’s pies. I’ll have a brandy and for my companion…?”
“Whiskey for me,” Carruthers said.
The flaxen-haired barmaid nodded and left, winking over her shoulder at him as she sashayed away.
“So,” Quin began, “there’ve been no problems during my time away? Nothing amiss? No problems with the tenants or workers?”
“No, my lord. I’ve run everything just as I always have. Haven’t made any changes since Sir Augustus hired me and we sorted out the mess your father left behind.”
Sir Augustus? Quin’s step-father had employed the man? He nodded, encouraging the steward to go on.
“A few of our workers have left over the years and others have come along. But generally they’ve all been working here as long as I have. Many of them even longer than that.” The steward smiled. “It’s really quite like a family, we’ve all been together for so long.”
A family? Ha. Quinton Abbey was no place for a family, which only made Quin’s proposition to Rotheby even more ridiculous. Sure, they were far from the prying eyes of the ton. That very privacy only allowed for nasty family secrets to fester like open wounds until they ate the flesh of their victims.
The barmaid returned with their food and drinks. “Anything else I can get you?” she asked with a come-hither smile.
Quin realized with a start that he had no intention of doing anything that could possibly be construed as going-thither. He shook his head. “Just come back in a bit with more whiskey and brandy.”
She nodded and backed away.
He downed half his brandy in one swallow. “So the staff has all been here, for what? Twenty years? Perhaps more?”
“Some for over forty years,” Carruthers said. “The head groom was here as a stable boy when Lord Rotheby was still Lord Quinton. You might recall that Mrs. Marshall was then your nurse.”
Yes. Quin remembered. She’d been the one to find him in the woods where he lay by the river after Mercy died. The one to hold him as he sobbed like the baby he would never be again. The one to pick up his bruised body from the floor after the first beating, the hot, sticky blood from his cheek staining her grey dress.
He also remembered he had a different nurse after that day. Mrs. Marshall had left him, too. They all left him.
Or so he thought.
~ * ~
Aurora dined alone. She waited until she was almost faint with hunger before she gave in and made her way into the great hall alone. Cook had graciously held the supper, keeping it warm, while Aurora waited more than two hours for Quin.
Even after she ate, she waited for him. First in the salon, then in the refectory where she pored through the massive library of books, and finally in the sitting room separating their chambers.
She’d already been through her nightly ablutions, changed into her nightrail, and was half asleep on a divan when she heard the creak of the door.
“You’re home,” she said.
Quin merely grunted. His bleary eyes bore red streaks and the stench of brandy assailed her from across the room.
Lovely. Just lovely. “Can we talk?” Though, this might not be the best time for a conversation. Blast. Still, she stood and moved closer to him.
But he didn’t walk away and close the door. He just stood there. Staring at her. Or more staring through her nightrail, at least. Aurora fought the urge to wrap her arms across her chest and cross her legs. The thin material was hardly diaphanous, but it would be hard to decipher that from the heat of his gaze.
She might as well just start. “Mrs. Marshall took me on a lovely tour of the abbey today. There are so many books in the refectory I doubt I’ll ever finish reading them all.”
Quin took a step toward her, closing the distance between them somewhat. Aurora shivered. His eyes moved over her, possessing every inch of her body with his eyes.
“And the tapestries in the salon are exquisite. I doubt I’ve ever seen their equal.”
Another step. She could almost feel him. Heat poured from him in waves, cascading over the ebbs and peaks of her body.
“Tomorrow, she’s promised to show me the gardens and the park. She says the wisteria is particularly lovely this time of year.”
One more step. His hand reached across and took hers, seemingly enveloping her in his warmth. Aurora nearly wept from the simple touch. For days, they’d been so close, but yet so far. She’d sworn to herself that she wouldn’t capitulate. That she’d be strong and not allow him to seduce her with his touch. That he’d have to make amends before she capitulated to him.
Oh, dear good Lord. She couldn’t very well surrender now.
“I particularly enjoyed the gallery. The portraits showed such a strong family resemblance.” His hand stiffened over hers, but she pressed on. “I was particularly curious about your sister and your mother.”
~ * ~
“You’ve never spoken of them,” she said.
How dare she? How dare she go snooping around the abbey, prying into his past, poking at open wounds?
“I thought I told you to stay out of my concerns,” he said. He had to walk away. He had to get control over himself again. Now.
But Aurora backed away first, pulling her hand free and holding it to her chest. Her mouth was in a perfect O and her eyes nearly matched it. “Your concerns? But they are your family. I thought”
“Stop bloody well thinking. Stop prying. Stop going behind my back to find your answers.”
Tears formed in her eyes again. Good. He wanted her to cry.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’d only hoped I could meet them some day. My own mother passed away many years ago, and I’ve never had a sister before.”
Ha. What a sight that would be. “That’s not possible,” he barked. “Mercy is dead.” She didn’t need to know about Nia, either.
Then tears poured down her cheeks like a deluge. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know. Mind your own concerns.”
Aurora turned to her chamber to leave, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her around to face him again.
“Where are you going?”
Her eyes refused to meet his. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
Bloody hell. Now that they’d been talking, he couldn’t just let her go off to bed. He needed something. Christ, he needed her.
Badly.
But she couldn’t know. He couldn’t tell her. That would make it all too real, too permanent. Quin pressed his fingers beneath her chin, forcing it up until she looked into his eyes. “Have you forgotten? We have an heir to conceive.”
Aurora’s eyes narrowed to darkened slits. Even as he brought his lips down to crush against hers, she pushed with all her might against his chest. He’d be damned if he wouldn’t have her in his bed that night. Beneath him. Above him. Around him.
Quin bit her lip, harder than he’d intended, but it had the desired effect. She gasped. He entered her mouth with his tongue, stroking and suckling against hers. Still, she shoved against him. Quin advanced upon her, using his weight to drive her backward until she bumped into the wall.
With one hand still keeping
hers enslaved, he pressed a knee between her thighs, driving it against her sex. She let out a little moan against his mouth. He could feel her wetness through his trousers—could smell the musky aroma of her arousal mixed with rosewater and brandy and heat.
Another pass with his knee, and Aurora gave up her fight.
Quin dropped her hands and used his to rip the front of her nightrail open, delighted at her shocked gasp. God, her breasts were perfect. Smooth and full, with nipples as hard as diamonds practically begging him to touch them.
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