A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle

by Catherine Gayle

  “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.

  ~From the journal of Miss Aurora Hyatt

  Everything felt numb.

  Aurora couldn’t afford to feel. If she allowed herself to feel, then she would collapse beneath the enormity of it all.

  Father had kept to himself in his study since Lord Quinton left that morning. When she did see him, the look upon his face was so pitiful she wanted to toss herself kicking and screaming upon her bed. She was the cause of his despair. He hadn’t appeared so despondent since the days when her mother was still alive.

  Rose continued to check on her, asking if Aurora needed anything. Aurora wanted to wail each time her maid asked such a question, because it only reminded her of how fast it was all to happen. How the wedding she had once hoped never to have at all would not take place at St. George’s and be attended by all and sundry, but instead would be held at some tiny parish church, with only those who absolutely must attend present. How, within such a short breadth of time, she’d made the one mistake that would mean leaving her father—the one person in the world she held the most dear. But if she did not follow through—if she decided she could not do it—then she would shame him most egregiously and he would never forgive her.

  Which she already feared he might not do.

  She wished her maid would simply leave her be to wallow in her misery alone. She’d already sent the girl off with the ivory satin for her wedding gown, so that a modiste could fashion it, and then sent her to a florist to order flowers for the church.

  The ladies of the ton were certainly upholding their end of the bargain. Even though it was Aurora’s traditional at-home, not a single soul had knocked upon the door of Hyatt House.

  Not, at least, until Rebecca arrived, well after the usual hour for paying calls. She swept into the front drawing room (where Aurora remained, despondent, as she had been since Lord Quinton’s departure) wearing a lovely jonquil, sprigged-muslin afternoon gown. Gracious, had she brought the sun in with her? How abominably churlish, to flounce in all bright and cheerful when Aurora desired to remain wretched.

  “You’ll never guess,” Rebecca said, removing her gloves to select a cake from the tea tray, “who Mama and I visited with this afternoon.”

  Did she really think Aurora wanted to gossip? She had plenty more important matters on her mind. But since Rebecca was her dearest and most especial friend, she mustered, “Oh? Who would that be?”

  “The Marchioness of Laughton and her daughter, Lady Phoebe Seabrook. You’ll remember Lady Phoebe from last night, of course.”

  She would? How was she supposed to remember anything from last night that was not in some way connected to her encounter with Lord Quinton? With that delightfully sinful kiss that changed the course of her life forever?

  When Aurora failed to respond, Rebecca went on. “You remember her. She is friends with Iris Leggett. You know—long face, grey eyes…”

  “Oh, yes,” Aurora said. “The girl with the horse face.”

  Rebecca gasped. “Aurora! That is a horrible thing to think, let alone to say.”

  “Well, it’s the truth, isn’t it?” Aurora asked with a frown. “Besides, no one is here but you. I restrained myself at the ball last night, did I not?”

  “Whether it is true or not does not give one leave to say such things.” Rebecca shook her head, sending the cascade of golden ringlets surrounding her face into a frenzy. “You really need to learn some tact. And humility.”

  “Shall you be the one to teach me these traits?” Aurora drawled.

  With a wave of her hand, Rebecca went on. “That is for another day, my dear. The reason I am here now is what I learned from Lady Phoebe over tea.”

  Aurora was becoming irritated. They should be speaking of the wedding that loomed, not some silly debutante who sported a horse’s face and a lamentable choice in friends. “And what, pray tell, was that? How she tames her mane?”

  “No.” Rebecca had the audacity to cluck her tongue. “It seems Lady Phoebe was once affianced to your Lord Quinton.”

  “Indeed,” Aurora said and leaned forward. Now Rebecca held her rapt attention. Lord Quinton had never mentioned a previous engagement. Granted, they hadn’t had much opportunity to mention anything to each other. But he had been engaged to her? What could he possibly have seen in the girl? Lady Phoebe had broken off the engagement? The woman was daft if she thought she could do better than Lord Quinton, particularly with her unfortunate face. “And did she say why she cried off?”

  “Lady Phoebe did not break off the engagement,” Rebecca said, leaning in. “She arrived at the parish church in all her wedding finery, only to find that Lord Quinton had gone missing.”

  “No!” The scoundrel. It was poor form for a lady to back out of such an agreement, but for a gentleman? And the idea that he didn’t even tell her ahead of time, but allowed her to suffer her shame before an entire wedding congregation—preposterous.

  “Yes,” Rebecca insisted.

  Scandalous.

  “She told me he has not been seen at his estate since that day over three years ago. No one had heard from him at all until he arrived in Town this Season.”

  Aurora’s earlier numbness left, to be replaced by a rather odd combination of intrigue and elation. “And I am to marry him tomorrow. Oh, dear good Lord.”

  Rebecca took her hand and patted the back of it. “Once word of this gets out, no one will think less of you for breaking the engagement. And it hasn’t even been officially announced. Perhaps no one need know you ever accepted him.”

  “Oh, pish. I’m not worried about what the ton thinks of me. It is far too late for such concerns.”

  “But your father—he will be scandalized,” Rebecca said. “Surely you must think of him. He will be devastated if you go through with this engagement.”

  “I’ve already broken Father’s heart,” Aurora said. “He is utterly disappointed that I behaved in such an unseemly manner. How could breaking off an engagement—and being ruined in the eyes of the ton—make anything better? You know how the gossips will spin this. I will be made out as fast. No, I don’t think that would be a wise course of action.”

  “You cannot seriously think of going through with this. Aurora, he is the worst sort of blackguard. What if he does the same thing to you?”

  “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 f
ather’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.