“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, while 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.
She had the audacity to look affronted. “I thought to have an ice.” Aurora tried to snatch the reins back from his grasp, but he would be damned if he let them go. She huffed and swatted his hands in response. “What the devil do you think you’re doing, my lord?”
Not here. He had hashed out enough of what should have been their private matters in public, with the gossips of the ton hanging on their every word or touch. Quin would rather rot in Newgate than give them anything else to print in their bloody society papers.
He turned his mare and made for Curzon Street, pulling Aurora’s horse along behind him. She lost her balance at the sudden change in direction, particularly since she already had her body in a convoluted mess. She let out a squeal of panic.
Quin turned to see what the problem was this time. She’d fallen forward over the saddle horn and was holding onto it for dear life, with her sweet little derrière hanging precariously off the side.
Blast. They wouldn’t make it to the end of the street, let alone to Jonas’s bachelor lodgings, with her dangling about like that. Drawing the horses to a stop, he plucked her from her horse and settled her sidelong across his lap.
“Oh!” Aurora said. “How rude.” She wiggled her bottom and squirmed about.
“Be still,” Quin ordered. She’d wriggle herself off his lap and land face first on the ground, if she didn’t quit. “And we’ll discuss rudeness in private.”
“Why, I never” The blasted minx continued to struggle until she would have pitched forward and fallen, if not for his arm about her waist keeping her still.
Patience. He needed to be patient. Quin took a deep breath, then pulled her tighter against his chest. “Be still,” he growled.
Thankfully, they didn’t have far to travel. Within minutes, they arrived at Number Five. Quin dismounted, pulling his bride along with him. She fidgeted for freedom, but the silly chit would likely run off again, or try to climb onto a damned horse, or perhaps just plop down on the steps of the flat and scream for help. None of those scenarios suited his mood.
Instead, he flipped Aurora over his shoulder—the opposite shoulder from the previous ramming, since that one felt like a horse had kicked it repeatedly—and held her legs about the knees.
“Really, this is the most absurd”
“We will discuss absurdity in private as well, Miss Hyatt. Hold your tongue.”
Quin let himself into Jonas’s lodgings, tossing Aurora on a divan before turning to close the door behind him—only to be confronted by Jonas’s manservant.
“Lord Quinton,” the manservant said, attempting to push his way into the small sitting room, “I cannot allow this. It is highly irregular. You cannot bring a young lady in here”
Fiend seize it, enough with the damned disruptions. “Leave us,” he said. His voice held enough menace to scare most men.
This man proved predictable. “Yes, my lord.” He seemed to shrink before Quin’s eyes, then backed away.
Quin closed the door and tried to calm his racing pulse before initiating discussion with his bride. When he finally felt capable of controlling himself and turned to face her, his heart felt like it had lurched off a cliff without checking for water first.
Her clear eyes were so wide, he thought they’d burst free from her face. One hand rested over her bosom, trembling visibly.
Good God. She was terrified.
Quin itched to strike something. What had he done to cause such fear in her? He could never be confused as a saint, but neither was he a monster.
Move. He needed to move or he would throw something, or punch a hole in the wall, or rip his arm from the shoulder that was so bloody sore. Instead, he paced.
His bride’s huge eyes never left him.
The act of pacing only made her appear more nervous. If he ever intended to calm her, he had to sit—even if it meant he’d never find a way to slow the frenetic pulse pounding through his veins. He took a step toward the empty seat beside Aurora.
And nearly lost his thin grasp on sanity when she flinched and shielded her face with her delicate hands. “No!” she cried out, eyes closed, falling back against the divan.
Devil take it, she thought he would hit her.
Quin couldn’t remember the last time he was so angry. Perhaps when his father was still alive—still delivering beatings to both Quin and his mother, still drinking himself into a muddle-headed stupor.
With every fiber of patience he could manage, he forced his arms to hang at his sides. It took every ounce of self-control he could muster to refrain from grabbing hold of the minx and shaking some sense into her.
Finally, she opened her eyes to peek through the dark fringe of her lashes, then slowly, painstakingly, lowered her arms to her lap.
Quin counted to ten. Better make it twenty. “I do not strike women, Aurora. It would behoove you to remember that in future.”
“But you were so angry, I thought”
“Do not make me repeat myself.” His voice was sharper, held more bite, than he intended, though he managed to keep it at just slightly above a whisper. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared her down. “Now I’d like you to tell me why you were so indiscreet as to run away from our wedding, when remaining unmarried will leave you ruined in the eyes of society? Why you chose to leave me standing at the altar, waiting for you, while you rode through all of Mayfair to stop for an ice at Gunter’s, with your legs showing all the way up to your knees, of all things. Why you felt it prudent to toss aside the one opportunity you had at salvaging your reputation.”
Her expression melted from fearful to haughty over the course of his demands. Aurora’s jaw fell slack, only to be snapped closed a moment later.
“I’m waiting,” Quin bit off, and took another menacing step toward her.
Aurora scowled up at him. “Lud! Perhaps you would care to inform me why you felt the need to stop kissing me so suddenly yesterday.”
“That,” he said, “is hardly relevant to the discussion at hand.”
“On the contrary, my lord,” she said with no small amount of heat, her light, clear eyes flashing at him, “it is entirely relevant, since the answer to that question plays into my answers to your questions.”
“Can you not answer a simple question?” Quin barked at her.
“I’ll answer a simple question when you ask a simple question.”
He tossed his hands in the air. “What is so bloody difficult about telling me why you don’t want to marry me all of a sudden?”
“What is so bloody wrong with me that you don’t enjoy kissing me?” she shot back.
Don’t enjoy kissing her? If he hadn’t had to spend nearly every blasted waking minute since he met her making arrangements to marry her on a moment’s notice, he likely would have spent them all in just that pursuit—if not finding a way to bed her before the wedding. The minx consumed him.
Good God, she was enticing when she was mad. Quin might have to anger her more often, because she looked like a Siren rising up out of the sea. He’d show her just how much he wanted to kiss her.
Quin closed the meager gap between them in a flash, gripping her upper arms and pulling her up before him. His mouth came down upon hers, hard and hot and hungry.
He kissed her so thoroughly it was as though he was branding her, marking her as his own. Any thought of gentleness or tenderness for her fled like the tide rushing back out to sea.
A low half-sigh, half-moan came from deep in her throat.
He plundered her mouth, stroking and plunging and searing with his tongue, until she trembled beneath him and her hands reached out to his middle for support. Quin didn’t stop until he was drunk and lightheaded on her sweetness.
When he finally came up, her eyes were lidded and her lips were swollen and pink. His already hard erection throbbed at the sight. Slipping his arms around Aurora’s back, he pulled her close—close enough she could feel how very badly he needed her.
She jumped at the contact.
“This,” he drawled, “should be proof enough of just how much I want to kiss you, and so very much more.”
Her eyes widened and she pressed her body more fully into him. “What is that? I want you to teach”
Quin put a hand over her mouth to stop her. Damnation, she was so innocent. He’d always avoided innocents. How the devil was he supposed to accomplish anything, with her curiosity threatening to rob him of reason? He wanted desperately to toss her over his shoulder again, carry her above stairs, and teach her everything she wanted to know (and much, much more) right then and there.
With the need filling her eyes at the moment, he doubted she’d have any objections to just such an arrangement.
But they had to get back to the damned church and get married first. So instead, he settled her back on the divan and placed some distance between them—as protection against following through with just such a plan.
“There will be plenty of time for instruction later,” he said. “After we marry.” If he could survive that long.
A wounded expression flooded her eyes. Could she not understand that he was trying to protect her? To do things the right way? Her innocence would be the death of him.
“That will not happen,” she said. “I will not marry you. Which should have been plenty clear enough when I did not meet you before the altar. You bloody, insufferable brute. What makes you think you can drag me off my horse and order me about?”
“Your horse? The one you stole from the mews? Is that the horse you mean? Aurora, you’ll marry me and be happy about it, by God, if I have to toss you over my shoulder and carry you the whole way there.”
“Why should I marry you?” she demanded. “Why should I feel badly about changing my mind and jilting you, when you did the very same thing to Lady Phoebe?”
What bastard had told her about Phoebe? If it was Griffin, Quin would be more than happy to settle matters once and for all. But that would have to wait. It all had to wait.
“Matters between Lady Phoebe and I are hardly pertinent to this discussion,” he said.
Aurora’s eyes burned dark and stormy. “Hardly? Indeed, they are the root cause of our discussion, as you so politely termed it. Why have you not informed me of your previous engagement?” she asked haughtily.
“When in God’s name was I supposed to have done that? Since the moment I met you, I’ve been running around Town like a madman. Obtaining a special license. Settling affairs with your father. Arranging for a townhome for our use until we return to Quinton Abbey. Chasing after you, when you behave like a hoyden that’s broken free of her leading strings.”
“Perhaps,” she said, rising to stand toe-to-toe with him, “you realized I would never accept you if I knew the truth—if I knew how entirely dishonorable a scoundrel you are. So you hid it from me. Or tried to hide it from me. But you, sir, are no gentleman, and I’ll die a happy old maid before I’ll marry the despicable likes of you.”
She shoved him, but Quin refused to budge. He planted his feet wide apart, crossing his arms before his chest. Aurora scowled up at him. Then she stepped over and around his leg, fleeing for the door.
Fiend seize it. He didn’t want to resort to this. But what option did the minx leave him with? Quin grabbed her arm and pulled her back into the room.
The chill in her eyes froze him to
his spot on the floor. “Unhand me.”
“You will marry me, Aurora. Because if you do not, you’ll find your journal published in its entirety in tomorrow morning’s society papers.”
~ * ~
Aurora felt all of the blood drain from her face, trickling its way down to pool in her toes. “My journal? How do you know about my journal?”
Lord Quinton dragged a hand over his face and through his hair, sighing loudly as he did. “I found it in Hyde Park. And based on what I found inside, I knew you were a scandal waiting to happen. If I didn’t marry you—give you the protection of my name—I knew your ruin was waiting for you. So I sought you out.”
Oh, good God. He’d read it. He knew all the things she’d written of him—of them. “So you took care of ruining me, just in case my journal didn’t manage it on its own? Terribly heroic of you, my lord.”
“Sarcasm does you no favors, Aurora.”
“Illusions of grandeur do you none, either.”
“Agreed,” he said. “But the fact remains, I intend to ensure your reputation will fall into tatters if you do not return to the church today and marry me.”
What could he possibly gain from this situation? There had to be a reason—something more plausible than him hoping to rescue a lady he’d never met from ruin—for him to go to such lengths.
It just didn’t make sense.
Regardless of his reasons for wanting the match, Aurora really didn’t have any other option left open. Father could never learn what was in her journal.
She couldn’t believe she was doing this. After all these years, convincing herself she would never accept a marriage with a man she didn’t love, who didn’t love her…
~ * ~
Quin was a cur. A bloody despot. A lecher and a thoroughly unredeemable scoundrel.
None of this was new.
So why did he feel so damnably low?
Standing before the vicar with Aurora by his side, he couldn’t concentrate on the blasted ceremony. Within minutes, he’d be a married man, just as Rotheby had insisted upon—just as he’d hoped for years to be able to avoid.
Twice a Rake (Lord Rotheby's Influence, Book 1) Page 10
