He looked down at the paper in his hand. When he squinted to make out the words, Burton brought over a candlestick.
Quin’s heart nearly stopped.
Gentle readers, let it be known that we are sufficiently Scandalized by the Writings of the new Lady Q to be convinced never to remain within the presence of either herself or her husband. The very Fact that her ladyship feels it prudent to Write at all, we find highly disturbing and enough to warrant the Cut Direct. However, the Acts recorded therein, if not Illegal, are at the very least Immoral and Improper and we cannot, in all good conscience, refrain from warning our readership of their lurid existence.
To think that a gently-bred lady might partake in such Acts is both shocking and appalling, but also to Write about them in such vivid and licentious detail, and to share the Writings with her unwitting guests? Let us suffice it to say these Writings cannot be shared, lest we run the risk of permanent Ruin to the Innocence and Moral Righteousness of our faithful Readership.
Chaperones, steer your charges away from Lord and Lady Q’s paths. Hostesses, permanently remove their names from your guest lists. Give Lord and Lady Q the Cut Direct, and do not look back. Your Virtue will thank you for it.
For shame, Lady Q. For shame.
Quin shook now, too, but where Aurora’s shaking was fear, his was nothing but rage. Had she given her journal to someone? He thought he’d made it abundantly clear that no one was to know of its existence but the two of them, and now it was being spread to the gossip sheets for the entire ton to see.
But he would have to deal with Aurora later. Rotheby required his immediate attention. “My lord, I do not know what to say”
“Lucky for us, I do. You are a disgrace to me, Quinton, and your wife is no more than a common trollop. How can I expect you to keep her in line when you can’t keep yourself in line?” Rotheby paused for a beat, almost as though he expected an answer. “I can’t!” he said when Quin neglected to answer. “You leave me no choice. Giving you a year to get your life in order was clearly misguided, wishful thinking on my part.”
“No, my lord, it was not. Give me more time”
Rotheby scoffed. “More time to what? How do you intend to further trample my name through the mud? No, you’ve given me ample proof that you will never change, that you will always be the wastrel that your father was. I refuse to allow any more of my fortune to support your habits.”
Good God. He really meant to do it.
Rotheby was going to cut him off.
“My lord, must I beg you to give me another chance to prove myself to you? I’ll do anything you ask. But remember, I have a wife now—even if she is foolish and naïve, I’m still responsible for her wellbeing.”
“Perhaps you should have kept a closer eye on her activities instead of spending your days being pummeled in your boxing club. But that is none of my concern. Use her dowry. Take a profession. I care not what you do, but you’ll not do it with my assistance.”
He couldn’t take Aurora’s money, even if she was responsible for getting them into this mess. There had to be another answer.
Rotheby turned to leave, giving Aurora a look of disdain on his way out the door.
“Six months,” Quin begged. “Give me six months, instead of a year. I’ll prove to you that I can be the gentleman you expect me to be. I’ll do anything it takes.”
His grandfather did not turn to face him, but he at least stopped.
He’d better keep talking while he could. “We’ll go to Quinton Abbey, away from the gossips. I’ll do everything you want me to do, and we’ll do it there where no one will report my mistakes along the way to the papers.”
“An heir?” Rotheby asked, his voice gruff.
“We’re working on it,” Quin replied, ignoring the ferocious blush that heated Aurora’s cheeks.
“And you’ll run the abbey like it deserves to be run?”
Christ, the man wanted a lot. “I’ll learn all about crops and accounts and tenants. I’ll see to it.”
They stood there in silence for many minutes. Finally, Rotheby nodded. “Six months. I’ll come by any time I wish to satisfy myself that you’re holding up your end of the bargain. You won’t know when I’m coming, so you can’t hide the evidence of your continued failures.”
Then Rotheby was gone, with a massive thunderclap sounding as he left.
~ * ~
“I can explain,” Aurora said through her tears. Her voice was hardly loud enough for her to hear it herself.
“Can you, now?” he asked. The soft, almost inaudible quality of Quin’s tone warred with the furious nature of his visage. “Isn’t that lovely.” He stalked away from her to his dressing room and closed the door.
Oh, dear good Lord. She knew nothing good could come of Lord Griffin’s visit the day before, but never in her life did she imagine the man would go to such lengths. And to claim he wanted to aid her, all the while planning to ruin her and Quin both.
She had to talk to her husband. He must understand.
But understand what? Aurora was a fool—a gauche, inane, blundering fool.
She tiptoed to the door and knocked softly. “Quin? Please, open the door.” Nothing. Placing her ear against the door, she heard some muffled thumps and bumps, but not him. Not his voice. “Please?”
Without warning, the door opened and she would have fallen through the newly emptied space if he hadn’t barreled through it heading the other way. Fully dressed. “We’ll leave for Quinton Abbey after luncheon,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Have your maid pack your belongings. I’ll inform Burton and see to the remainder of the arrangements.” He didn’t look at her—never spared her even a passing glance as he brushed past her and left their sitting room. “Be ready to leave when I return.”
“Quin…?” Aurora wanted to stop him. She wanted to talk to him, to explain what had happened. To apologize.
But he was down the stairs and issuing terse commands to the servants, and then the door closed behind him and he was gone.
~ * ~
Foxed. He needed to be good and foxed. That had always helped before, and doubtless, today would be no exception to the rule. After leaving Burton instructions for packing the household and arranging for carriages and horses for the journey, and a brief visit with his solicitor to arrange the details of turning Number Fourteen back over to its owner, Quin headed for White’s and proceeded to drink himself to oblivion.
If only the brandy could erase his foolhardy foray into marriage.
But no, he was the imbecile who’d thought it wise to force the vixen’s hand and rush her into marriage, when he knew nothing of her but that scandal seemingly awaited her at every turn. How very true that assessment had turned out to be. He couldn’t go back and start over. Love her or loathe her, Aurora was his wife, irrevocably and incontrovertibly. Permanently.
And he only had six months to straighten himself out and bring her to heel. Good God. He needed another drink just thinking about it. But he’d run out of time. The trip to Wetherby was a solid two and a half days, and the sooner he could get her there, and to Quinton Abbey, the better. Who knew what trouble she’d managed to stir up in the few hours since he left her.
He sure as hell didn’t look forward to finding out.
In any case, he had to go back. He had to leave with her. So he left White’s and headed that way.
Two carriages waited in front of Number Fourteen, one laden with trunks and the like, with enough room inside for a few servants. The other would carry Quin and Aurora—Lord help him. The journey might very well kill him.
He walked up the steps and passed his hat to Burton. “Is Lady Quinton ready?” She’d damned well better be.
The butler nodded. “She’s waiting for you in the parlor, my lord.”
Quin wasted no time. He barreled through the French doors. “Shall we leave?” he asked, not really expecting an answer. At least nothing more than her standing and coming with him.
But
she sat there with her swollen eyes—with tears still actively falling, no less—and stared at him.
“What now?” he said on an exaggerated and exasperated sigh, dragging a hand through his hair.
Aurora’s lower lip trembled. “I’m so sorry, Quin. I never meant for any of this to happen.”
She thought being contrite was supposed to make everything better? How would her contrition change anything? “It’s a bit too late for remorse. Now let’s go.” Quin held out a hand for her to take, but she remained in the chintz armchair by the window.
“Please,” she said on a sob, “let me apologize. Please let me explain.”
“Explain?” Quin roared, ignoring her wide-eyed reaction. He had very little patience when he was sober. He had none at all when he was into his cups. “I hardly think you could possibly come up with an explanation for your behavior that would make the offense forgivable. I don’t want to hear your explanations. Or your apologies.”
Her tears poured freely down her face, leaving dark, wet stains on the bodice of her traveling gown where they fell. Such an actress. Aurora truly went for the highest dramatic effect, didn’t she? “You’re right, of course. It is unforgivable. But at least let me tell you”
Quin’s head snapped around. “Tell me what? Unless you intend to tell me the name of the blackguard you handed your journal over to, so I can seek him out and rip the sorry bastard limb from limb, there is nothing I want to hear from you. But then again, why should I believe you if you did tell me his name? You’re likely only trying to save your own arse from my retribution.”
She gasped in what could only be mock horror. “I would never do such a thing! You clearly know nothing at all about me.”
“Oh, and I suppose that is my fault, is it?”
“Yes, actually,” Aurora said. “I’m not the one running off every day and having my brains bashed in, instead of spending time with you. I’m not the one who forced the other into a marriage within a few moments of meeting. I’m not the one who”
“No,” Quin sneered, “you’re just the one who insists on sharing every sordid, intimate detail of our lives with anyone you come across.”
She came across the room and stood toe-to-toe with him. “Is that so? Well, at least I admit to it after the fact. At least I do eventually tell you the truth. Unlike you, with the way you continually tell me there’s nothing to worry about. Liar. You’re a liar and a cad. Lord Rotheby made the situation rather clear this morning, didn’t he? Too bad for you he didn’t take you off into private somewhere.”
“I told you it was none of your concern. Which it isn’t.”
“Is it not? What if I’m barren, Quin? What if I can’t have a child? What then?” Her clear eyes flashed like a flame roaring to life. She pushed a hand against his chest—not enough to force him backward, just enough to goad him into a reaction. “I’ll be destitute alongside you, that’s what!”
“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 c
ould 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.
Twice a Rake (Lord Rotheby's Influence, Book 1) Page 18
