Twice a Rake (12 page)

When Father had called her in to his library moments before and informed her of Lord Quinton’s intentions, she told him that she would accept. She wanted to wash away the shame that swallowed her father’s face when he looked at her. She wanted to be certain he would not suffer due to her actions. At least not any more than he already was.

But now…

Now she was not so certain.

How could she go through a life married to a man whom she did not know? Oh, sure. She imagined herself in love with him. Aurora was in love with the
idea
of Lord Quinton. And he
did
excite her in a way she’d never imagined possible, when he pulled her into his embrace and kissed her until she thought a shipwreck was taking place inside her head.

But was that really love? She doubted it.

Aurora doubted even more that
he
could love
her
. He didn’t know her at all. He’d only pulled her onto the ballroom floor and waltzed with her and spun her head around and kissed her and turned her life into a complete shambles and left her.

That was not love.

So if she went through with this—if she accepted him—she’d be making her father happy, but making herself deplorable in the bargain.

She simply could not become her mother.

The door opened and Hobbes announced, “Baron Quinton to see you, Miss Hyatt.”

The man in question came through the door, bleary-eyed with an unshaved jaw, his hair falling about his shoulders in an untamed mess. Aurora’s breath caught in her throat. Even when he looked wretched, he could somehow send her heart to fluttering and her insides to thrumming. She
must
put a stop to that, and with a great good deal of haste, else she find herself in precisely the same scrape her mother had spent so many years in.

He bowed low to her and was slow to rise. “Good morning, Miss Hyatt. I trust you slept well?”

“Scarcely a wink, no thanks to you.” Blast. She really needed to think before she spoke. Not to mention before she acted. It would save her a world of problems.

In the infinitesimal span of half a second, if that, his entire expression changed. Yet instead of looking contrite or abashed, Lord Quinton’s eyes shot through her like flaming arrows, devouring their target in an inferno of lust. Oh, dear good Lord—
she
was the target!

His lips curled in a carnal grin surely designed to turn her knees to jelly. She said a silent prayer of thanks that she was already sitting.

“Then we have at least that in common.”

Her lips formed a soundless O. If she wasn’t careful, he could charm her into doing anything.

Lord Quinton gestured to the open seat on the sofa beside her. “May I sit?”

Aurora nodded. That seemed safer than opening her mouth and allowing more gibberish to spew forth.

He sat entirely too close to her. The side of his thigh brushed against hers, tickling her senses with heat. She could smell him again—no brandy this time, but ample heat and a hint of oranges mingled with his musky cologne.

She had to put some distance between them so she could think. But when she scooted a few inches away, he just turned his body so that he was facing her more fully, and then his knee was virtually on top of hers.

“I must apologize for my behavior last night,” he said. His voice was rich and rough, like velvet caught sliding over tree bark. “What I did to you is unpardonable.”

“Indeed,” she said, to fill the lengthy silence following his pronouncement.

Still, the second-hand’s ticking on her father’s Bornholm clock cut through the tension in the room, each stroke being outpaced two-to-one by her pulse. Or maybe three-to-one. She couldn’t tell anymore.

Lord Quinton cleared his throat. “I have come to make what amends I can. Your father has allowed me to speak with you, so that I might make my intentions known.”

With each word he spoke, the tiny dimples in his cheeks came and left. She hadn’t noticed them before now. Perhaps the extra growth of beard accentuated them. Aurora fought the very strong urge that engulfed her (one she feared might be a losing battle) to reach out a hand and touch one of his dimples.

Lord Quinton lowered himself to one knee and took her hand into both of his own. “Miss Hyatt, would you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife? I cannot undo what I have done, but I can give you the protection of my name. Please accept me.”

She’d hoped he wouldn’t ask her so suddenly. She’d hoped that she could have a few more moments to settle her thoughts and decide how to answer.

But that was not to be. Instead, he was kneeling before her and frowning up at her, waiting for an answer.

She could marry him. She could become his bride and they could both satisfy their lust (for what else
could
her fascination with him truly be?), and then he would become indifferent to her and she would grow unhappy with him, and they would end up as unhappy as her parents had been and live on opposite ends of their home.

Or she could decline. She could send him on his way and manage on her own. Rebecca, at least, would still speak to her. Aurora would not be left to fend for herself at every turn.

But she must also consider Father. He would be ostracized if she refused. How could she allow that to happen? After all that he’d done to be certain she had the best in life, she owed him at least this one small favor, like he’d asked. All right, it was a gargantuan favor. But still—he’d asked. And Father almost never asked her for anything.

The longer it took for Aurora to make up her mind, the more Lord Quinton’s dimples started to twitch. Before long, the twitching moved to encompass the eyebrow above his right eye.

“Miss Hyatt?” he eventually asked. “Will you marry me?”

She really ought to answer him. But goading him was proving to be far too diverting. “My lord, you are quite gallant to make such an offer. However, we hardly know anything about each other. Could you tell me a bit more, so that I can make a wise decision?”

“Such as?” Lord Quinton’s lips pressed together into a firm, white line.

“Such as where I could expect to live, for example.”

He let out a ragged sigh. “We shall live at Quinton Abbey in Yorkshire. Wetherby, to be exact. It is a vast estate, and you will have your hands full with the running of it, I’m certain. Until, of course, you become the Countess of Rotheby. At that point, we would have our choice of any number of grand estates.”

Rotheby. That sounded familiar. “I was unaware you would inherit an earldom, my lord.”

“As there are many things we are each equally unaware of concerning the other.” He rose from the floor, where she’d left him kneeling the entire time. After a moment spent stretching his legs, he spoke again. “We will learn, in time. But time is not in our favor at the moment, Miss Hyatt. I urge you—nay, I beseech you—please accept my offer. I daresay your reputation is in tatters at the moment. There is no time to waste. We must marry as hastily as possible.”

Lord Quinton took both of her hands, forcing her to look up at him. Oh, dear, it was a long way up to his eyes. She stood to see him better, but still her eyes only reached his chin.

“You must accept me, Miss Hyatt. There is no other option.”

The twitching of his dimples drove her to distraction. Pulling one hand free, she stroked the back of it along his cheek and stopped with her fingers trailing over the dimple. It stilled on contact.

“Fascinating,” she whispered, not even certain she’d said the words aloud at all.

Before she could stop herself—before she even gained awareness of what she was doing—she leaned up into him, stretching on her toes, and placed a chaste kiss where her fingers had just been. Stubble tickled at the softness of her lips. She drew back slightly and laughed, a gentle, nervous sound, then kissed him there again. More insistently, this time.

There was no tickling, no laughter this time. It felt scratchy and abrasive. Aurora reveled in the sensation—particularly in the liquid pull in her belly from the contact.

Lord Quinton’s grip tightened against her other hand and he growled low in his throat. His blue eyes looked stormy and turbulent and grey.

And then his lips were upon hers. The warmth of his tongue slid along the crease between her lips, questing for entrance. Her knees
did
turn to jelly then, so she slipped her free hand up and around his neck, gripping tightly into the mass of hair at his nape and praying she could hold on—because, dear Lord, she never wanted this moment to end.

Somehow, her other hand was free and joined the first to keep her upright. His lips left her mouth and trailed along her chin and jawbone and neck, scratching her tender flesh with his beard. His hands pulled against her bottom, pressing her belly up against something hard and hot and entirely too enticing for her unfettered curiosity.

Her breasts felt heavy, the tips taut. With each shuddering breath, they rose and fell against his chest. She wanted more. She wanted to be closer. His heat drew her in like a ship’s anchor. She could no longer think. All she could do was seek something that only he could give to her.

Aurora’s legs gave out. She fell into Lord Quinton, knocking him backward. They landed on the sofa, her body sprawled atop him. Still, his lips never left her neck.

“Good God, your skin is like heaven,” he said into her mouth as his lips returned. His hands slid over her legs, lower, pulling at her gown until he reached the hem and his fingers slipped beneath to roam across her bare thighs. She’d never experienced anything so scandalous before—and that was saying something, considering recent events.

Even with the chill of the library air breezing across her naked flesh, she felt like she could catch fire at any moment. Everywhere his fingers or lips trailed, a blaze burned in their wake.

Lord Quinton suddenly sat up and pushed her back. Somehow she ended up with her gown and shift cinched around her waist and her bare legs straddling his hips as he loomed above her. “Marry me, Miss Hyatt. You must.” He hooked an arm beneath her knee and pulled her leg up high in the air, licking the sensitive flesh at the back of her knee and sending shivers from her fingers to her toes.

Oh, dear good Lord. She had to answer him, somehow. Regardless of what answer she gave, she had to say
something
. “Oh,” was all that came out, however, on a rather long and ragged sigh.

Lord Quinton let her leg go and leaned further over her. He slid a finger beneath her bodice, sliding it along the edge of her breast. “So lovely,” he said, just before following the same path with his tongue.

Aurora nearly came off the sofa from the shock of sensations flooding through her.

“Marry me,” he commanded, blowing on the moistened and overheated skin his tongue had just left. Before she could answer, he pulled on her gown and chemise until one breast popped free. He took it into his mouth and rolled his tongue over her sensitive, tight nipple. Something hard pulsed against her womanhood, which was throbbing with its own unknown need. She instinctively moved her hips to rub against him and nearly cried out in shock from the pleasure it gave her.

And then, just as suddenly as it had all started, Lord Quinton lifted himself away from her and resituated her on the sofa. What had she done wrong? “Cover yourself,” he said, his words terse and gruff. He left her and stood beside the hearth, staring into the dying embers.

After she straightened her gown about her legs and pulled her bodice up to cover her bared breast, she felt colder, somehow more naked than before.

He did not turn to face her. With one Hessian, he kicked against the grate. “You will marry me. Tomorrow.” If she didn’t know better, she’d think there was fear in his voice.

But Lord Quinton could not possibly be afraid. That would mean he cared.