Twice a Rake (30 page)

“Well, my lady,” Mrs. Marshall said after Aurora took a moment to inspect her new surroundings, “I hope this is to your liking, at least for the time being. Nothing’s been changed in the mistress’s chambers since Lady Rotheby, may she rest in peace, was still Lady Quinton. Your husband’s mother never saw fit to make changes. I’ll leave you to it with your maid. Let me know if you need anything else. Otherwise, I’ll expect to see you tomorrow.”

Aurora stepped closer to the bath, pulling her bonnet free and tugging at her gloves. “Yes, of course.” The housekeeper turned to leave, but stopped when Aurora called out, “Oh, Mrs. Marshall? Would it be possible to have a tray sent up this evening?” A meal after her bath was most definitely in order. She felt ravenous after the journey and had no intention of gracing her husband with her presence at the supper table—wherever that may be.

The older woman winked. “I’ve already ordered it, ma’am.”

~ * ~

Quin didn’t go to Aurora that night. Nor did he insist she join him in his chamber. He’d have to bed her again, eventually. An heir couldn’t very well be produced if he never touched his wife. Instead, he found a supply of brandy hidden behind a desk in the refectory—a rather dismal supply, actually—and proceeded to drink himself into oblivion. He’d have to have Forster replenish the stash.

In order to touch Aurora, he would likely have to speak to her. And if he spoke to her, he might say too much.

Like
I forgive you.
Or possibly
I’m sorry
. Perhaps
I’m a blundering oaf and could never deserve you in a thousand lifetimes.
Or worse yet
I love you
.

He did. He loved her, despite his intentions to avoid just such a scenario, despite her dramatics, despite the fact that he hardly knew her. He loved Aurora, primarily for all the things that threatened to rob him of his sanity: her willful streak; the pluck she showed in refusing to cower from him; her wild imagination; the way she wore her emotions all over her face, yet still tried to hide them from him.

But loving her could serve neither of them.

It left him thinking of her all the time. It left him breathless for wanting to be with her, to touch her, to smell the rosewater scent of her hair as it fell like silk through his fingers. It left him hard and frustrated.

It left him vulnerable. Worried. Worried that he would lose her.

Like he’d lost Mercy. Like he’d lost his father. Like he certainly would have lost his mother, too, if he hadn’t built a fortress larger than the abbey around his heart and lost himself instead.

Being a heartless rakehell with a penchant for every vice he could imagine had kept him safe all these years.

Safe and alone.

Now he was neither.

~ * ~

Morning took forever to arrive. Quin knew. He laid awake in his bed the entire night, waiting for the sun to break over the horizon outside his window. Thinking about Aurora. Thinking about Rotheby’s demands.

No amount of brandy could have eased his mind.

All that time spent alone with his thoughts helped him to realize one thing. There was, admittedly, more to what his grandfather wanted of him than just an heir. He needed to start to take care of what he’d been given. Forster’s thinly veiled criticism upon their arrival last night only further emphasized the point.

Three years.
More
than three years, actually. Quin hadn’t stepped foot on the property, sent a missive, or even glanced over his steward’s reports in all that time. He’d left Forster to take care of the household staff and Carruthers to handle the tenants and workers, and hadn’t given any of it another thought as long as he had funds coming his way.

The funds had never been lacking, so why worry? Particularly when he could better spend his time with a buxom French
madame
and her girls, or placing wagers on the bullfights in Spain, or engaged in any number of other, more intriguing pursuits somewhere along the coasts of the Ottoman Empire.

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.