A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle (10 page)

“
Father will call him out.
Quinton will be dead before he can make a declaration of his
intentions.” At least, she thought Father would. Blast, what if he
didn’t?

Rebecca raised an eyebrow. “Your
father will not kill Lord Quinton. The man is your only chance at
retaining any shred of respectability.”

She hated it when Rebecca was
right.

“
He won’t come. You saw him
last night. He just kissed me and left. Besides, he was as drunk as
a wheelbarrow. He probably doesn’t remember any of it.” If he
remembered it even half as vividly as Aurora did, she wondered that
he had not burst into flames from the intensity. She closed her
eyes and tried to push the memory down. It would not do to think of
such things. Not now. Not when everything was falling apart. “No,
he’ll stay far away. I expect I’ll never see him again. The
scoundrel.”

The perfectly delicious scoundrel who
had stolen her heart. And, clearly, her wits.

A wry smile lit Rebecca’s features. “I
expect he’ll be here not long after luncheon. And I expect that
means we have a wedding to plan, and precious little time to do
it.” She moved to a basket near the window, pulling out lengths of
cream silks and ivory lace. Her usually deep brown eyes glowed an
almost honey-gold with her excitement. “Let’s get
started.”

~ * ~

Quin cringed at his grandfather’s
berating. Rotheby knew full well how deep in his cups he’d been
only hours before (the curmudgeon had read it in the damned gossip
rags, after all), yet he refused to lower his voice to a tolerable
level.

As was his right. Mansfield House was
his London home, so he could do as he pleased. Which, of course,
the earl never seemed to forget.

“
This?” the old man
bellowed, his often creaking voice coming fully to life. “This is
how you think a man behaves when he is attempting to become a
gentleman? How one comports oneself when trying to regain my
favor?” Rotheby’s eyes blazed as bright as the fire in the hearth,
left burning despite the stifling heat in the room.

Bloody hell. The man hadn’t let him
get a word in edgewise since Quin joined him at breakfast. Rotheby
started in before he’d sat down, brandishing the morning’s society
papers in his face.

“
I oughtn’t to
have”

“
You
oughtn’t to have done a great number of things.
I
oughtn’t to have given
you this opportunity to turn yourself around, because you’ve only
gone and mucked everything up.” Rotheby shoved a forkful of eggs
into his mouth, continuing before he had them chewed and swallowed.
“The unforgivable part of all of this is what you did to that girl.
You’ve ruined her. She’ll have no chance at a decent match
now.”

Didn’t he know it? None of the prior
evening’s events had gone according to plan. Quin had intended to
gain an introduction, dance with her, perhaps charm her with a hint
of flirtation…and then convince her she should marry him, since he
was now in possession of her little secret.

Alas, everything went awry when he
poured himself that blasted brandy.

If he would have just stuck with his
plan, they could have a nice little wedding after waiting for the
banns to be called. There would be no urgent rush. No immediacy. No
drama. Well, no more than there was simply because of Rotheby’s
requirements.

But since he’d neglected to control
himself, now he would have to pay the piper. “She will not be
ruined. She’ll marry me.”

Even with his paper-thin skin,
Rotheby’s face filled with heat. “You’d better hope she will. There
will be hell to pay if”

“
She will,” Quin
interrupted. He despised the vitriol coming through in his tone. He
needed to turn his frustration with both himself and the situation
into fuel for persuasion. “When we are married she will make a
perfectly acceptable baroness. And, someday, she’ll fill the role
of countess.”

“
How are you so certain of
her suitability?” his uncle asked. “You’ve not spent enough time in
her company to know anything of her character. Frankly, I’m not
convinced. She proved last night she is rather more wanton than
respectable.”

The old bastard would just not quit.
After all Quin had gone through in order to find this potential
bride—someone beyond reproach—now, he’d gone and sullied her
character himself. Rotheby had to approve of her. “You would do
well, my lord, to watch what you say of my intended in my
presence.”

“
As you would have done
well to have chosen a bride who is not also a shameless
hussy!”

Quin’s eyes widened, but he held
himself back when Rotheby waved him off.

“
But we cannot have
everything, now, can we?” The earl sighed and lowered himself into
a chintz armchair near the fire. “What do you know of her
family?”

He doubted his grandfather would like
the true answer: nothing. “Her father is Viscount
Hyatt.”

Rotheby nodded and steepled his hands.
“Her mother…I seem to recall the viscountess was from Greece, is
that right?”

Blast. How on God’s green earth was he
supposed to know anything like that about the minx, let alone about
her mother whom he’d never met? He’d only danced with Miss Hyatt
for a few minutes—while utterly foxed—and then kissed her. The
finer details of her heritage remained a mystery. “Yes.” He hoped.
Quin didn’t want to lie to the old man, not overtly so at least.
Aurora certainly looked like Athena incarnate. The thought of her
being half Greek suited her. Much as she suited him.

“
That aspect of her
heritage will not help your cause with me,” Rotheby said. He looked
up at Quin, seeming to gauge his reaction. “I want a proper heir to
this title.”

Quin bit the inside of his lip to calm
himself. It didn’t work. It only hurt like a bee sting—which only
served to make him hotter than he was before.

“
You will bloody well have
a proper heir,” he bit off. “The chit is good
ton
. Her father is a viscount. What
more do you want?”

For long minutes, Rotheby stared into
the fire in his hearth. “Do not fail at this, Quinton,” he finally
said, not bothering to raise his eyes. “You cannot afford
it.”

With a flick of his wrist, Quin’s
grandfather dismissed him.

~ * ~

The door to the front parlor of Hyatt
House slammed closed a mere thirty seconds or somewhere thereabout
after Quin’s arrival and the butler’s departure. The sound jolted
him out of his internal debate over what precise color the room
might be. It was bright and light, happy even, made only more so
with the late morning sun streaming through diaphanous
curtains.

A man he could only assume to be
Viscount Hyatt stood before him, with his starched neck cloth
hanging askew and his dark eyes ablaze. One arm of his coat had not
made it onto the arm of his person. Streaks through his hair
outlined his advancing years.

“
Lord
Quinton
,” the older man sneered. “I
wondered how long it might take you to make your appearance. Or,
for that matter, if you would even be so bold as to show your face
at all, considering the scoundrel that you are.”

Time to make himself amenable. Good
Lord, this was the one situation he had hoped never to find himself
in. “Lord Hyatt.” Quin made an exaggerated bow. “I had
hoped”

“
What you hoped is
irrelevant,” Hyatt said, his tone brusque with arctic frost. He
strode across the hardwood floor, the heels of his polished boots
clicking with near-military precision, until he stood nose-to-nose
with Quin. Or rather more nose-to-chest, since Quin stood more than
a full head taller than Hyatt. “Will it be pistols?”

Christ. A duel? Quin’s accuracy with a
pistol was atrocious, though somehow he’d managed to gain the
opposite reputation. For once, he wished his father had taught him
about more useful pursuits than brandy and beatings. If Hyatt
didn’t kill him, Rotheby surely would over taking part in something
as asinine as that. Not to mention illegal, but who was keeping
track?

Dueling was simply out of the
question.

“
Lord Hyatt,” he said,
hoping desperately the man would listen, “I fail to see how
resorting to such drastic measures would serve anyone. Least of all
your daughter.”

The older man’s eyes flashed.
“Blackguard! How would defending my daughter’s honor fail to aid
her cause?”

Quin took a step toward the window,
both to put some space between them and to obtain the upper hand in
these negotiations. “Let’s be completely honest, my lord. If we
duel, nothing good can come of it for her.” He raised an eyebrow,
daring the viscount to refute him.

Hyatt huffed, but held his
tongue.

“
If I should win, her honor
would have been defended, but she would be left with no one to
defend her in future.” His odds of winning a duel were about as
good as a slow rat’s chance of escaping a hoard of hungry cats, but
Hyatt need not know everything. “And if you should win, her honor
will be restored—but she will never attain a suitable match, since
her one reasonable opportunity at an offer would be six feet
under.”

The viscount clenched his jaw and his
face filled with heat. “And what, pray tell, would you suggest take
place instead? I hardly think you worthy of her.”

Of course he wasn’t worthy of Aurora.
Quin wasn’t worthy of anything good or decent. His father had made
certain of that many years before. But he couldn’t allow that to
stand in the way. “Whether I’m worthy of her or not is hardly the
issue. The issue, as I’m sure you cannot deny, is that Miss Hyatt’s
reputation has been tarnished—by me—and no one but me can restore
her respectability.”

Hyatt twice opened his mouth to offer
a retort, only to snap it closed again a moment later. Clearly, he
could not muster an argument that would hold any weight against
Quin’s claim.

As it should be. The man could not
have honestly expected a duel would solve anything. Save, perhaps,
protecting his pride as a father.

“
She needs the protection
of my name,” Quin went on. “I am here to ask your permission to
offer for your daughter. I intend to make right what I have made
utterly and irrevocably wrong.”

Neither man said anything for long
minutes, Hyatt shaking and silently seething, Quin staring at the
last embers of his freedom smoldering and dying in the
hearth.

Finally, Lord Hyatt sat in an armchair
near the fireplace. “I’ve always known,” he said, “that the day
would come when Aurora would marry. That my daughter would leave me
for another man.” Tears filled his eyes. “What I never expected,
though, was that this man would be no gentleman, that he would have
no honor.”

Not a gentleman? True enough. No
honor? Quin could hardly point to any aspect of his character to
refute that claim, either.

He should leave. He did not deserve to
have Aurora as his wife. Not after his behavior the prior night.
Not after his behavior these last several years. Not after his
behavior his entire life.

His eyes darted to the door. Three
steps to liberty. Four at most.

Quin’s pulse roared in his
ears.

He could be free.

Once more, he glanced at
Hyatt.

The viscount stared up at Quin, his
expression filled with grief. “I’ve failed her,” he
said.

Damnation
.

~ * ~

Lengths of cream muslins, ivory silks,
and white satins draped every possible inch of Aurora’s bedchamber.
A number of them even enveloped Aurora and Rebecca as they toiled
to choose which one should be used for a wedding gown.

At a knock at the door, they tried to
free themselves from the mountain of fabrics—to no avail. In fact,
their exertions only resulted in their combined crash from the bed
to the floor amidst a sea of white foam.

Rose rushed inside. “Miss Hyatt? Lady
Rebecca? Are you both quite all right?” She lifted layer after
layer from atop them, digging down to their joint textile
grave.

“
None the worse for wear,”
Aurora said, taking hold of her lady’s maid’s hand and regaining
her feet.

Rebecca merely harrumphed from her
spot beneath the lace she had been attempting to convince Aurora to
use.

“
Lord Hyatt has requested
your presence in his library, miss,” the maid rushed on. She pulled
the random fabrics off her mistress and set to work straightening
Aurora’s gown and correcting her coiffure. “He said it is a matter
of great urgency.”

“
See?” Rebecca said, her
eyes full of mischief. “I told you Lord Quinton would
come.”

Aurora rolled her eyes. “Lord Quinton!
Father probably just wants to inform me that he’s shipping me off
to a convent or some distant relative on the continent.”

“
Care to wager?” Rebecca
asked. “Why else would your maid be taking such pains to be certain
your appearance is just so?”