A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle (18 page)

Christ, the temptress was out to kill
him. He didn’t trust his voice after her heavenly torment, so he
nodded.

Feather-light fingers eased over his
chest, his shoulders, his arms, tracing the demarcations of his
muscles. Then she splayed her hands over him, spreading her palms,
leaving a path of fire in their wake. Quin clenched his jaw to hold
himself back. He would only be able to take so much before he had
to have her.

When she touched his nipples and they
instantly hardened, her breath caught in her throat. “I need…” she
said, her brow furrowed in concentration, “I need
closer.”

Good God. She threw one leg up and
over him like she’d done to mount Jonas’s horse that morning,
straddling him. Her knees rested on either side of his torso, and
her sweet little bottom sat dangerously close to his
cock.

A devious smile of victory brightened
her face. “That’s better,” she said.

Before he could stop her—before he
could think—she leaned down over him and kissed his skin. She
placed thousands of tiny kisses all over him, licking here and
biting there, moving ever lower as she adjusted her
position.

To his abdomen, which flinched of its
own accord under her attentions.

To his navel, which burned where her
tongue laved at it.

To his—
damnation
! —to his cock, which jerked
to life when she kissed it on the tip, a chaste and tender kiss
that was entirely too erotic for an innocent such as his
wife.

She grinned back at him, like the cat
that had its fill of cream, and licked her lips.

Reason left him entirely.

Quin reversed their positions in one
swift move. He slid his hands up her arms, drawing them above her
head, linking them together where they knocked against the
bedpost—and held them there, bracing them both in one of his
own.

He drove into her like a man
deranged.

Aurora’s eyes—blast, her eyes were
filled with fear. He was behaving like a brute, rutting into her
like an animal. But he couldn’t conceive how to stop
himself.

So Quin kissed her, long and hard and
deep, using his free hand to stroke her to a passionate fire, to
build a need within her comparable to that which she had created
within him. She whimpered against his mouth and he came up. Her
eyes had glazed over with passion, burning with the same
insatiable, all-consuming lust that fueled him.

He wouldn’t last much longer. His
loins ached with the need to spill their seed. But he’d be damned
if he couldn’t watch her climax again.

“
Hold this,” he ordered,
wrapping her hands about the post at the foot of the bed. “Don’t
let go.”

With both hands free, he kneaded her
breasts and licked her nipples and stroked against the nub of her
womanhood until her eyes rolled back into her head and the walls of
her womb constricted around his cock and she called out, “Niles,”
as loud as he’d ever heard a woman in climax scream.

Finally, he collapsed on top of her
again, filling her with his seed.

Niles
. She’d called him by his name.

No one had called him by his given
name in more than twenty years.

His breathing slowed and Aurora’s did
as well. He started to roll off her before he fell asleep and
crushed her, but she grabbed hold of his shoulders and wrapped her
legs about his waist, holding him in a vise. “No. Stay like this,”
she said. “Please.”

At the moment, he would do anything
for her.

And all because she’d used his
name.

Chapter
Eleven

4 April, 1811

Truthfully, they ought to
tell all the young ladies on the marriage mart about what goes on
in the marriage bed. Granted, I do not know how they would find a
way to put such a thing into words. But it is now my firm belief
that any young lady who understands what awaits her after marriage
will gladly accept the first acceptable offer that comes her way.
This could save their fathers a great deal of duress and heartache,
suffering through Season after Season of attempting to find a match
of which the young lady approves. In fact, I could perhaps
volunteer my services to these fathers. I am certain I could find a
way to describe the experience. At least I could after experiencing
it a dozen or so more times, myself. Perhaps I will have to
encourage my husband to assist me in my research.

~From the journal of Lady
Quinton

The morning sun cast a golden glow
over Aurora’s skin as she slept. She looked so angelic in that
light, so innocent—a far cry from the daring vixen she’d proven
herself to be the previous afternoon and evening. And night. And
again in the early morning, not long before dawn. Quin felt himself
hardening again just from the memory of their lovemaking, but
couldn’t wake her again. She needed rest—something neither of them
got much of that night.

No, he wouldn’t wake her. Not
yet.

Quin rose and pulled on a pair of
breeches, then stole into his dressing room to ring for his valet.
Breakfast in bed was precisely what this situation called for. Much
like they’d eaten their supper in bed.

Then later in the day, after a
languorous morning and perhaps another bout of conjugal play, they
would visit Rotheby. He’d let the old goat see his wife—see that
he’d done it, gotten married. That he’d become a proper bloody
gentleman.

Maybe then his grandfather would relax
somewhat, and stop threatening this nonsense about taking the abbey
away from him.

But first, he wanted to enjoy this
morning with his wife. He shuddered at the realization that
thinking of her as such had come so easily. It felt almost natural,
even in all its unnatural glory.

Him—Quin—a husband.
Respectable.
Ha
.
That last part was up for debate. Nevertheless, hell could now
officially freeze.

Perhaps it already had.

~ * ~

Nerves were so terribly unattractive.
They tended to make one appear rather gauche, if not downright
vulgar. As such, Aurora tried never to let hers show.

Tried
, being the important part of that thought.

Seated next to her husband in a
curricle he’d borrowed from Sir Jonas, she knew she had lost this
particular battle against her nerves. In fact, it was quickly
becoming obvious even to her that attempting to quash them would be
a fruitless affair.

“
Do you truly think he’ll
like me?” she asked for what had to be at least the twentieth time
since Quin had informed her (only two hours before, mind you) that
they would be meeting with his grandfather. A grandfather who,
according to Quin, was a crotchety old windbag who’d griped and
complained and bemoaned so much that his wife, Quin’s grandmother,
had found herself in an early grave, likely from the strain of
listening to his constant complaints.

Aurora kindly informed her husband
that such a description did nothing to soothe her in those
stressful moments before their departure. He claimed he’d only done
so in order that she could be fully prepared for the greeting she
was bound to receive.

Clearly, Quin had a thing or two to
learn about how best to prepare her for a potentially uncomfortable
situation. She’d done nothing for the past two hours save change
her gown four times, fret over the particular styling of her
coiffure, lament the fact (repeatedly) that Rebecca was not present
to help her make her decisions, and seek her husband’s reassurance
that his grandfather would like her. Which, if she were honest with
herself, was really a means of asking if he was a fire-breathing
dragon that would blow her over, should she appear in anything that
did not suit his particular tastes.

Since Aurora could not
possibly
know
the
man’s tastes, having never met him before, she needed Quin’s
guidance.

He had neglected to provide
her with any. “Oh, you’ll look lovely in any color, I’m certain,”
he would say. Or, “Truthfully, ringlets or not, you look
fine.”
Fine
,
indeed. The blasted man just did not want to make a
decision.

Likely because he did not
want to make the
wrong
decision. So surely,
she
had.

They would have to have a discussion
about that. Later, though. Much later. At the moment, she was busy
melting under the scowl her husband had fixed upon her.

“
Aurora, I swear, if you
ask me that question one more time…”

She frowned in return. “Perhaps if you
would answer my questions when I ask them, I wouldn’t feel the need
for repetitiveness.”

But before he could give her a proper
answer, he pulled the curricle to a stop before a monstrous
home—Mansfield House, according to the sign at the street. A stark,
white cornice molding crowned red brick walls. The image was
further enhanced by pilasters placed in regular fashion along the
facade of the structure, situated alongside beveled
windows.

It felt very austere, too precise.
Granted, this was the house and not the man. But Aurora wanted
desperately for her husband to turn the curricle around and then
they could go back to their home. Perhaps Lord Rotheby could come
to visit them? Maybe she wouldn’t be quite so intimidated if she
were meeting the man on her own terms.

She frowned as Quin climbed down and
turned to hand her out of the entirely-too-high-for-comfort
contraption. Nothing in her life seemed to be working out on her
own terms, of late.

But as soon as Aurora’s half-boots
landed upon the street, a groom climbed up to take the curricle to
the mews, her husband placed her hand in the crook of his elbow,
and they walked along the path to the front door—and her entire
body felt it would crumble beneath her from the sheer anxiety of
meeting this man.

“
Breathe,” Quin said softly
into her ear, just as the door opened to reveal a stodgy butler.
Aurora doubted she’d ever seen anyone execute such a stiff and
precise bow. The man’s back must ache ferociously at the end of the
day.

He directed them through the doors and
into a sitting room. The rich woods and leathers covering every
surface lent the room a masculine aura, without even the barest
hint of a flower or bit of lace to add a feminine touch. Tables
were placed precisely so, with nothing resting atop them. Nothing
dared to move even an inch out of place.

The urge to shift something, to
rearrange something ever so slightly, suddenly became overwhelming.
Aurora had to tamp it down. The last thing she needed was to upset
her new grandfather-in-law, even before she met him.

Blast. With all the
fastidiousness evident in the décor, she ought to have chosen a
different gown. The jonquil one she wore was too fussy and bore too
many frills and flounces. She took a seat upon a leather sofa
facing the hearth, frowning up at Quin as she did. He should have
told her as much, but he neglected to tell her anything save she
looked
fine
.

Fine. Aurora was beginning to hate the
word. She looked about as fine as an elephant holding a
teacup.

After several minutes alone in the
sitting room, a young maid rushed in carrying a tea tray. She set
the provisions upon a table and dropped into a curtsy. “Lord
Quinton, Lady Quinton,” she mumbled, and then scurried on her way
before Aurora could do more than smile at her.

The double doors had not yet come to a
complete close when they were once again tossed open. An elderly
gentleman, fully grey but with all of his hair still intact upon
his head, marched inside with a cane in one hand. His attire was as
pristine as the room they inhabited, right down to the quizzing
glass hanging from a chain around his neck.

Quin, still standing near the beveled
windows, inclined his head to the older man. “My lord, may I
present my wife to you? Aurora is now Lady Quinton.” Even Quin,
usually so nonchalant in his behavior, had taken on the strict
formality the house (not to mention its master) seemed to foster.
He turned to her and inclined his head again. “Madam, the Earl of
Rotheby and my grandfather.”

And then the earl’s small, grey eyes
turned to her, boring into her, looking her up and down like she
was a horse being considered for purchase at Tattersall’s. She half
expected him to examine her teeth. Instead, he cleared his throat.
“Stand up!” he barked out. “I want to get a good look at
you.”

Aurora felt too traumatized at such a
greeting to do anything but comply. She dipped into a curtsy before
rising to her full height and looking him straight in the
eye.

He scowled in response. “Bold little
minx, aren’t you?”

She did not deign to reply. In fact,
she doubted he wanted her to respond, or if he did, he was merely
trying to rile her. She could hardly win his favor if she was busy
berating him, could she?

Several moments passed with the earl
inspecting her from top to toe. His eyes settled upon her hips.
Aurora could almost see the man measuring them with his gaze. She
flushed at his attentions before chiding herself. Blast, she would
not let him win by embarrassing her.