A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle (27 page)

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 could 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.

It nearly killed him, watching her
agony and being unable to do anything about it. In all truth, he
deserved to die. He’d taken all the euphoria and vivacity and life
from her. And what had he given her in return?

Nothing. Not even himself.

Ha. Like he would be any sort of a
gift. Most days, he detested being saddled with himself.

The carriage turned from the main road
down the path leading to Quinton Abbey. Thank God. Perhaps here she
could find some happiness. Perhaps here he could put enough
distance between them to stop his maddening descent into both
depravity and love.

Perhaps here it could all
change.

~ * ~

Aurora jolted awake when the carriage
rolled to a rickety stop. Quin tossed the door back and climbed
down without waiting for the driver to set out the steps.
Apparently they had arrived. So very kind of him to inform her of
such.

Her husband’s voice rumbled outside
the carriage. She could only assume he was giving the driver and
outriders some instructions, since she couldn’t make out his words.
And then he was gone, marching up a long walkway which cut through
what was likely an impressive garden. It was difficult to tell,
however, without any lanterns about to light the way.

For that matter, Aurora could hardly
make out lights in any of the windows of Quinton Abbey—and there
were ample windows, to be sure. The abbey was easily double the
size of Fairfax Priory. Perhaps thrice the size. The moon was only
a sliver, its light far from ample this evening.

After her husband had disappeared from
view, the coachman set down the steps and handed her out of the
carriage. “His lordship requests that you hold onto my arm and walk
with me up to the main house, ma’am. He does not wish for you to
lose your footing in the dark.”

“
Thank you,” she murmured.
Why could Quin not take the task upon himself, though? Was he so
averse to her presence after what had taken place that he couldn’t
even walk alongside her? That must be the case. After all, the
carriage had hardly come to a stop before he had leapt from it and
run off to his precious abbey.

The path leading through the gardens
went on much further than Aurora initially thought. Several moments
had passed as she walked along it on the arm of the coachman, and
still they seemed a reasonable walk away from the main entrance.
Quinton Abbey grew ever larger in her mind the closer they came to
it.

And then lights began to pop up in the
windows, a few at a time. Footmen came down the path toward them,
pausing before her to bow, and then continuing on their way back to
unload the carriages.

By the time Aurora arrived at the
entryway to her new home, a small but growing contingency of
servants stood before her with Quin at their helm. He took her hand
from the arm of the coachman and placed it on his own. “Thank you
for your assistance,” Quin said to the man. The coachman bowed and
left.

Quin turned her to face the line of
servants.

Directly before Aurora, a
curmudgeonly-looking man with silver hair and spectacles waited for
her attention. He executed a stiff and precise bow. “Welcome to
Quinton Abbey, Lady Quinton. Please call me Forster. I must
apologize for our lack of preparedness for your arrival,
ma’am.”

Quin stirred at her side. “The fault
lies with me. I failed to send word of our journey.”

“
Nor that of your marriage,
or even that of your return to the country,” said Forster under his
breath, garnering Aurora’s attention.

Return to the country? Goodness, how
long had Quin been away from his estate? Aurora eyed her husband
warily, wondering what he’d been doing before his arrival in
London.

Quin frowned at him before he looked
down the ever-growing line of his employees. “These introductions
can wait for tomorrow, Forster. It has been a long journey. Her
ladyship requires rest.”

Aurora fought back a scowl
at his declaration. He’d not said a word to her in days, nor had he
listened to a word
from
her. How would he know what she needed and what
she didn’t need? Insufferable despot. But it would not do to call
him to task for such a thing in front of his servants—particularly
not when they’d only learned of her existence moments
before.

“
Of course, my lord,” the
butler said. He glanced over his shoulder as three maids scurried
into the grand foyer, issuing hasty curtsies as they joined the
line of servants. “It appears her ladyship’s chamber is prepared.
Mrs. Marshall, would you show Lady Quinton to her suite of
rooms?”

A squat, round woman with greyed hair
and a mess of keys tied to her waist curtsied. She clearly held the
post of housekeeper. “If you’ll just follow me, my lady,” she said
before bustling off toward an imposing hall, easily three times as
tall as her husband if not more so. “I’ll be glad to give you a
tour of the abbey tomorrow if you should like. And any time you’re
ready, we can go over the household accounts and such. But I
daresay you’d prefer a bath before you even think of anything like
that.”

“
Indeed, a bath would be
just the thing.” Aurora left Quin’s side, gently but insistently
tugging her arm free from his hand, to follow Mrs. Marshall through
a labyrinth of hallways and up an opulent staircase, listening to
the older woman natter on like a magpie until finally they reached
an elaborately furnished stateroom.

Ornate plastered designs covered the
ceilings, standing at odds with the rest of the architecture. From
all indications, the abbey had been built centuries before. A
mammoth, curtained, four-poster bed stood at one end of the room,
surrounded by Queen Anne trunks, chests, armchairs and divans, all
made of rich walnut and covered with burgundy cushions. The walls
bore gold satin-silk linings.

The chamber was terribly elegant, even
though the furnishings looked to have remained in their current
position for decades, at the very least. On the opposite end of the
room, a series of maids were filling the tub with steaming water.
Rose stood beside it, ready to assist Aurora with her
bath.

“
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.”