A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle (28 page)

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.

Afternoon was fast giving way to
evening as he and his steward rode back toward the cottage on the
hill. He ought to return to the main house. It would be the
responsible thing to do.

But Quin had finished all the brandy
he could find at the abbey the night before, and doubted Forster
could have replaced it yet. “Carruthers, what do you say we pay a
visit to the Hog’s Head and have a meal?” His steward raised his
eyebrows in an unasked question. “I’ll buy you some drinks and we
can talk more about the abbey.” And he could avoid rushing home to
Aurora, where he might slip up and say something he preferred to
keep to himself. All things considered, a much safer
plan.

“
Of course,
sir.”

They changed direction and in no time
descended upon the pub at the heart of life in Wetherby. Leaving
their mounts with a groom, they entered the dark, lively
establishment and found a table near the window.

A barmaid sidled up alongside him
almost before he was fully seated, her creamy bosom jiggling and
virtually spilling over the top of her too-tight dress. He cringed
at the sight—a shocking realization—and hastily looked away. “What
will you have tonight, gents?” she crooned in his ear, doing her
best to tempt his eyes back to her.

Damnation! What the devil was wrong
with him that he couldn’t enjoy such a lovely view when it was
offered? Quin shook the odd sensation off. “Two shepherd’s pies.
I’ll have a brandy and for my companion…?”