A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle (30 page)

“
Back to my chamber,” she
said with a haughty tone. “Thank you for finishing.”

Aurora pulled at her arm, but he kept
his grip firm and tight. She was not going anywhere. He wouldn’t
allow her to leave.

Instead, Quin rolled to his side,
pulling her over the top of him to settle in by his side. He draped
an arm and a leg over her, effectively trapping her where she lay.
“I would prefer you to stay,” he said, not truthfully as a
preference. “‘Love, honor, and obey’, remember? At the very least
you can handle the ‘obey’ part of the equation.” He’d handle the
love for both of them, unless he could find a way to force it to
cease.

Her scowl shone through the moonlit
shadows of the room. Then she squirmed and wiggled until she had
her back to him.

Quin pulled her closer,
wrapping both arms around her and relishing Aurora’s outraged gasp
when his cock pressed against her firm little derrière. However
delightful the idea of making love to her in such a position may
be, he needed sleep first or else he might fall asleep inside her.
It had been a rather taxing couple of days. Just to goad her a bit
further, though, he took a breast in each palm and massaged them
until she arched her back, pressing further into his hands. Christ,
her body was so responsive.
She
may not love him, but her body certainly
did.

He whispered into her ear, “Are you
ready, love?”

“
What?” she screeched. “You
can’t—you wouldn’t”

Quin laughed. “Oh, I can and I will.
But not now. Go to sleep, Aurora.” Before he changed his
mind.

Before he fell further in
love.

Before he told her.

Chapter
Eighteen

18 May, 1811

I still keep my journal
hidden from Quin. I do not want him to know that I’m writing, even
though the things I write are really only the silly musings of a
lonely wife. What a pathetic soul I am. Regrettably, I no longer
have the intense urge to write, to pour my heart and soul into the
ink and parchment, to while away the hours creating tales. Perhaps
I am too lost to find my way out of just such a tale at the moment.
I no longer know.

~From the journal of Lady
Quinton

They’d settled into much the same
pattern as they had in London. Every morning, Quin rose and
breakfasted without Aurora, and then left to meet with his steward,
or to have a discussion with the butler, or perhaps to ride over
the grounds so he could meet with his field hands and tenants. He
might hole himself up of an afternoon in the undercroft, which he’d
turned into a brandy-filled office, and go over the reports that
Mr. Carruthers gave him, or he might instead go out to the Hog’s
Head and enjoy the company of the locals.

She would wake in his big, empty bed
when it felt cold without his heat and go about her day
alone—discussing the meals with Cook, or managing the household
accounts with Mrs. Marshall, or occasionally speaking with Forster
about changes she wanted to make to the furnishings in the salon.
Occasionally she would take some exercise by walking through the
park, or speak with the gardener about the possibility of planting
a rose garden.

When she ran out of things to do with
the household staff, Aurora often escaped to the refectory and its
endless supply of books. At least there, she could pretend she
wasn’t quite so alone. The characters kept her company.

Occasionally Aurora would receive a
letter from Father or Rebecca in the afternoon and she’d dash off
to read it. Rebecca’s Season was turning out to be rather grand, as
she’d somehow attracted three more amorous suitors in addition to
the ever-present Lord Norcutt. Father was as busy as ever with
Parliament. He missed her terribly, but kept himself entertained
with a concert here and an opera there. She wrote back to them both
immediately upon receiving and perusing their letters, careful to
never let on how lonely she’d become. It would not do to worry
them. So instead, she told them of grand country house parties
they’d attended, and lied about how Quin would take her on picnics
by the river.

The lies only hurt her, after
all.

But then Aurora would wait for Quin to
come home. She’d hold supper for him, hoping that he would return
and share a meal with her even though she knew he never would. Then
she’d go up to their sitting room and wait for him, often falling
asleep due to the lateness of the hour while reading yet another
book from the refectory, or working a piece of embroidery, or doing
anything at all to keep her occupied other than writing in her
journal.

When Quin returned home, he always
smelled of brandy. He always tasted of it, too.

Each time he came to her, he’d take
her book or her stitchery and set it on the table beside her, then
lift her into his arms and carry her to his bed.

For as inattentive as he was to her
during the day, Quin more than made up for it at night—at least in
regard to physicality. Aurora had never imagined there were as many
ways to perform the marriage act as he taught her. Forward,
backward, upside down. Using their hands, mouths, tongues. On her
knees, the floor, a table. His imagination in terms of pleasure
knew no bounds. Every time she was certain he could no longer shock
her, he did something even more outrageous and convinced her
otherwise.

And then, after he spilled himself
deep inside her womb, every night he would pull her against him,
wrap his limbs around her, and sleep.

She would sleep too—eventually. After
her heart slowed to a natural pace and his breathing came in even
increments across her neck and shoulder, and after the light sounds
of his snoring started in her ear so she was certain he was asleep,
then she would allow herself a moment to cry, and finally she would
sleep.

Lying there with him, tangled in his
slumberous strength—that was when she felt more alone than she’d
felt in her entire life. It was odd how the moment each night when
she and Quin were physically connected, when he was inside her, was
the moment she felt the most alive, the most loved. He very nearly
worshipped her, with a level of devotion to her pleasure that was
staggering when they came together. But then, only a few moments
later, she would feel bereft and empty.

They had gone on in just this manner
for nearly the first three weeks of their stay at Quinton Abbey.
Nearly long enough for Aurora to expect her courses again, which
undoubtedly would arrive like clockwork, just as they always
had.

She did have one tiny glimmer of hope:
the past few mornings, she’d been unable to keep her breakfast down
where it belonged. Surely the magnitude of her despair had not
reached such proportions as to make her physically ill. Surely it
could be a sign of a babe in her womb.

But it was still far too early to
allow for hope. Hope would only make it hurt worse when nothing
happened. Much like how she’d allowed herself to hope for Quin’s
love. That hope was dying a slow, painful death, further
exacerbated by the dawning realization that—for some strange
reason—she had developed a certain level of affection for him.
Perhaps more than an affection.

Aurora shrugged it off and searched
the shelves of the refectory for something new to read. She slipped
past the sections of Burns’s and Wordsworth’s poetry, since she had
read them in recent days. Blake seemed too bleak for her mood at
the moment. She kept walking, trying to find something that called
to her. Nothing did.

What she really wanted was to write.
She hadn’t dared touch her journal, however, since their arrival at
Quinton Abbey other than to make brief notes about her
days—certainly not to write any stories. But perhaps if she could
write a story, she could convince herself that she wasn’t actually
falling in love with Quin.

Or maybe…

She could write of the marriage she
wished they had. She could write of a husband who loved her and
doted upon her, and actually spoke to her at times other than in
the throes of bedding her. She could write of a beautiful baby with
both a loving mother and a loving father. She could write her own
happiness.

Perhaps if she wrote of that marriage,
it could become reality. After all, she’d written of her marriage
to Quin before she ever met him, and it had happened. She’d written
of her fantastical ideas for in the bedroom, and they had
happened.

Why should this not follow the same
pattern?

Aurora dashed from the refectory to
her chamber. She needed to write, and it simply could not wait any
longer.

~ * ~

When Forster interrupted Aurora in the
salon to announce, “Sir Jonas Buchannan, my lady,” she jumped
halfway out of the chair she’d been in for the last several hours.
In that time, she’d likely written a dozen pages of her new
story.

Which was turning out to be
delightful, to say the least. Granted, she already had some of it
thought out, based on the lies she’d been writing to Rebecca and
Father. But with her new additions, it was becoming ever more
engaging with every stroke of her quill.

“
Send him in,” she called
over her shoulder as she put away her writing materials. “Oh, and
Forster? Will you please have Mrs. Marshall send a tea tray in at
her first convenience?” What was Sir Jonas doing in Wetherby?
Perhaps Quin had sent for him out of boredom in his marriage. She
would send for Rebecca if she could.

Once she had her ink pot capped and
the journal and quill tucked neatly away, she stood and
straightened her gown. Oh, bother. Some of the black ink had
smudged over her fingers and was now spread across the rose lawn
fabric of her gown.

But, there was nothing for it at the
moment. Sir Jonas came across the threshold and bowed to her. “Lady
Quinton, I trust that I find you well.” His dark features turned to
a handsome smile.

Aurora wondered what might have
happened had she met Sir Jonas before Quin. But wondering solved
nothing, so she brushed the thought aside. “Indeed, you do. Please,
have a seat.” She directed him to an armchair by the hearth. “Have
you just arrived in Wetherby?”

“
Mere moments ago, ma’am,”
he said as he sat. His long legs stretched out before him, taking
up nearly as much room as she imagined Quin’s would. She could only
imagine, though, since she’d never seen him in the
salon.

A maid came in and placed a tea tray
before her, then curtsied and hurried on her way.

“
Tea?” Aurora asked. On his
nod, she set about serving him and continued. “And what brings you
to Wetherby? Have you seen Quin yet?”

Sir Jonas reached across for his
teacup and a scone. “I’d hoped to find him here with you. Is he not
at home?” he asked with an almost imperceptible frown, swiftly
replaced by a merely inquisitive smile.

“
No. I’m afraid he is
infrequently at home during the day, sir.” Aurora took a sip of her
tea, grimaced, and then reached for more sugar. “I do not expect
his return until rather late in the evening.”

This time, Sir Jonas openly scowled.
“This is common for him, ma’am? He leaves you alone on a regular
basis?”

Oh, dear. Had she gotten Quin in
trouble with his friend? That certainly had not been her intention.
“It is somewhat common, I’m afraid.” No need to tell the man just
how common. “But it is for good reason, I assure you. He spends a
great deal of time with his steward and his tenants.”

“
And leaving you to your
own devices,” Sir Jonas said rather pointedly.

Oh, bother. Did he think she was
writing again? Oh. Right. She was.

But it wasn’t the same kind of
writing. And no one was around to see what she was writing, or to
take it from her. It was all truly innocent. It had been all
along.

She simply
needed
to
write.

But then Sir Jonas smiled, an affable,
pitying kind of smile. “I’m afraid that your husband is not being a
very good husband to you, Lady Quinton.”

Her eyes widened, and she fought to
conceal her emotions. They were surely spreading all over her face.
She couldn’t allow him to think that—despite how true it might be.
“You are quite mistaken, Sir Jonas. He is an excellent
husband.”

That didn’t sound very convincing. Not
even to Aurora’s own ears.

“
Of course, you’re right,”
he said, nonetheless.

Perhaps he wouldn’t press her on the
matter. That was very kind of him. Aurora had only met Sir Jonas on
a very few occasions, but she was growing to like his company
rather immensely.

“
Is my husband expecting
you?” she inquired.

“
Actually, I surprised
myself with my visit. I didn’t take the time to send him word.” Sir
Jonas chuckled. “It should serve him right, after all the times
he’s arrived at my door unannounced. Though I do apologize for any
inconvenience it may have caused you, my lady.”

“
Not at all. I rather think
I’ll enjoy having a guest. The abbey is so large for so few people.
It can be rather lonely.” Blast. She shouldn’t have said that.
“Will you be staying at Quinton Abbey very long?” she asked, hoping
he wouldn’t home in on her earlier comment.