A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle (37 page)

“
No, I don’t get the
impression that Quin has been around you much, has he?” she
prodded. If he wouldn’t answer her questions about his family
(which he was still blatantly refusing to do after all this time),
then at least she could learn something from them.

“
I hardly recognize him,
other than he looks rather a lot like Mama and me, doesn’t he?” Nia
replied. “But no, he left to live on his own when I was just a
small child. He hasn’t even come for a visit since I was about
eight years old.”

Oh, good heavens. That was even more
reprehensible than Aurora had suspected. “But Sir Jonas
has?”

“
Oh, yes. Ever since his
own mother died, Jonas has come to spend his holidays with us, and
has often paid us a visit in the summer as well.” Nia’s eyes were
more expressive than Aurora had seen them to this point, large and
round and virtually shimmering with excitement. “Mama and Papa look
on him much as their own son.”

“
And you look on him as you
brother?” Aurora asked. She ought not to pry like this. She ought
to let her sister-in-law off easy. But when did Aurora do as she
ought? Now was certainly not the time to begin such a monumental
change in behavior.

Nia’s eyes widened to the point that
she looked almost inhuman. “Well…yes, of course I do,” she
hedged.

The girl was a terrible fibber. That
would make it all the easier for Aurora to understand her.
Excellent. “Far more of a brother than Quin, I’m sure, since you
hardly know him. Well, that settles that, then.” Aurora brushed her
hands over the muslin fabric of her afternoon dress and rose to
rejoin her husband and his mother by the windows.

“
Settles what, Aurora?” the
girl asked with her soft voice. She sounded as though she didn’t
really want to know the answer to her question.

“
Sir Jonas will act as your
counterpart during this house party, of course. There will be many
activities where all the unmarried young ladies and gentlemen will
be paired off to do things together. And since you are so young—not
to mention not yet out in society—you need to be paired with a
gentleman who can act as more of a chaperone than an escort.”
Aurora didn’t think Nia’s eyes could have grown any wider than they
were earlier. She was wrong. “I had thought to pair you up with
Quin, but clearly you will be more comfortable in Sir Jonas’s
presence. He will be glad to take that responsibility, I’m
sure.”

She’d make certain of it.

~ * ~

All around, Aurora’s plan for this
house party was a bad idea.

Not only would Quin’s mother would be
there for an entire fortnight, berating him for being such a
negligent son, but he’d never seen such a wallflower as Nia before
in his entire life.

Sir Augustus, at least, was genial and
tended to stay out of the way as long as he had another gentleman
or two to converse with and could sneak away from his wife long
enough to smoke a cheroot from time to time.

But that was only his
family!

It didn’t even include Rotheby, who
would undoubtedly put a damper on any enjoyment Aurora’s other
guests would care to find through the various entertainments she
had planned. Quin regretted that he had done nothing to dissuade
his wife from this debacle more and more by the hour.

Alas, as he climbed the stairs to his
chamber for the night, it was too late for regrets. When he opened
the door to the master sitting room of their suite, Aurora stood
before him in nothing but a bold, diaphanous concoction that left
nothing to his imagination. Well, in nothing but that and a
devilishly sensual smile.

Good God, he wanted to rip that thing
from her body and take her on the floor. More than two months into
this marriage, he still hardened instantaneously just from the
sight of her. Unbelievable.

A low growl came from his throat and
he started across the room toward her.

“
Not yet,” Aurora said,
holding up a hand to stop him.

He pushed her hand aside and dragged
her into his arms, burying his nose in the wild sea of her hair.
“You can’t stand here looking like that and expect me to keep my
hands off you.” Quin pulled her by the hips, until she was
nestled—snug and firm—against his erection, then found her mouth
with his tongue.

But she still didn’t cooperate.
Blasted minx. Aurora kept her lips clamped and pushed against his
chest with both hands. “I have something to tell you.”

“
It can wait,” he bit off,
trying to pull her back where he wanted her.

With a twist and a whirl, she was out
of his grasp and halfway across the room. “No. It can’t wait.”
Dropping down to one of the overstuffed armchairs by the darkened
hearth, Aurora crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head,
indicating he should do the same.

Damnation
. He supposed he had no
choice, aside from taking her against her will. Quin stalked over
to the chair opposite hers and plopped down into it with a heavy
sigh, dragging his hand through his hair in the process. “What is
it now?” he barked.

The serious expression she had donned
to get him to comply fled from her face, replaced yet again by that
sly smile. “I have news for you. Good news. I’m sure you’ll want to
inform Lord Rotheby as soon as he arrives tomorrow, in order to
obtain his good will.”

News that would ensure Rotheby’s good
will? That could only mean one thing, as far as he could see. “Go
on,” Quin prompted. He needed to hear it. He needed Aurora to say
it.

She leaned forward, resting a hand on
his knee. “I’m with child,” Aurora breathed. There was something so
very erotic about that, about the way she said it. It left him
filled with primal, uncivilized lust. At that moment, Quin wanted
his wife more than he had ever wanted a woman before in his
life.

He wanted to take her. He wanted to
love her. He wanted to protect her with every part of him. He
wanted to never let her go.

“
You’re certain?” he
somehow managed to choke out.

Aurora nodded. “But there is still the
possibility”

“
That doesn’t matter,” Quin
said, waving his hand as if to brush the idea away. “What matters
is that you’re pregnant. With my child. With
our
child.” He rose and lifted Aurora
into his arms, carrying her off to his bed. He wanted to make love
to her—but not like he had ever done with her before.

Slowly.

Sweetly.

He wanted to savor every
moment.

His wife was pregnant. He was going to
be a father. He would finally have a family of his very
own.

~ * ~

Gilbert Thornton, Lord Rotheby scanned
the salon as he and the other gentlemen arrived from drinking their
after-dinner port. As had been the case for the past few evenings,
the ladies were all scattered about in groups—the older, married
ladies on one side of the room and the younger, unmarried ladies on
the other side of the room. Young Miss Coulter tended to find a
darkened corner to hide, but often Lady Quinton or Lady Rebecca
would finagle a way to draw her into a conversation with one group
or the other.

Lady Quinton and Lady Lipscombe, being
of the younger generation yet also married, could be found with
either group, it seemed.

As the gentlemen would join them, they
too would fall into certain predictable groupings. The older,
married men sat off together near the windows, playing cards and
wishing to slip outside for a draw of their cheroots. The younger,
unmarried gentlemen followed after the younger ladies, trailing
along in their wakes like dogs on strings. Pathetic, really. But
still understandable.

Lipscombe and Quinton elected to
choose the former group more often, rather than the latter. Gil was
a little surprised, actually, that Quinton would choose to spend
time in his company. After all, it had been shocking enough that
the rascal had allowed his wife to issue him an invitation. But
then again, he didn’t imagine his grandson had ever been one to
chase the skirts of proper young misses who were hardly out of the
schoolroom.

Even with his choice in a wife, he’d
gone for a slightly older chit—and one that was hardly proper,
though clearly she did sometimes try. It seemed it just didn’t come
quite naturally to her. Why, even her decision to host such a
gathering with the gossip currently traveling about Town proved her
pluck. It was almost as though she was flaunting it in their
faces—yet it required both courage and a certain sense of humor
that was far too often missing from those of her
station.

Which was all well and good. Actually,
it suited Gil quite nicely. Propriety was boring, and Lady Quinton
was anything but. She seemed to be the perfect choice for his
wayward grandson, keeping him close to heel in a way that neither
Gil nor Lady Coulter had ever managed to do. Not even the influence
of Sir Augustus had provided the desired effect on the
lad.

But now…now Quinton seemed different.
Perhaps Gil had made the right choice after all, in setting an
ultimatum for the lad.

Quinton was married to a respectable
(albeit scandalous at the moment) lady. He was finally caring for
his responsibilities with Quinton Abbey (and yes, Gil had met with
both Carruthers and Forster to ascertain just what level of
involvement his grandson had assumed in the running of affairs). He
was becoming the upstanding family man Gil always thought he could
be. He’d even managed to impregnate his wife, from what they had
informed him of upon his arrival three days previously.

Not that he would truly toss Quinton
out for a failure on that particular task. God played as much a
role in the task as man. But his grandson needn’t know that just
yet.

Gil held no illusions about why his
grandson had continued to sow his wild oats long past the age when
it was acceptable. Quinton’s father—Gil’s son—had become something
of a degenerate, to say the least, after that horrible tragedy.
He’d been weak, and had turned a what should have been only a
single tragedy into multiple other tragedies. For years, Gil had
wondered if Quinton was not a lost cause. The damage caused by the
lad’s father might have been too much to recover from.

But Gil had entered his seventy-fourth
year. He couldn’t fool himself. Each breath he took could easily be
his last. He had to make one more effort. One more try.

Finally, Quinton would be prepared to
assume the role he’d been born to. Gil could only claim so much
credit for the turnaround his grandson had made. Truthfully, most
of the credit belonged to the indomitable Lady Quinton.

The chit had proved to be quite the
force to be reckoned with, at least from what Gil had seen. Quinton
could roll over or barrel through nearly anyone, but she held her
own against him. Yes, she may have started a few scandals. But who
hadn’t? Gil himself had even been involved in a few, in his
day.

The
ton
was fickle. They would move on to
some new
on-dit
as
soon as the stories being falsely published as hers stopped being
published. Obviously Quinton hadn’t managed that yet, since Gil had
discovered a new issue of the
Sordid
Scandals
at White’s the day before he left
for Wetherby. He had no doubt that Laughton’s youngest son,
Griffin, was behind it. The whelp couldn’t resist peeing in someone
else’s flower bed, particularly if that someone happened to be
Quinton.

So, since his grandson had yet to
rectify the situation, Gil had decided to urge things
on.

Harrogate was not all that far from
Wetherby, after all.

He sat back in his chair near the
window and watched the youngsters at their games. Charades, this
time. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the asinine gestures that
fool Norcutt was making. After all, he’d been a young man once,
himself. He knew what it was to be in love and willing to do
anything, even make an utter cake of himself, if it might earn him
the attentions of his lady love.

In fact, if memory served (which was
an infrequent occurrence these days, but this time he believed it
did) a particular game of charades at a house party many years
before had been what eventually caught the eye of Lady
Rotheby.

Chapter
Twenty-Three

21 June, 1811

Truthfully, the younger
generation ought to listen to me when I attempt to match them up.
After all, I sit and watch them all day. I see the ways they look
coyly upon each other from across the room, the stolen glances, the
thinly veiled lust. I see it all. They should simply capitulate and
agree that I know best. It should not matter that I am also one of
‘the younger generation.’ I am a married lady, after
all.

~From the journal of Lady
Quinton

“
I thought,” Aurora said
over the din in the salon one afternoon, about a week into the
house party, “that today might be a lovely day for an excursion
into town for some shopping. The sun is finally shining again,
after several days of rain. And the ladies and I are all feeling
rather cooped up in the abbey and wish to get out. Would you
gentlemen be so kind as to escort us?”