With that matter settled, Aurora waited for her husband to leave (as he always did) on a particularly sunny April morning, then headed for the escritoire in the sitting room between their separate chambers.
She dipped her quill into the ink pot and set the tip to the parchment of her journal. Taking a deep breath, she allowed her mind to wander until it settled upon something—anything, really—which beckoned to her.
The first image that settled in her mind was of Quin. Aurora frowned. She didn’t want to write about him. The blasted man did nothing but infuriate her, giving her silence all day, and then causing her to wail like a mad woman at night with the wicked things he did to her.
Besides, look at the trouble writing about him had gotten her into in the first place.
No, writing about Quin just would not do.
Next came a picture of a puppy. Very cute, but not particularly something that was just begging her to write, either. She shoved that image out of the way.
A mistle thrush singing from the hawthorn tree outside the window distracted her to the point she debated writing about it. That, however, would hardly take up any words at all. Aurora was not, after all, a Lord Byron, able to write verse after verse, page after page, symbol after symbol, on and on
ad nauseum
to infinity about a silly pilgrimage. She had far more weighty matters on her mind.
Yet again, a vision of her husband passed before Aurora’s mind—this time, clad in only a cravat hanging limply about his neck and his Hessian boots, polished to a high luster. Oh, dear good Lord. The room felt like the fire in the hearth had just that moment roared to life, engulfing her in its heated embrace.
It seemed there was nothing to be done for it. She was simply going to have to indulge her fantasy and write another story about Quin.
He came to me in the nude save an inadequately starched neck cloth and two Hessian boots that fairly sparkled in the warm candlelight. My stomach quivered in anticipation from the look in his eyes.
Quin looked ravenous
—
like he hadn’t eaten in weeks and I was his favorite Yorkshire pudding. He growled low in his throat; if I hadn’t heard the sound so many times before, I’d think him an animal in disguise as a man. But since I had heard it in such regular intervals, it sent a shiver down my spine and caused that all-too-familiar wetness to pool between my thighs.
I wanted him to touch me. I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted him to do all the things he had done before, and everything I didn’t even know was possible between a man and a woman. I wanted it all.
He did come to me then, and he kissed me in that way he has of making my head spin and my toes curl and all my thoughts fly out of my head faster than
on-dit
can spread through a ballroom.
But just when I wanted to wrap my arms around his neck and hold on for dear life, he broke off the kiss and turned me away from him. I was too bowled over to protest. I was also too surprised to argue when he placed his cravat over my eyes, rendering me blind.
Blind? Oh, my. Where on earth was her mind taking her this time? Aurora really needed to get a firmer rein over her imagination.
This was apparently not the moment for that to happen, though. Before she could stop herself, her quill was flying across the page, filling it with devious and fantastic images, entirely too risqué for her to ever share with another human being.
Not even Quin.
~ * ~
Quin ducked to avoid Hodgson’s right. Close one. Hodgson’s fist glanced off the top of Quin’s head.
Not enough to make him sweat. Not yet.
Two steps to the side. Another to the front. He pummeled Hodgson in the stomach with his left, planted his right squarely to the eye.
Hodgson came up again like it was only the tickle of a feather to the roar of the crowd gathered at Jackson’s.
Blast, the man was built like Hercules.
Then again, that was what Quin had wanted. He wanted someone to knock him senseless. He wanted to forget about his lovely little Siren of a wife long enough to convince himself he wasn’t falling head over ears in love with her.
He wanted oblivion.
The kind of oblivion he used to find in brandy—but that he couldn’t get from brandy anymore because he was supposed to be a bloody respectable, married gent.
Quin blocked a blow from the right just in the nick of time and spun away. When he faced Hodgson again, he aimed a jab at the larger man’s jaw.
Too late.
Hodgson connected with his left straight in Quin’s eye.
Everything went black.
~ * ~
“Wake up, you arse,” Jonas said, his voice cutting through the blessed fog filling Quin’s mind. “You should have listened to me.”
“Sod off. If I had listened to you, I’d be exactly the same as I have been for the last two weeks.” Married to a temptress that he was falling for faster than he knew what to do with, without anything to remind him of reality. Sparring with Hodgson at least gave him a dose of the latter, even if it could do nothing about the former.
Naturally, Jonas grabbed Quin’s neck and dunked his head in a pail of water.
He came up spouting obscenities. “Why the devil did you do that?”
“Because you
are
exactly the same as you have been these last two weeks, aside from the split lip and blackened eye. Which, by the way, is swelling and looking rather putrid.” Jonas grimaced and backed away. “A boxing match isn’t going to change the state of your marriage, regardless of who you choose to spar with.”
The state of his marriage, indeed. Quin started to frown, but stopped when it hurt. “You have no business speaking of my marriage. You aren’t even married, yourself. What do you know about it?”
The crowd at Jackson’s had thinned considerably. Only a few gentlemen stood about, watching the sparring match in the ring half-heartedly. A random shout rang out in the otherwise quiet boxing salon while Quin waited for an answer.
Finally, Jonas spoke. “You’re right. I know nothing of being married. Not that I don’t wish to know, but for now, I’m ignorant. But I do know
you
.”
Could Jonas be any more cryptic? “Meaning?” Quin drawled.
“Meaning I know that you’re avoiding your wife. I may not know
why
you’re avoiding her. I honestly can’t understand why you’d want to. She seems perfectly amenable, and frankly, rather enjoyable—in more ways than one.”
“Watch your mouth or I’ll draw your cork. Right here. Right now.”
Jonas raised his hands in defense. “Hold on a minute. I never said I
had
enjoyed her, or that I
would
enjoy her. I just said she
seems
enjoyable. Jealousy is ugly on you.”
Quin’s head snapped around. Jealousy? Hardly. He didn’t care enough to be jealous. She was just his bloody wife—
his
, damn it all—and Jonas would do well to remember that fact.
Right?
Sitting where he was and brooding over matters would solve nothing. He pushed to his feet, only to wish he’d taken a bit more time in the process. Quin reached for the wall to steady himself. Hodgson must have knocked his head harder than he realized.
“I’m going home,” he said, pushing away from the wall.
Home
. He hadn’t thought of anywhere as home in so many years, he couldn’t recall when the last time might have been. How very odd.
“So early?” Jonas called out behind him. “It’s hardly past luncheon. Lady Quinton will not know what to do with you at such an hour.”
Good thing for her, Quin knew exactly what to do with her at such an hour. Sparring hadn’t been enough that day. He needed something—something more. Something else.
He needed Aurora.
When he pushed through the front door a few minutes later, she was nowhere to be seen. “Is Lady Quinton above stairs?” he asked the butler, who stood by to take his hat and gloves.
“Indeed, my lord.”
Quin removed his greatcoat as well, leaving it with the servant. He took the stairs two at a time, practically bounding with anticipation, loosening his cravat as he went. Good God, he seemed like a randy schoolboy, off to visit his first whore.
But Aurora was not a whore—she was his wife. He ought not to even think along those lines. Hell, she was virtually still an innocent, despite the fact that they’d been married for over a fortnight and she had become rather adventurous in the marriage bed. But he couldn’t very well bed his wife in the same manner he would bed a whore. Could he? It just didn’t seem the thing to do.
If he didn’t get the thought out of his head right that moment, he didn’t know what he would do.
She sat at the writing table in their sitting room, asleep with her head lying on something. Likely her journal. The blasted minx probably couldn’t help herself. The quill still rested in her right hand, hanging at her side. A few black ink marks stained her otherwise perfect and demure gown. For some reason, those few imperfections nearly drove him to distraction, they were so enticing.
He ought to leave her alone. Clearly she needed the rest, if she’d fallen asleep in such an uncomfortable position. Perhaps he shouldn’t have kept her up so late the night before with their lovemaking, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.
Or maybe he should carry her to her bed. Tuck her in. Be a gentleman. But God knew he struggled with that on a good day. Today was most emphatically
not
a good day.
He desperately wanted to know what she might be writing about now, since her previous writings had focused on her suitors. What could possibly be calling to her now, as a married lady of the
ton
?
Quin walked over to stand behind her, making as little sound as he could. He peered over her shoulder and scanned the page.
Damnation!
Even without reading every word, he knew exactly what she’d been dreaming up.
Quin looked ravenous
—
animal in disguise
—
cravat over my eyes
—
blind.
In an instant, he was harder than he’d ever imagined possible. And he did happen to have a cravat handy. Lucky him. He could give his devious little wife exactly what she wanted.
He pulled it free from his neck and placed it carefully over Aurora’s eyes, tying it tight behind her head. She stirred slightly when he removed the quill from her hands, but didn’t wake—not even when he lifted her from the chair and carried her to his bed.
Ever so quietly, he slipped into his dressing room and retrieved two more cravats, before returning to Aurora and gently slipping the gown free from her luscious body.
Chapter Fourteen
15 April, 1811
I honestly do not know where these ideas have come from. They’ve sprung up like the Sirens from the water, unbidden and unexpected, and I am entirely uncertain I should ever share them with another living soul. I shall have to be sure my journal never escapes me again. However, I now believe wholeheartedly that I am
not
the proper person to educate the young, unmarried misses of the
ton
about the joys of the marriage bed. After all, one never knows what will come to my mind. I would likely shock them all to the core, and have them all go screaming off to the Americas to live in a more civilized society with the Indians than the one which could produce such thoughts in an otherwise proper, married lady. Even I am scandalized, and the words were my own.