A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle (12 page)

Lord Quinton suddenly sat up and
pushed her back. Somehow she ended up with her gown and shift
cinched around her waist and her bare legs straddling his hips as
he loomed above her. “Marry me, Miss Hyatt. You must.” He hooked an
arm beneath her knee and pulled her leg up high in the air, licking
the sensitive flesh at the back of her knee and sending shivers
from her fingers to her toes.

Oh, dear good Lord. She had
to answer him, somehow. Regardless of what answer she gave, she had
to say
something
.
“Oh,” was all that came out, however, on a rather long and ragged
sigh.

Lord Quinton let her leg go and leaned
further over her. He slid a finger beneath her bodice, sliding it
along the edge of her breast. “So lovely,” he said, just before
following the same path with his tongue.

Aurora nearly came off the sofa from
the shock of sensations flooding through her.

“
Marry me,” he commanded,
blowing on the moistened and overheated skin his tongue had just
left. Before she could answer, he pulled on her gown and chemise
until one breast popped free. He took it into his mouth and rolled
his tongue over her sensitive, tight nipple. Something hard pulsed
against her womanhood, which was throbbing with its own unknown
need. She instinctively moved her hips to rub against him and
nearly cried out in shock from the pleasure it gave her.

And then, just as suddenly as it had
all started, Lord Quinton lifted himself away from her and
resituated her on the sofa. What had she done wrong? “Cover
yourself,” he said, his words terse and gruff. He left her and
stood beside the hearth, staring into the dying embers.

After she straightened her gown about
her legs and pulled her bodice up to cover her bared breast, she
felt colder, somehow more naked than before.

He did not turn to face her. With one
Hessian, he kicked against the grate. “You will marry me.
Tomorrow.” If she didn’t know better, she’d think there was fear in
his voice.

But Lord Quinton could not possibly be
afraid. That would mean he cared.

Ludicrous. Laughable, even.

He couldn’t have done what he’d just
done with her, and then tossed her aside on the sofa as he did if
he cared. She was just another of his conquests.

Yet
she
was afraid. There was only one
answer she could give him.

“
Yes,” she whispered to the
stoic expanse of his back.

~ * ~

Griffin looked up at the massive manor
house before him, then double-checked the direction. Number Twelve,
Berkeley Square. That’s what his father had told him. And with
those huge colonnades and beveled windows, it had to be Mansfield
House.

Thankfully, his father had
not been interested in
why
he needed to visit with Lord Rotheby. Griffin saw
no reason to bring more people into the matter than necessary, even
though Quinton’s actions were likely to have an effect on
Phoebe.

He knew his sister well. She had tried
to convince everyone at the ball that she merely felt a touch under
the weather, using that as an excuse for her early departure. But
Griffin saw the pain in her eyes that she had attempted to mask as
illness.

Obviously, Lord Quinton had been at
the same ball as his sister.

Which meant that Aurora Hyatt was
likely also at that ball.

He could be too late. Quinton might
have already set his devious plan into motion. Another young lady
might already be ruined.

Griffin should have immediately come
to Rotheby after Miss Hyatt had refused to see him. If he could not
stop her from her own folly, perhaps he could have stopped events
on Quinton’s end.

But he had not.

He could never forgive himself if he’d
allowed another innocent to fall prey to Quinton’s vices. Which was
why he was here, now. If anyone could stop Quinton, it was his
grandfather.

Griffin established his resolve and
knocked at the door. A butler ushered him inside and settled him in
a sitting room, and a pretty young maid brought in a tray with
biscuits and tea. He finished his first cup of tea and was well
into his second before Rotheby joined him.

“
Lord Griffin. One of
Laughton’s sons, aren’t you? What do you want?” The older man had a
spring in his step that was obviously missing in his
deportment.

Griffin jumped to his feet and started
to bow, but Rotheby waved him off impatiently.

“
My lord, I’d hoped to
speak with you on an important matter regarding your grandson and a
certain Miss Hyatt. I assure you, it is quite
imperative.”

The earl narrowed his eyes and took a
seat in the closest armchair. “Miss Hyatt, eh? Go on.”

“
I was at my club yesterday
afternoon when I overheard Lord Quinton speaking with a
friend”

“
Eavesdropping is rude,”
Rotheby interjected. “Is your father aware of your penchant for
such behavior?”

So he wasn’t going to make this easy,
was he? Quinton had probably already started things in motion then.
Something had to be done. “My lord, your grandson has come upon
Miss Hyatt’s journal. A journal filled with sordid
stories.”

The earl’s eyes widened,
but he shook his head. “And that should matter to me
why
,
precisely?”

Griffin threw up his hands in disgust.
“Because he is going to use this against her! He intends to trap
her in some way and force her hand. He’ll ruin her as fast as he
devastated my sister—you do remember that, do you not?”

Rotheby gave a curt nod.

“
Then you’ll also remember
that Phoebe was innocent in their situation. As, I’m sure, is Miss
Hyatt. You, sir, must do something to stop Quinton. You must rein
in your wayward grandson and protect this young lady before it is
too late.”

The earl reached to a
nearby table and picked up the morning’s society papers. “Here,
take a look at this.” He tossed it to Griffin. “You’ll see
that
you
are too
late. I expect they’ll marry within the week.”

Griffin scanned the story,
reading how the bastard had cornered the poor girl and kissed her
before half the
ton
. Thank God Phoebe had left before seeing that. Who knows what
it would have done to her.

He left Mansfield House, kicking
himself for not acting sooner.

Miss Hyatt must now suffer for his
inaction.

~ * ~

“
I have half a mind to stop
aiding you,” Jonas said, climbing into his phaeton after Quin.
“Maybe Rotheby was on to something with his ultimatum.”

“
Lovely to have your
support,” Quin grumbled. With the two of them seated together,
there was hardly room to breathe, let alone stretch one’s legs in
any sense of comfort. “I am perfectly capable of traveling to
Doctor’s Commons on my own, you know. You need not keep me in
leading strings.”

“
If I’m not going to cut
you off,” Jonas said, “I intend to keep both eyes fully trained on
you until this is all settled to my satisfaction.”

Quin had had enough. First, there was
the blistering headache from indulging a mite too much in brandy
the night before, compounded by the arguments with Jonas that had
gone well into the night. Then the meeting with Rotheby that
morning—which had been an effort, to say the least. And of course,
he’d had to handle both Hyatt and Aurora, as well.

Some days he thought
perhaps there was something to be said for living a quiet,
predictable,
honorable
life. Maybe someday he would give it a try. Likely not,
though. Even though sorting out the messes he created often made
him want to toss himself inside a burning building, they were still
damned fun creating in the first place.

“
I gave you my bloody word.
More importantly, I gave Miss Hyatt and her father my word. We’ll
marry tomorrow.”

“
Your word does not seem to
mean much, these days.” Jonas frowned resolutely. “As much as I
hate to admit it, I think you’d do well to listen to your
grandfather for once. Grow up. Be a man.”

If they weren’t driving through
crowded streets, Quin would draw Jonas’s cork for that comment.
“I’m as much a man as my father ever was.”

“
Precisely the problem.
What happened to wanting to be better than him?” Jonas navigated
the phaeton around a sharp turn, nodding and tipping his hat to a
passing carriage. “Why are you content to live the same life he
did—only perhaps to a greater extent? I wonder what your mother
must think of you these days.”

Blast. Quin hated it with a blinding
passion when Jonas was right. “Mother is none of your concern. She
is perfectly content in her new marriage, and thoroughly oblivious
to my pursuits.” Thank God. He would hate himself more than he
already did if she could see what a wastrel he’d become. “It’s
better this way.”

“
Better how? Better that
you never see her? She loves you. She wants you to finally be
happy. Like I do. And what of your sister? Nia wouldn’t recognize
you if she saw you.” Jonas shook his head and looked
away.

Quin ground his jaw. Nia was far
better off without him in her life. Jonas should leave her out of
this.

The phaeton rolled over a deep rut in
the road, bumping them against each other even more than they
already were. “Can’t you see that it would hurt your family to see
you acting like this?” Jonas asked after a protracted
silence.

“
Acting like what? Like a
gentleman who is doing the right thing? Like a bloody dandy about
to tie myself irrevocably to some silly chit I’ve known for less
than a day?”

“
Like a wounded bear,
acting out against everyone around you, Quin,” Jonas muttered.
“You’re acting out against me, against Rotheby, and now you’ve gone
and drawn Miss Hyatt into your mess. When are you going to accept
the fact that you can’t change the past, you can’t change the man
your father was, but you can damned well change who you
are?”

“
I can’t. I am who my
father made me.”

And he would bloody well stay that way
until he died.

Chapter Eight

2 April, 1811

Marriage
—
real, true marriage
—
is not something I’ve ever really
allowed myself to contemplate. After seeing what happened between
Mother and Father for so many years, it is the last thing in the
world I wanted. Yet now, I will be married whether I want it or
not. Tomorrow, in fact. Oh, dear good Lord. How did I end up in
this mess? Still, Lord Quinton
does
look to be quite the pirate. Perhaps at least a
marriage to him will be adventurous. Do I want adventure? I’m not
certain. I simply do not want boredom. So I shall hope that my
pirate will not bore me to tears. And perhaps someday we will learn
to love one another. I can always hope. Lust, at least, appears to
be in no short supply.

~From the journal of Miss
Aurora Hyatt

Everything felt numb.

Aurora couldn’t afford to feel. If she
allowed herself to feel, then she would collapse beneath the
enormity of it all.

Father had kept to himself
in his study since Lord Quinton left that morning. When she did see
him, the look upon his face was so pitiful she wanted to toss
herself kicking and screaming upon her bed.
She
was the cause of his despair. He
hadn’t appeared so despondent since the days when her mother was
still alive.

Rose continued to check on her, asking
if Aurora needed anything. Aurora wanted to wail each time her maid
asked such a question, because it only reminded her of how fast it
was all to happen. How the wedding she had once hoped never to have
at all would not take place at St. George’s and be attended by all
and sundry, but instead would be held at some tiny parish church,
with only those who absolutely must attend present. How, within
such a short breadth of time, she’d made the one mistake that would
mean leaving her father—the one person in the world she held the
most dear. But if she did not follow through—if she decided she
could not do it—then she would shame him most egregiously and he
would never forgive her.

Which she already feared he might not
do.

She wished her maid would simply leave
her be to wallow in her misery alone. She’d already sent the girl
off with the ivory satin for her wedding gown, so that a modiste
could fashion it, and then sent her to a florist to order flowers
for the church.

The ladies of the
ton
were certainly
upholding their end of the bargain. Even though it was Aurora’s
traditional at-home, not a single soul had knocked upon the door of
Hyatt House.

Not, at least, until Rebecca arrived,
well after the usual hour for paying calls. She swept into the
front drawing room (where Aurora remained, despondent, as she had
been since Lord Quinton’s departure) wearing a lovely jonquil,
sprigged-muslin afternoon gown. Gracious, had she brought the sun
in with her? How abominably churlish, to flounce in all bright and
cheerful when Aurora desired to remain wretched.