Twice a Rake (11 page)

“How are you so certain of her suitability?” his uncle asked. “You’ve not spent enough time in her company to know anything of her character. Frankly, I’m not convinced. She proved last night she is rather more wanton than respectable.”

The old bastard would just not quit. After all Quin had gone through in order to find this potential bride—someone beyond reproach—now, he’d gone and sullied her character himself. Rotheby had to approve of her. “You would do well, my lord, to watch what you say of my intended in my presence.”

“As you would have done well to have chosen a bride who is not also a shameless hussy!”

Quin’s eyes widened, but he held himself back when Rotheby waved him off.

“But we cannot have everything, now, can we?” The earl sighed and lowered himself into a chintz armchair near the fire. “What do you know of her family?”

He doubted his grandfather would like the true answer: nothing. “Her father is Viscount Hyatt.”

Rotheby nodded and steepled his hands. “Her mother…I seem to recall the viscountess was from Greece, is that right?”

Blast. How on God’s green earth was he supposed to know anything like that about the minx, let alone about her mother whom he’d never met? He’d only danced with Miss Hyatt for a few minutes—while utterly foxed—and then kissed her. The finer details of her heritage remained a mystery. “Yes.” He hoped. Quin didn’t want to lie to the old man, not overtly so at least. Aurora certainly looked like Athena incarnate. The thought of her being half Greek suited her. Much as she suited him.

“That aspect of her heritage will not help your cause with me,” Rotheby said. He looked up at Quin, seeming to gauge his reaction. “I want a proper heir to this title.”

Quin bit the inside of his lip to calm himself. It didn’t work. It only hurt like a bee sting—which only served to make him hotter than he was before.

“You will bloody well have a proper heir,” he bit off. “The chit is good
ton
. Her father is a viscount. What more do you want?”

For long minutes, Rotheby stared into the fire in his hearth. “Do not fail at this, Quinton,” he finally said, not bothering to raise his eyes. “You cannot afford it.”

With a flick of his wrist, Quin’s grandfather dismissed him.

~ * ~

The door to the front parlor of Hyatt House slammed closed a mere thirty seconds or somewhere thereabout after Quin’s arrival and the butler’s departure. The sound jolted him out of his internal debate over what precise color the room might be. It was bright and light, happy even, made only more so with the late morning sun streaming through diaphanous curtains.

A man he could only assume to be Viscount Hyatt stood before him, with his starched neck cloth hanging askew and his dark eyes ablaze. One arm of his coat had not made it onto the arm of his person. Streaks through his hair outlined his advancing years.

“
Lord Quinton
,” the older man sneered. “I wondered how long it might take you to make your appearance. Or, for that matter, if you would even be so bold as to show your face at all, considering the scoundrel that you are.”

Time to make himself amenable. Good Lord, this was the one situation he had hoped never to find himself in. “Lord Hyatt.” Quin made an exaggerated bow. “I had hoped”

“What you hoped is irrelevant,” Hyatt said, his tone brusque with arctic frost. He strode across the hardwood floor, the heels of his polished boots clicking with near-military precision, until he stood nose-to-nose with Quin. Or rather more nose-to-chest, since Quin stood more than a full head taller than Hyatt. “Will it be pistols?”

Christ. A duel? Quin’s accuracy with a pistol was atrocious, though somehow he’d managed to gain the opposite reputation. For once, he wished his father had taught him about more useful pursuits than brandy and beatings. If Hyatt didn’t kill him, Rotheby surely would over taking part in something as asinine as that. Not to mention illegal, but who was keeping track?

Dueling was simply out of the question.

“Lord Hyatt,” he said, hoping desperately the man would listen, “I fail to see how resorting to such drastic measures would serve anyone. Least of all your daughter.”

The older man’s eyes flashed. “Blackguard! How would defending my daughter’s honor fail to aid her cause?”

Quin took a step toward the window, both to put some space between them and to obtain the upper hand in these negotiations. “Let’s be completely honest, my lord. If we duel, nothing good can come of it for her.” He raised an eyebrow, daring the viscount to refute him.

Hyatt huffed, but held his tongue.

“If I should win, her honor would have been defended, but she would be left with no one to defend her in future.” His odds of winning a duel were about as good as a slow rat’s chance of escaping a hoard of hungry cats, but Hyatt need not know everything. “And if you should win, her honor will be restored—but she will never attain a suitable match, since her one reasonable opportunity at an offer would be six feet under.”

The viscount clenched his jaw and his face filled with heat. “And what, pray tell, would you suggest take place instead? I hardly think you worthy of her.”

Of course he wasn’t worthy of Aurora. Quin wasn’t worthy of anything good or decent. His father had made certain of that many years before. But he couldn’t allow that to stand in the way. “Whether I’m worthy of her or not is hardly the issue. The issue, as I’m sure you cannot deny, is that Miss Hyatt’s reputation has been tarnished—by me—and no one but me can restore her respectability.”

Hyatt twice opened his mouth to offer a retort, only to snap it closed again a moment later. Clearly, he could not muster an argument that would hold any weight against Quin’s claim.

As it should be. The man could not have honestly expected a duel would solve anything. Save, perhaps, protecting his pride as a father.

“She needs the protection of my name,” Quin went on. “I am here to ask your permission to offer for your daughter. I intend to make right what I have made utterly and irrevocably wrong.”

Neither man said anything for long minutes, Hyatt shaking and silently seething, Quin staring at the last embers of his freedom smoldering and dying in the hearth.

Finally, Lord Hyatt sat in an armchair near the fireplace. “I’ve always known,” he said, “that the day would come when Aurora would marry. That my daughter would leave me for another man.” Tears filled his eyes. “What I never expected, though, was that this man would be no gentleman, that he would have no honor.”

Not a gentleman? True enough. No honor? Quin could hardly point to any aspect of his character to refute that claim, either.

He should leave. He did not deserve to have Aurora as his wife. Not after his behavior the prior night. Not after his behavior these last several years. Not after his behavior his entire life.

His eyes darted to the door. Three steps to liberty. Four at most.

Quin’s pulse roared in his ears.

He could be free.

Once more, he glanced at Hyatt.

The viscount stared up at Quin, his expression filled with grief. “I’ve failed her,” he said.

Damnation
.

~ * ~

Lengths of cream muslins, ivory silks, and white satins draped every possible inch of Aurora’s bedchamber. A number of them even enveloped Aurora and Rebecca as they toiled to choose which one should be used for a wedding gown.

At a knock at the door, they tried to free themselves from the mountain of fabrics—to no avail. In fact, their exertions only resulted in their combined crash from the bed to the floor amidst a sea of white foam.

Rose rushed inside. “Miss Hyatt? Lady Rebecca? Are you both quite all right?” She lifted layer after layer from atop them, digging down to their joint textile grave.

“None the worse for wear,” Aurora said, taking hold of her lady’s maid’s hand and regaining her feet.

Rebecca merely harrumphed from her spot beneath the lace she had been attempting to convince Aurora to use.

“Lord Hyatt has requested your presence in his library, miss,” the maid rushed on. She pulled the random fabrics off her mistress and set to work straightening Aurora’s gown and correcting her coiffure. “He said it is a matter of great urgency.”

“See?” Rebecca said, her eyes full of mischief. “I told you Lord Quinton would come.”

Aurora rolled her eyes. “Lord Quinton! Father probably just wants to inform me that he’s shipping me off to a convent or some distant relative on the continent.”

“Care to wager?” Rebecca asked. “Why else would your maid be taking such pains to be certain your appearance is just so?”

A wager? Scandalous! And precisely what she needed that day.

A pin jabbed into Aurora’s scalp as Rose wrangled a particularly stubborn curl into an exacting and precise position. “Ouch!” She reached up a hand to rub the sore spot before turning back to Rebecca. “Done. What would you care to wager?”

“So sorry, miss,” her maid said as she continued to work. “We have no time to dally.” Once she had Aurora’s hair just so, Rose took hold of her arm and led her from the chamber, down the stairs, and to the library.

“If Lord Quinton
is
here to offer for you,” Rebecca said, scurrying along to keep up, “you must promise not to speak poorly of Lord Norcutt ever again.”

Aurora had no fear of that coming to pass, so it was easy to agree. “Fine. And if I am correct and he isn’t here to make an offer?”

Rebecca pulled on Aurora’s arm hard enough to stop both her progress and Rose’s. They had just reached the double doors to Father’s library—Aurora’s last moment of freedom before whatever monumental change was about to take place in her life. The look in Rebecca’s eyes was sheer sincerity. “Then I’ll clean up the mess after your father rips you limb from limb, so he won’t be in trouble with Prinny.”

Chapter Seven

2 April, 1811

I’m off to face my executioner. Wish me luck in ending up wherever one can receive kisses. I’d hate to spend eternity somewhere that sins of the flesh are not permitted, particularly after having only experienced the one kiss in my earthly body, not any true fleshly-sins. Oh, and one other thing: Do you suppose that there is chocolate in heaven? Or hell, since I’m likely on my way there. What would eternity be with no chocolate? Let us all hope we never have to learn.

~From the journal of Miss Aurora Hyatt

The frogs were back. Leaping around in her stomach and threatening to pop straight up through her throat and out of her mouth at any moment. And, quite frankly, Aurora couldn’t decide whether they were more from an excited anticipation or dread. Either would be appropriate in this situation.

Any moment now, Lord Quinton would come through the doors of her father’s library and ask her to marry him.

She wanted to accept him. Desperately so, in fact. And she knew it was what her father wanted for her.

But another part of her was very, very afraid.

           
he part of her that remembered her parents’ marriage. The part of her that remembered how unhappy her mother was for as long as Aurora had known her. The part of her that had resolved, upon the death of Lord Dodsworth (the moment when she was freed), that she would never marry a man who was not as desperately in love with her as she was with him.