Twice a Rake (26 page)

She chided herself in silence for succumbing to vanity during the entire carriage ride to and from Covent Garden that night. Truly, everything he did was not
all
about her. Quin, as usual provided they weren’t in bed, remained mute as a church mouse for the duration of their short journey, which made it entirely too easy for Aurora to take herself to task.

Rather unsporting of him, if one should ask her.

Somehow, without her knowledge, he’d also sent invitations to Lord Norcutt and Rebecca to join them in their box. It had been quite the pleasant surprise.

At least the Rebecca part of the equation had been pleasant. Lord Norcutt hadn’t been entirely
un
pleasant. He actually made rather enjoyable, if not altogether unique, conversation in the box before the play began and out in the foyer during intermission. No prosaic talk of the dreary weather in sight.

Rebecca must have warned him. Aurora could think of no other reason for the sudden change in his disposition.

She likewise could think of no good reason why her husband would suddenly have taken to surprising her. Thrice in a single day, if one counted the way he woke her from her nap. What on earth could he possibly be after? Lively conversation didn’t seem to be high on his list of priorities, as evidenced by his return to silence in the carriage. There had to be some sort of ulterior motive for the change in his demeanor.

Still, Aurora wouldn’t complain. A husband who tried to surprise her on occasion was far better than a husband who never even looked her direction unless he had designs on how to impregnate her, whether she was capable of being impregnated or not.

Now, if she could just manage that last little part.

~ * ~

Blast. Blast, blast, blast, damn, blast.

Three weeks ought to have been plenty of time, right? Any normal lady, with normal ability to carry a child, could expect to have one on the way within three weeks of regular marital relations, couldn’t she?

But not Aurora.

Of course, no one had ever accused her of being normal. But that was beside the point. Oh, heavens, why had her courses decided to arrive that morning? Why couldn’t they have stayed away, so she could perhaps share the good news with Quin? Maybe then he would speak to her again. Maybe then they could pretend to have a normal marriage.

But no, they had to go and show up, as regular as the vicar at the pulpit of a Sunday morning. Blasted inconvenient nuisance.

At least Quin had gone off with Sir Jonas to box at Jackson’s again before her lovely little visitor had arrived. She didn’t want to tell him. Not yet.

Aurora wanted a little more time to sulk in private first.

He really ought not to engage in such a violent pastime. Every time he came home, she wondered what new bruises or cuts he would have, if not something far more serious.

But her wishes didn’t seem to matter—other than her wishes in the bedchamber. Quin was always eager to sneak a peek in her journal, to see if she’d come up with anything new or interesting for them to try. If not, he was more than willing to introduce her to a few of his own ideas.

Well, Aurora might not be able to satisfy him by telling him he would soon have an heir, but she could at least satisfy that other part of him. She took her journal and ink pot, selected a quill from her escritoire, and then headed for the newly decorated parlor downstairs. Someone
could
come by to visit, after all. Better to be readily available. She’d hate to keep anyone waiting, particularly when she received so few visitors most days.

Once settled at a table near the window, she opened the journal and let the words flow. At least that wasn’t impeded by her frustrations with Quin. Words never failed her, even if men (or nature) did.

Aurora was unsure how much time had passed as she scribbled away in her journal, outlining a delicious new fantasy she hoped Quin might soon indulge her with, when Burton cleared his throat at the French doors. “A visitor, my lady,” he said, holding out a silver tray with a calling card upon it.
Lord Griffin Seabrook.

Oh, dear good Lord. What could the man want?

Still, she so seldom had any visitors. It couldn’t hurt to entertain him for a brief visit, could it? “Send him in,” she said before closing her journal and setting her quill on the table.
Blast
. Ink stained her fingers, but there was nothing to be done about it at this point.

Aurora stood and waited for her guest to arrive. Moments later, he came through the double doors and bowed to her. “Thank you for seeing me, Lady Quinton.”

“The pleasure is mine,” she replied.

Though she wasn’t entirely certain there would be any pleasure involved. His look was rather familiar to her, with grey eyes and a long face.
A horse face!
He had to be related to Lady Phoebe—Quin’s previous fiancée.

The one he had jilted.

How very peculiar. “I apologize that my husband is away today. I’m sure that he would be glad to handle any business you may have with him at a later date, if you would like to make an appointment.”

Lord Griffin’s eyes flashed to a sudden storm, before returning to their more placid state. “I did not wish to see your husband, my lady, but you.” He took a few more steps into the room. “If I may be so bold, that is.”

Oh. Well. Aurora had no earthly idea what the man could possibly need with her, but there could be no harm in speaking with him. “Of course. Do come in and have a seat. I’ll order tea.”

He nodded and she slipped from the room. When she returned, he stood by her table at the window. A brisk scan of the table showed nothing out of order, though. Nothing to worry about.

“Please,” she implored. “Sit.” Finally, after she took up the nearest chaise, he sat in an armchair close to the hearth. “What can I do for you, my lord?”

“I should have come to you long ago,” he began. “Actually, I did, but you were unwell and could not receive visitors that day.”

“Yes, I seem to recall.” Barely. So much had happened in the interim.

Lord Griffin shifted in his seat. “Your husband—he is not an honorable man, ma’am. I am too late to impede your falling into his trap, but I feel honor-bound to warn you of his character. So you can protect yourself, as best you can.”

That piqued her interest. “Protect myself?”

“Yes,” he continued. “You may not be aware that Lord Quinton was once affianced to my sister, Lady Phoebe.”

“I am aware.”

Again, he fidgeted. “And are you also aware of the circumstances surrounding the dissolution of that engagement?”

Perhaps Lord Griffin would tell her the truth. Perhaps she would finally know the whole of it. “I understand that my husband cried off.”

“Has he told you why, ma’am?”

Or perhaps he wouldn’t. The weasel. “I hardly think you came here today in order to discover what my husband has or has not told me of an engagement that ended several years ago, sir. If you have, you will be sorely disappointed. Kindly make your point.”

Oh, dear. That came out a bit more snippy than she had intended.

“My point?” he said, staring off into the distance. “Well, my point is that your husband is after your fortune, ma’am. When my father told him the amount of Phoebe’s dowry, he ran off without a backward glance. Clearly, he expected a more sizeable sum.”

Lord Griffin could be right. Quin could be after her fortune. But that was a matter settled between him and her father, and she had nothing to do with it.

Nevertheless, it was too late to worry over such matters. Even though they
could
have something to do with Lord Rotheby’s concerns. Though what
breeding
had to do with her inheritance, she would never understand.

“As you’ve already stated, Lord Griffin, you are too late. We have married. Three weeks ago, I might add. I hardly think our financial situation is any of your concern, and I assure you that such matters would be better handled with my husband, if I am somehow mistaken on the first count. If that is all you’ve come for, I’ll have Burton show you to the door.”

 
“Wait, please. There is something more.” He looked down at his hands on his lap for a moment. Almost too long a moment.

“Yes?” Aurora finally prodded.

“My sister—she lost everything. After Quinton left, her reputation was in tatters. It remains so today.”

What did the man expect
Aurora
to do, for goodness sake? She could not very well help to improve a young lady’s reputation when her own was in its current state. An acquaintance with Aurora was hardly the fashionable accessory every lady of good
ton
must have. “Go on.”

Griffin cleared his throat. “Phoebe has only now agreed to return to society. My father, brother, and I are doing everything we can to lend our own respectability to her, so that she might attain some success. But if Quinton is in any way associated with her, with any of us, everything we have worked for will be lost. The gossipmongers will leap to again cast her in the same light they have kept her in for several years now. Please, will you do what you can to be certain your husband keeps to himself—that he stays away from Phoebe and the rest of my family?”

That was really not such a grand favor for him to ask. But truly, the visit had gone on long enough. “Of course, my lord.” She stood then and made to leave the room, forcing him to follow. “I bid you good afternoon,” Aurora said with a curt nod.

Lord Griffin shuffled out of the room, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his trousers as he went. Pockets that appeared to be rather overfull with papers. The man truly ought to hire a secretary to handle his matters. Shoving papers into one’s pockets seemed a poor way to treat them, particularly if they held any import.

The entire visit left her unsettled. She had no acquaintance with the man, so what did he care? Why was he so concerned? And if he truly was so worried about her, why wait until they’d been married for so long? Why not try harder to stop the marriage to begin with? None of it made any sense.

But worrying over that would do her no good, particularly when she had enough worries of her own already. Aurora went out to Burton, to have him send in a maid to retrieve the tea service. Mrs. Gaffee stopped her in the hall to briefly discuss her plans for decorating the dining room, and then she returned to her table. A little more writing would do her good. At least it would calm her nerves.

She opened her journal and her heart drained itself of blood. Oh, dear good Lord, she was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Quin would murder her.

He would toss her to the bottom of the Thames, tied down with weights. He would drag her behind a horse through all of London, then chop her head off and put it on display at the Tower. He would tie her to a stake and burn her alive.

And she would deserve all of that and more.

Countless pages were gone, torn free from the middle of her journal.

Her life was over.

Chapter Fifteen

25 April, 1811

If the world were not already at an end, if life were not already over, if there were truly hope that Quin could forgive me for being such an utter and complete failure as a wife, then perhaps I would not be so desolate. But he cannot forgive such a sin as allowing these pages to be taken from our home. He cannot forgive my barrenness. So life must irrevocably be at an end, and the world will come to a stop with it. How could it possibly go on, after all that has gone wrong? I daresay the End Days are upon us. Protect your families. Flee if you can. No amount of sorrow will be able to change what is to come.