Twice a Rake (27 page)

~From the journal of Lady Quinton

Quin walked home from Jackson’s with an ache in his jawbone but a smile on his lips. Truly, spending his days boxing had proven to be a perfect solution. It kept him away from Aurora and her lovely little pout all day, and the sparring provided him with enough distraction to forestall mooning over her when he couldn’t see her. Too much time in her company or spent thinking of her, and he’d be in a sorry state, indeed. It was best to just not care overmuch. Then he couldn’t get hurt.

Well, aside from the obvious physical aspects, but they didn’t signify.

It didn’t hurt matters, either, that all his time spent at the boxing salon meant his wife had ample time on her hands to let her imagination run away with her.

What an imagination she proved to have. If he didn’t know just how innocent she’d been when they married, Quin might suspect she’d spent time in some of his typical haunts. His
previous
typical haunts, that was. He was a married man, now. It just wouldn’t do for him to continue his visits to those lovely establishments.

He was going to have to find ways of keeping his little bride entertained, though. Clearly, she’d grown restless. It hadn’t been much of an inconvenience to take her to the play. Perhaps he could arrange an excursion to Vauxhall. She’d probably enjoy the fireworks. And maybe he could sneak her off on one of those dark, winding paths he’d heard so much about and see what happened.

It was well past dark by the time he climbed the steps to Number Fourteen. Clouds had started to roll in that afternoon, too. Looked like the agreeable April weather they’d been experiencing was soon to come to an end. Pity. Taking Aurora to Vauxhall for an evening would have to wait, if the stormy sky was any indication.

“Good evening, my lord,” Burton called out as he came through the massive oak doors. “Her ladyship requests that you go to her at once in your sitting room.”

Indeed. Quin left his hat and greatcoat with the butler and took the stairs two at a time. An evening in might not be so terrible, after all. He could only wonder at what fanciful method of lovemaking she’d thought up this time. Perhaps she would be waiting for him in some diaphanous confection he could rip off her. Or maybe in nothing at all.

Quin threw open the door to their shared sitting room, already hard just thinking of all the infinite possibilities that could await him, ready to toss her into his bed and sate their needs until the sun came up.

He felt as though he’d run headlong into a brick wall the moment he saw his wife, however. Aurora sat on the floor, crying with her head resting in her arms over a Louis XIV armchair by the window. She didn’t even look up when he came in.

Good God. Quin could handle many things. He could spar with the best of them and come away relatively unscathed. He could convince virtually any woman to lift her skirts, all with a flash of his teeth and a knowing look in his eye. He could cheat an experienced cheater at the most notorious gaming hells and not get caught. He could down a full flask of brandy and still find his way home before sunrise.

But he hadn’t the slightest inkling of what to do with a crying woman.

His younger sister must have cried some when she was growing up, but Mother had always handled Nia’s problems. Quin was too busy sowing his wild oats—and then some—and then he had left entirely. He hadn’t seen her in years. Probably wouldn’t even recognize her if he saw her.

It was better that way. Better for all of them.

But at the moment, he wished he had spent more time with his female relatives. Surely then he would have a clue what to do with Aurora.

Quin closed the door and moved to stand by her side. He placed an awkward hand on the back of her head, patting. “There now. Whatever it is, it can’t be so bad as all of that.” He hoped. He was thoroughly incapable of handling anything truly deserving of raising such a breeze.

For a brief moment, Aurora stopped and looked up at him. That only served to increase her sobs, however. She threw her face against the cushion with such force, he was aghast that she didn’t have a bloodied nose. Somehow, he
knew
that he would be useless in such a scenario.

“Should I ring for your maid?” he asked.
Please, God, let her say yes
. “Or perhaps you would like to speak with Lady Rebecca? I’d be glad to send for her.”

“They can’t help me,” came Aurora’s muffled wail. “No one can help me.” Her voice was more pitiful than anything he’d ever heard in his life.

He was probably the problem. It had to be his fault. That was just how his life worked. If only he knew what he’d done this time. Perhaps he ought to spend more time with her. Maybe she was feeling neglected. Damned nuisance, figuring out how to handle a wife.

The crying part only magnified the nuisance.

Quin sighed and took a seat in the armchair next to her. “Tell me the problem. I’ll resolve it, whatever it is.”

She sniffed and looked at him with the biggest, most forlorn and wounded eyes he’d ever seen—red and swollen and swimming in an ocean of tears. That expression would be the death of him. He wanted to grasp whoever had caused her desolation by the scruff of his neck and cudgel him to a bloody pulp. At that moment, he would do anything for her.

Damnation, was this normal? Did it happen to all married men? This was certainly an unexpected effect of becoming a husband—and not one which would be conducive to maintaining his sanity. Particularly if Aurora cried like this very often.

Still, she said nothing—just sat there looking at him with her sad eyes.

Now was not the time to lose his patience. Quin counted to twenty to avoid yelling at her. “Tell me. I can’t help if I don’t know what the problem is.”

Aurora’s lower lip trembled. “But you
can’t
help,” she wailed. Surprisingly, the fountain filling her eyes seemed to have stopped. Maybe the worst of it was past.

He gave her the sternest look he could muster. “Nonsense. I’m your husband.” Was it not his duty to set right whatever problems she had? “Tell me.”

Good God. He thought she’d cried herself dry, but a fresh wave of tears filled her eyes and poured down her cheeks. If she didn’t stop soon, they’d both drown.

“My courses arrived this morning,” she said with all the overwrought emotion of a whore at confession.

Her courses. This was all because she wasn’t with child? Life as he knew it would never be the same again, if Aurora intended to cry like the world had ended each time she had her monthly visitor.

Granted, he would have preferred for her to become pregnant immediately—he’d certainly done his best to make it happen and would gladly continue his efforts in that arena with no complaint. It would get Rotheby off his back—but that wasn’t exactly realistic. They might be lucky if she was impregnated within the year his grandfather had allowed them.

“It’s all right, love”

“It’s not,” she said and cut him off. “It’s not all right. What will happen if I can’t have a baby, Quin? What will Lord Rotheby do?”

Why did his wife insist on worrying about things that were none of her concern? “That’s unimportant right now, Aurora.”

She glared through her tears. “Don’t lie to me. And don’t brush this off.”

“I’m not bloody lying to you,” he all but bellowed. And then winced when she flinched in reaction. Blast, he had to reclaim control of his temper. “All I’m saying is that your courses arriving today are not anything to be overly upset about. So stop crying.”

“Stop crying? If that were all there was to it, maybe I could stop. But there’s so much more.” Aurora lowered her gaze to stare studiously at the floor. “So very much more.”

“Such as?” Quin drawled. Aurora’s dramatics had his nerves wearing thin. She ought to have pursued a career on the stage. It may not be genteel or well looked upon by those of Quality, but she put the actress who had played the shrew at Covent Garden the other evening to shame.

She remained mute.

He’d have to remember in future, when she came to him with those huge, red eyes, that it was all a show. All an act. Nothing real for him to get upset about. No reason to contemplate violence.

Quin stood and stretched. “I’m going to bed. Feel free to join me when you’ve finished with your crying jag.” Then he retreated to his chamber and closed the door to his wife’s hysterics. If only he could always do that—turn off her emotions by simply closing a door.

His life would be so much less complicated.

~ * ~

She should have told him. Aurora knew he would be furious with her either way, but she ought to have told him.

Quin deserved to know that she’d made a laughingstock of him before the whole of the
ton
. He had a right to prepare himself for the scandal set to break out.

But how? How could she admit to something that was set to tear their lives in two, particularly when he was already upset with her? And how could she give him the truth when he baldly and purposefully refused to do the same for her? Besides, while Lord Griffin may have taken something from her, if Quin tried to
do
anything about it, Lady Phoebe would end up being hurt in the bargain. Aurora did not want for that to happen—not on her account.

So she kept the dilemma of her journal’s missing pages to herself. Quin would find out soon enough. She’d have to pay the piper eventually, but there was no reason to rush matters.

And she cried herself to sleep.

           
In her own bed.

~ * ~

Quin woke to the sound of scuffling feet and raised voices in the hall. “Get out of my way or I’ll cudgel you over the head with this cane!” Rotheby? What the devil was he doing here? Quin tossed the counterpane aside and blinked. The sun was hardly up in the sky. Granted, the clouds would likely obscure it to the point it would be difficult to see, but darkness still reigned in his chamber.

He started to snap at Aurora to rise and cover herself before realizing that she wasn’t there. Damnation.

He’d barely pulled on a pair of trousers before the door to his chamber flew open. Rotheby charged in brandishing a society paper in Quin’s face, with Burton and two footmen following in his wake.

A throb formed in Quin’s temple almost on sight.

“You promised to settle down,” the earl sneered. “To become respectable. And then this. I should never have given you a chance. I should have just cut you off and left you to deal with the consequences. This is how you repay me?”

What the deuce was the cantankerous old codger carrying on about? Quin took the
Haut Monde Gazette
from his grandfather, glancing up when Aurora slipped into the chamber from their sitting room, a heavy wrapper covering her nightrail. He wished something was doing the same for her eyes.

All a show. Her pitiful act was just a desperate bid for attention, from the puffy eyes, to the visible shaking, to the abject look of horror. Attention he could hardly afford to give her at the moment, particularly since Rotheby was standing by, waiting for some answer he doubted he could provide.

He looked down at the paper in his hand. When he squinted to make out the words, Burton brought over a candlestick.

Quin’s heart nearly stopped.

Gentle readers, let it be known that we are sufficiently Scandalized by the Writings of the new Lady Q to be convinced never to remain within the presence of either herself or her husband. The very Fact that her ladyship feels it prudent to Write at all, we find highly disturbing and enough to warrant the Cut Direct. However, the Acts recorded therein, if not Illegal, are at the very least Immoral and Improper and we cannot, in all good conscience, refrain from warning our readership of their lurid existence.