Twice a Rake (40 page)

She’d make certain of it.

~ * ~

All around, Aurora’s plan for this house party was a bad idea.

Not only would Quin’s mother would be there for an entire fortnight, berating him for being such a negligent son, but he’d never seen such a wallflower as Nia before in his entire life.

Sir Augustus, at least, was genial and tended to stay out of the way as long as he had another gentleman or two to converse with and could sneak away from his wife long enough to smoke a cheroot from time to time.

But that was only his family!

It didn’t even include Rotheby, who would undoubtedly put a damper on any enjoyment Aurora’s other guests would care to find through the various entertainments she had planned. Quin regretted that he had done nothing to dissuade his wife from this debacle more and more by the hour.

Alas, as he climbed the stairs to his chamber for the night, it was too late for regrets. When he opened the door to the master sitting room of their suite, Aurora stood before him in nothing but a bold, diaphanous concoction that left nothing to his imagination. Well, in nothing but that and a devilishly sensual smile.

Good God, he wanted to rip that thing from her body and take her on the floor. More than two months into this marriage, he still hardened instantaneously just from the sight of her. Unbelievable.

A low growl came from his throat and he started across the room toward her.

“Not yet,” Aurora said, holding up a hand to stop him.

He pushed her hand aside and dragged her into his arms, burying his nose in the wild sea of her hair. “You can’t stand here looking like that and expect me to keep my hands off you.” Quin pulled her by the hips, until she was nestled—snug and firm—against his erection, then found her mouth with his tongue.

But she still didn’t cooperate. Blasted minx. Aurora kept her lips clamped and pushed against his chest with both hands. “I have something to tell you.”

“It can wait,” he bit off, trying to pull her back where he wanted her.

With a twist and a whirl, she was out of his grasp and halfway across the room. “No. It can’t wait.” Dropping down to one of the overstuffed armchairs by the darkened hearth, Aurora crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head, indicating he should do the same.

Damnation
. He supposed he had no choice, aside from taking her against her will. Quin stalked over to the chair opposite hers and plopped down into it with a heavy sigh, dragging his hand through his hair in the process. “What is it now?” he barked.

The serious expression she had donned to get him to comply fled from her face, replaced yet again by that sly smile. “I have news for you. Good news. I’m sure you’ll want to inform Lord Rotheby as soon as he arrives tomorrow, in order to obtain his good will.”

News that would ensure Rotheby’s good will? That could only mean one thing, as far as he could see. “Go on,” Quin prompted. He needed to hear it. He needed Aurora to say it.

She leaned forward, resting a hand on his knee. “I’m with child,” Aurora breathed. There was something so very erotic about that, about the way she said it. It left him filled with primal, uncivilized lust. At that moment, Quin wanted his wife more than he had ever wanted a woman before in his life.

He wanted to take her. He wanted to love her. He wanted to protect her with every part of him. He wanted to never let her go.

“You’re certain?” he somehow managed to choke out.

Aurora nodded. “But there is still the possibility”

“That doesn’t matter,” Quin said, waving his hand as if to brush the idea away. “What matters is that you’re pregnant. With my child. With
our
child.” He rose and lifted Aurora into his arms, carrying her off to his bed. He wanted to make love to her—but not like he had ever done with her before.

Slowly.

Sweetly.

He wanted to savor every moment.

His wife was pregnant. He was going to be a father. He would finally have a family of his very own.

~ * ~

Gilbert Thornton, Lord Rotheby scanned the salon as he and the other gentlemen arrived from drinking their after-dinner port. As had been the case for the past few evenings, the ladies were all scattered about in groups—the older, married ladies on one side of the room and the younger, unmarried ladies on the other side of the room. Young Miss Coulter tended to find a darkened corner to hide, but often Lady Quinton or Lady Rebecca would finagle a way to draw her into a conversation with one group or the other.

Lady Quinton and Lady Lipscombe, being of the younger generation yet also married, could be found with either group, it seemed.

As the gentlemen would join them, they too would fall into certain predictable groupings. The older, married men sat off together near the windows, playing cards and wishing to slip outside for a draw of their cheroots. The younger, unmarried gentlemen followed after the younger ladies, trailing along in their wakes like dogs on strings. Pathetic, really. But still understandable.

Lipscombe and Quinton elected to choose the former group more often, rather than the latter. Gil was a little surprised, actually, that Quinton would choose to spend time in his company. After all, it had been shocking enough that the rascal had allowed his wife to issue him an invitation. But then again, he didn’t imagine his grandson had ever been one to chase the skirts of proper young misses who were hardly out of the schoolroom.

Even with his choice in a wife, he’d gone for a slightly older chit—and one that was hardly proper, though clearly she did sometimes try. It seemed it just didn’t come quite naturally to her. Why, even her decision to host such a gathering with the gossip currently traveling about Town proved her pluck. It was almost as though she was flaunting it in their faces—yet it required both courage and a certain sense of humor that was far too often missing from those of her station.

Which was all well and good. Actually, it suited Gil quite nicely. Propriety was boring, and Lady Quinton was anything but. She seemed to be the perfect choice for his wayward grandson, keeping him close to heel in a way that neither Gil nor Lady Coulter had ever managed to do. Not even the influence of Sir Augustus had provided the desired effect on the lad.

But now…now Quinton seemed different. Perhaps Gil had made the right choice after all, in setting an ultimatum for the lad.

Quinton was married to a respectable (albeit scandalous at the moment) lady. He was finally caring for his responsibilities with Quinton Abbey (and yes, Gil had met with both Carruthers and Forster to ascertain just what level of involvement his grandson had assumed in the running of affairs). He was becoming the upstanding family man Gil always thought he could be. He’d even managed to impregnate his wife, from what they had informed him of upon his arrival three days previously.

Not that he would truly toss Quinton out for a failure on that particular task. God played as much a role in the task as man. But his grandson needn’t know that just yet.

Gil held no illusions about why his grandson had continued to sow his wild oats long past the age when it was acceptable. Quinton’s father—Gil’s son—had become something of a degenerate, to say the least, after that horrible tragedy. He’d been weak, and had turned a what should have been only a single tragedy into multiple other tragedies. For years, Gil had wondered if Quinton was not a lost cause. The damage caused by the lad’s father might have been too much to recover from.

But Gil had entered his seventy-fourth year. He couldn’t fool himself. Each breath he took could easily be his last. He had to make one more effort. One more try.

Finally, Quinton would be prepared to assume the role he’d been born to. Gil could only claim so much credit for the turnaround his grandson had made. Truthfully, most of the credit belonged to the indomitable Lady Quinton.

The chit had proved to be quite the force to be reckoned with, at least from what Gil had seen. Quinton could roll over or barrel through nearly anyone, but she held her own against him. Yes, she may have started a few scandals. But who hadn’t? Gil himself had even been involved in a few, in his day.

The
ton
was fickle. They would move on to some new
on-dit
as soon as the stories being falsely published as hers stopped being published. Obviously Quinton hadn’t managed that yet, since Gil had discovered a new issue of the
Sordid Scandals
at White’s the day before he left for Wetherby. He had no doubt that Laughton’s youngest son, Griffin, was behind it. The whelp couldn’t resist peeing in someone else’s flower bed, particularly if that someone happened to be Quinton.

So, since his grandson had yet to rectify the situation, Gil had decided to urge things on.

Harrogate was not all that far from Wetherby, after all.

He sat back in his chair near the window and watched the youngsters at their games. Charades, this time. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the asinine gestures that fool Norcutt was making. After all, he’d been a young man once, himself. He knew what it was to be in love and willing to do anything, even make an utter cake of himself, if it might earn him the attentions of his lady love.

In fact, if memory served (which was an infrequent occurrence these days, but this time he believed it did) a particular game of charades at a house party many years before had been what eventually caught the eye of Lady Rotheby.

Chapter Twenty-Three

21 June, 1811

Truthfully, the younger generation ought to listen to me when I attempt to match them up. After all, I sit and watch them all day. I see the ways they look coyly upon each other from across the room, the stolen glances, the thinly veiled lust. I see it all. They should simply capitulate and agree that I know best. It should not matter that I am also one of ‘the younger generation.’ I am a married lady, after all.

~From the journal of Lady Quinton

“I thought,” Aurora said over the din in the salon one afternoon, about a week into the house party, “that today might be a lovely day for an excursion into town for some shopping. The sun is finally shining again, after several days of rain. And the ladies and I are all feeling rather cooped up in the abbey and wish to get out. Would you gentlemen be so kind as to escort us?”

Many of the unmarried gentlemen in the room promptly snapped to attention with, “Of course,” or, “It would be my pleasure,” as their responses, eager for an excuse to get away from the prying eyes of the older chaperones for a bit of time. Quin and Lord Lipscombe did not appear to be quite as keen as their unmarried counterparts to join. However they had little choice since Aurora and Judith, Lady Lipscombe, were each firmly intent on going.

Indeed, Aurora’s house party had been a resounding success so far. Certainly, the weather had not cooperated as much as she would have liked, but she had planned for enough indoor activities that it had not presented a true problem.

And, much to her delight, her first attempt at matchmaking with Nia and Sir Jonas was also going rather well. At least it seemed that way, since Nia was no longer hiding in the corner quite so frequently, and Sir Jonas seemed all-too-content to remain by her side as often as Aurora positioned him there.

Her matchmaking attempts for Rebecca and Lord Tucker were not proving quite as auspicious, however. Just when she thought the two were well and securely situated together for some entertainment or another, if she turned around for a mere moment, somehow Lord Norcutt had finagled himself into Lord Tucker’s position by Rebecca’s side, and Lord Tucker had replaced Norcutt’s position with Miss Vivian Osbourne.