Twice a Rake (29 page)

He had almost done it. He had almost become exactly like his father in that moment, in that one instant. The only difference remaining—that he had not actually struck his wife—was now on the precipice of withering and dying before his eyes.

And
she’d
been the one to drive him to the brink.

Quin lowered his hand to his side, slowly, methodically. He spoke in measured tones. “Get in the carriage, Aurora.”

Then he walked from the townhouse without looking back to see if she followed.

Chapter Sixteen

27 April, 1811

The silence is almost unbearable. Yet I have no words. I feel as though I’ve been stripped naked and placed on display for the world to deride me and all the mistakes I’ve made. It would be nice to have company for such a humiliation, but I would not wish the pain upon even Lord Griffin.

~From the journal of Lady Quinton

How had Aurora’s life gone from carefree to utter misery in less than a month? Everything about it was hopeless, right down to the ache in her back from spending the better part of three days in a poorly sprung carriage. In silence. Except for the creaking of the axels and the clip-clop of the horses hooves, and, of course, the sniffles coming rather audibly from herself and the grunts coming rather frequently from her husband.

He refused to speak to her the entire journey. Even over their meals at coaching inns, he would stare icily at his food or the copious amounts of ale or brandy he drank each night.

Quin didn’t even insist on sharing a bed with her at night, as he had throughout their entire farcical marriage, instead situating her in an entirely separate room.

Which was just as well. Aurora had no intention of willingly participating in any marital activity with him. He could take her by force if he wanted, but he would have to do just that—use force.

There weren’t enough curses in her vocabulary to accurately describe what he was—what he’d become to her.

So for the duration of their journey, she sat on her bench, staring out the dusty window to her right and watching the rolling landscape they were leaving behind. And he sat on his bench, likewise staring out the window to his right, watching what lay up ahead. Both staunchly refused to look at the other. At least not when they’d draw notice. Aurora did steal a few peeks while he slept, noticing the furrow of Quin’s brows and the clench of his jaw, even in repose.

She wanted to write. There were so many emotions roiling beneath the blasé exterior she was trying to convey to him, that they threatened to overwhelm her if she couldn’t find a way to express them. Sadness over leaving Father and Rebecca behind with little more than hastily scribbled notes of explanation. Guilt at being the cause of her husband’s turmoil, however unintentional it had been. Fear of her inability to provide him with the heir Lord Rotheby demanded. Devastation at ending up in precisely the marriage she’d always intended to avoid.

More than anything, though, the loneliness ate her from the inside, devouring anything good or hopeful she had left.

Writing would help her to work through it all—to find a way of moving forward. But she couldn’t do it with all the bumps and jumps caused by the carriage. Besides, Quin would likely be furious with her for attempting it. Her writings, after all, were the impetus of their current scrape, even going back to their very meeting. He’d likely forbid her to ever lift a quill again, not that she desired his approval.

Aurora could only hope that Quinton Abbey would be a massive structure—one large enough that she never had to see him, if she so desired. One where she could lose herself and forget that she’d married the least understanding man in all of England.

One much like Fairfax Priory, where her mother and father had spent their days as separate and distant as two people could be.

~ * ~

Darkness started to fall when they were still a good hour from Quinton Abbey. Good. Quin couldn’t stand to see Aurora’s tears any more. The cover of night was his only refuge from the storm of her misery.

Misery he’d caused. Quin held no illusions about that. The long road from London to Wetherby had provided him ample time to ruminate over all the ways he’d failed, not the least of which would be as a husband.

Hell, he’d failed Aurora starting before he ever met her.

Now he was bloody well failing himself, too. Through all the years since his father’s death, he knew he was far too much like the man for his own good. The drinking. The gambling. The whoring.

But never—not once in twenty years—had he ever taken that last step. Until Aurora.

Since he married her, he’d been traveling down that path without even realizing it. He rationalized his daily visits to Jackson’s as just working out some tension. It was a lie. She was far more right on that front than she knew. He was lying to the worst person possible—himself.

Quin was becoming just as violent as his father had ever been, and had nearly taken it too far when he came so close to striking Aurora.

What if he couldn’t stop himself the next time? What if he lost that thin thread of control completely and struck her? Would he stop with one slap, or would he take it further—like his father had so often done?

He couldn’t trust himself. Not anymore.

It was easier at night. He could place Aurora in a separate chamber and lock his door, and not have to wonder what he’d do.

But during the day, it was just the two of them. All day. In the carriage.

Fighting to avoid each other’s eyes.

The tears that continued to well up in his wife’s eyes ripped him to shreds inside. She tried to hide it. She would wait until she thought him asleep, and then she would stare out her window and let them flow.

It nearly killed him, watching her agony and being unable to do anything about it. In all truth, he deserved to die. He’d taken all the euphoria and vivacity and life from her. And what had he given her in return?

Nothing. Not even himself.

Ha. Like he would be any sort of a gift. Most days, he detested being saddled with himself.

The carriage turned from the main road down the path leading to Quinton Abbey. Thank God. Perhaps here she could find some happiness. Perhaps here he could put enough distance between them to stop his maddening descent into both depravity and love.

Perhaps here it could all change.

~ * ~

Aurora jolted awake when the carriage rolled to a rickety stop. Quin tossed the door back and climbed down without waiting for the driver to set out the steps. Apparently they had arrived. So very kind of him to inform her of such.

Her husband’s voice rumbled outside the carriage. She could only assume he was giving the driver and outriders some instructions, since she couldn’t make out his words. And then he was gone, marching up a long walkway which cut through what was likely an impressive garden. It was difficult to tell, however, without any lanterns about to light the way.

For that matter, Aurora could hardly make out lights in any of the windows of Quinton Abbey—and there were ample windows, to be sure. The abbey was easily double the size of Fairfax Priory. Perhaps thrice the size. The moon was only a sliver, its light far from ample this evening.

After her husband had disappeared from view, the coachman set down the steps and handed her out of the carriage. “His lordship requests that you hold onto my arm and walk with me up to the main house, ma’am. He does not wish for you to lose your footing in the dark.”

“Thank you,” she murmured. Why could Quin not take the task upon himself, though? Was he so averse to her presence after what had taken place that he couldn’t even walk alongside her? That must be the case. After all, the carriage had hardly come to a stop before he had leapt from it and run off to his precious abbey.

The path leading through the gardens went on much further than Aurora initially thought. Several moments had passed as she walked along it on the arm of the coachman, and still they seemed a reasonable walk away from the main entrance. Quinton Abbey grew ever larger in her mind the closer they came to it.

And then lights began to pop up in the windows, a few at a time. Footmen came down the path toward them, pausing before her to bow, and then continuing on their way back to unload the carriages.

By the time Aurora arrived at the entryway to her new home, a small but growing contingency of servants stood before her with Quin at their helm. He took her hand from the arm of the coachman and placed it on his own. “Thank you for your assistance,” Quin said to the man. The coachman bowed and left.

Quin turned her to face the line of servants.

Directly before Aurora, a curmudgeonly-looking man with silver hair and spectacles waited for her attention. He executed a stiff and precise bow. “Welcome to Quinton Abbey, Lady Quinton. Please call me Forster. I must apologize for our lack of preparedness for your arrival, ma’am.”

Quin stirred at her side. “The fault lies with me. I failed to send word of our journey.”

“Nor that of your marriage, or even that of your return to the country,” said Forster under his breath, garnering Aurora’s attention.

Return to the country? Goodness, how long had Quin been away from his estate? Aurora eyed her husband warily, wondering what he’d been doing before his arrival in London.

Quin frowned at him before he looked down the ever-growing line of his employees. “These introductions can wait for tomorrow, Forster. It has been a long journey. Her ladyship requires rest.”

Aurora fought back a scowl at his declaration. He’d not said a word to her in days, nor had he listened to a word
from
her. How would he know what she needed and what she didn’t need? Insufferable despot. But it would not do to call him to task for such a thing in front of his servants—particularly not when they’d only learned of her existence moments before.

“Of course, my lord,” the butler said. He glanced over his shoulder as three maids scurried into the grand foyer, issuing hasty curtsies as they joined the line of servants. “It appears her ladyship’s chamber is prepared. Mrs. Marshall, would you show Lady Quinton to her suite of rooms?”

A squat, round woman with greyed hair and a mess of keys tied to her waist curtsied. She clearly held the post of housekeeper. “If you’ll just follow me, my lady,” she said before bustling off toward an imposing hall, easily three times as tall as her husband if not more so. “I’ll be glad to give you a tour of the abbey tomorrow if you should like. And any time you’re ready, we can go over the household accounts and such. But I daresay you’d prefer a bath before you even think of anything like that.”

“Indeed, a bath would be just the thing.” Aurora left Quin’s side, gently but insistently tugging her arm free from his hand, to follow Mrs. Marshall through a labyrinth of hallways and up an opulent staircase, listening to the older woman natter on like a magpie until finally they reached an elaborately furnished stateroom.

Ornate plastered designs covered the ceilings, standing at odds with the rest of the architecture. From all indications, the abbey had been built centuries before. A mammoth, curtained, four-poster bed stood at one end of the room, surrounded by Queen Anne trunks, chests, armchairs and divans, all made of rich walnut and covered with burgundy cushions. The walls bore gold satin-silk linings.

The chamber was terribly elegant, even though the furnishings looked to have remained in their current position for decades, at the very least. On the opposite end of the room, a series of maids were filling the tub with steaming water. Rose stood beside it, ready to assist Aurora with her bath.