A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle

A Lord Rotheby’s Influence
Series Holiday Bundle

Catherine Gayle

Featuring:

Twice a Rake

Saving Grace

Merely a Miss

The characters and events portrayed in this
book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or
dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Twice a Rake

Copyright © 2011 by Catherine Gayle

Cover Design by Adrienne Thorne

Published by Night Shift Publishing at
Smashwords

Saving Grace

Copyright © 2011 by Catherine Gayle

Cover Design by Adrienne Thorne

Published by Night Shift Publishing at
Smashwords

Merely a Miss

Copyright © 2011 by Catherine Gayle

Cover Design by Adrienne Thorne

Published by Night Shift Publishing at
Smashwords

All rights reserved. No part
of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or
mechanical means
—
except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
articles or reviews
—
without written permission.

For more information:
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Twice a Rake

Catherine Gayle

Dedication

To Tyler, for all the hugs.

Chapter One

29 March, 1811

Oh, dear good Lord.
Tonight will be another ball. While Father views it as another
opportunity to find a gentleman who might make an acceptable match,
I view it simply as a means to obtain the newest gossip. Rebecca
promises she will have something worth my while when she
arrives
—
something
involving a reclusive, and potentially rakish, new gentleman. I can
only hope he is something worth writing about. At present, the
subjects for my journal entries are rather slim. Or boring. Or
both.

~From the journal of Miss
Aurora Hyatt

“
I still maintain it is a
shame that Lord Dodsworth did not live long enough to uphold his
agreement,” Aurora Hyatt’s aunt, the Marchioness of Sedgewick said
in her nasally voice. “Aurora ought to have been married and
widowed years ago. There would be no need for this farcical hunt,
wherein she finds every gentleman of good
ton
unworthy for some confounded
reason or another.”

Neither her father nor her aunt could
hold Aurora to task for Lord Dodsworth’s demise, however, despite
the manner in which she had celebrated her freedom from impending
marital doom. The earl had been stricken in years (to the point of
being more than twice her age—even older than Father himself) when
his face had landed squarely in his bowl of porridge. On that
equally horrid and delightful morning only a fortnight before their
planned wedding day, bits of gruel had spattered on both his
balding head and the worn, royal blue superfine of his overcoat.
How could a girl—for that is what Aurora must truly have been
considered at the time, having not yet reached her majority—have
been enamored of the prospect of a lifetime spent beside a man more
akin in age and temperament to her father than to the beaux of her
friends?

Regardless of the degree of sheer and
utter relief she had felt over the untimely passing of her
betrothed, Aurora had been absolved in the matter.

Various other matters, however…well,
truth be told, a touch of blame may rest upon her shoulders from
time to time. She preferred not to think on them overmuch.
Certainly, the present did not provide an opportune moment for such
reflection. As her father’s crested carriage drew before Southmont
Manor, she bit the inside of her lower lip in order to refrain from
telling her aunt just how fortunate it was that she had not married
Dodsworth. Indeed, she would not have done, if given the choice.
Thankfully, soon after his death, she reached her majority and
earned the right to choose for herself.

The coachman came around and set down
the steps, handing first her aunt and then Aurora down from the
carriage. After making their way through the receiving line, Aurora
slunk away from her aunt to find someone more pleasant with whom to
converse. Just then, her dearest and most especial friend dashed to
her side, skirting through the lines of dancers, pots of flowers,
and tables filled with drink, all in their proper and precise
places for this particular ball.

“
They tell me,” said
Rebecca, nodding across the way to a group of matronly gossips, her
honey-gold ringlets bobbing over her head with a force only
fresh
on-dit
could
provide, “that Lord Quinton cuts a most dashing figure, though his
appearance is more pirate-like than genteel.”

A pirate, now, was he? Aurora’s
imagination took over without her full consent, painting an image
in her head of a swashbuckling hero, with long black hair whipping
about an unshaved jaw, black eyes with just a hint of a devilish
gleam over a knowing smirk, and etched muscles of a perfectly
sculpted frame threatening to burst free from the clothing that
kept them confined.

Rebecca leaned in closer. “His hair is
sun-kissed and almost as long as mine.”

And just like that, the
image fizzled out from beneath her like the smatterings of
fireworks at Vauxhall smoldering and settling from the sky.
Sun-kissed hair? Surely he must be too—too—well, too
pretty
to fit her dream
of a dark and dangerous pirate, swaggering his way to sweep her up
onto his ship and away from the more lamentable reality of the
marriage mart and the depressing conversation and the
beau monde
.

“
It is odd, though,”
Rebecca continued, glancing over her shoulder at her father, the
Duke of Aylesbury, who stood well on the other side of the ballroom
and completely out of earshot. His Grace would certainly not be
pleased to discover his youngest daughter discussing the
less-than-illustrious details related to a rakish-appearing
newcomer to the London scene. “No one has ever seen the man wearing
anything but black. Might he be in mourning? Or do you think,
perhaps, he simply doesn’t realize how divine he would look in
blues or greens?”

Aurora frowned. “You’ve not seen the
man. How could you possibly know that he would look divine in
anything, let alone the particular hues?”

“
Well, why should he not
look anything short of spectacular in any color?”

Why, indeed? The more Aurora learned
about this elusive Lord Quinton, the more she desired to know. And
anyone who knew Aurora Hyatt remotely well at all could attest that
if she desired something, she found it.

Even if only in her
imagination.

Which, at the moment, was burning to
be set free. Highly irritating, that.

She needed details. Ample
details. “Since
they
seem to be so knowledgeable on the subject of this enigmatic
Lord Quinton, what do they have to say about his sudden
appearance?” In all the Seasons she had spent in Town, never once
had Aurora ever heard mention of a Lord Quinton—not even in terms
of his participation in the Lords. It was possible, she conceded,
that he was merely heir to a greater title, so wouldn’t have taken
up his seat in Parliament yet.

But Aurora needed to
know
. Her general
need-to-know grew more insatiable with each suitor’s dismal attempt
to woo her favor. It was pathetic, really. Her curiosity was like
the cat that returned to chase the fish in a pond, even after
having fallen in countless times.

Thankfully, Rebecca had ferreted out
at least a smidgen of information to satisfy her burgeoning need.
“Well, no one is quite certain who he is, though many seem to
recall his name for some confounding reason. Lady Fitz-Henry is
most unequivocally convinced he is a rakehell of unparalleled
measure.”

“
Is that so?” Aurora mused
aloud. Despite Lady Fitz-Henry’s certainty, Aurora held tight to
her doubts on that particular claim. The old marchioness was the
busiest of all the dragons in the
ton
, and frankly was certain that
nearly every gentleman she came across was a rakehell or worse. For
that matter, nearly every young lady’s name she mentioned must
clearly be a wanton, destined to become Haymarket ware if not, in
some other manner, ruined beyond repair.

Except, of course, Lady Rebecca
Grantham. Somehow, Rebecca had finagled herself into the position
of favorite amongst virtually all of society’s matrons. They
treated her almost as a pet. Which, at the moment, was proving to
be most useful to Aurora.

“
Yes, quite.” Rebecca
lowered her voice as a group of debutantes drew within earshot.
“And Lady Midwinter claimed that this Lord Quinton is the most
shocking flirt to dare to take part in society in her memory. Why,
he has all but stumbled over himself in his attempt to gain
introductions.”

Of course, Aurora already
knew more about
that
than Rebecca did. The man had reputedly requested (and had
been indubitably denied) an introduction to no fewer than six
debutantes at the Bythewood ball, in all their varying shades of
pastels.

“
No chaperone worth half a
farthing would dare to grant such a request, of course,” Rebecca
rushed on, “but no sooner had the last of those chaperones denied
him than he turned to Lady Kislingbury and flirted with her most
outrageously, in the plain hearing of twenty or more guests. The
man was so bold as to compliment the countess on her
décolletage.”

“
Indeed!” Now
that
was new information
if Aurora had ever heard it. And quite the scandalous bit of it, as
well. He just might actually be the scoundrel the gossips of
the
ton
would have
all the unmarried innocents believe.

Scandalous enough, even, to set her
mind to work. Oh, dear good Lord. She could feel the story brewing
in her mind already, and she most certainly was not in an
appropriate place for such an occurrence. The regrettable shade of
Lord Quinton’s hair no longer mattered, since far more intriguing
elements of his character had floated to the surface.

Quashing her imagination, at least
until she returned home and could set quill to parchment, became of
dire import.

Especially since she could feel
herself flushing, imagining Lord Quinton making just such a
statement about her own décolletage. That part would most
emphatically have to be written. There was nothing else to be done
for it.

“
Aurora,” Rebecca said,
with the tiniest hint of admonishment coloring her words. “You’re
doing it again, aren’t you? I can see it all over your face, with
the way your eyes look like they’re staring at still water in
Father’s pond.”

“
Poppycock. Doing what?”
Goodness, she couldn’t even convince herself with such a pitiful
excuse for a denial. This story must have an even firmer hold on
her than usual.

Clearly, Rebecca remained unconvinced
as well. Her creased brow indicated she would suffer none of
Aurora’s cheek.

Further denial would serve no one.
“Fine, yes. I have a story going in my head. Are you satisfied
now?”

“
Almost. I’ll be far more
satisfied when I can read it.” A gleam of mischief flashed in
Rebecca’s brown eyes. “Do tell me, will this story be more
invigorating than the one about Lord Ilbury?”

“
Most decidedly so.” Aurora
couldn’t stop the shudder that coursed through her body. Lord
Ilbury’s story was drab and tedious and somber—much like the man
himself.

And as with all of Aurora’s previous
suitors, since the story depicted what their lives together would
undoubtedly entail, she had seen no reason to further entertain
Lord Ilbury’s attentions once she had the picture mapped out in its
entirety in her journal.

She could not bear the thought of such
a marriage. It would be altogether too much like the marriage her
parents had lived. Unhappy. Loveless. Insipid. Utterly and totally
calamitous.