Formidable Lord Quentin

by Patricia Rice

  “Do you know what type of mounts you and your sisters will require?” Fitz asked, pulling Bell from her reverie.

  “The girls haven’t been on horseback since they left Ireland. Let’s start with some of your gentler mares. Most of their riding will be in the city for now, so they don’t need endurance, just a patient temperament.” Bell knew precisely the mare she would have chosen from her father’s stable, but she wasn’t familiar with Fitz’s stock.

  “I have several that will suit, although one is older, steadier, but not as pretty.”

  Bell thought she heard amusement in the earl’s voice. Fitz had a warped humor. He was comparing his mares to the list he’d drawn for Quent.

  “Syd doesn’t have to marry her horse,” Bell said tartly. “Reliable is the best trait for her until she’s acclimated to horse and city.”

  “How about a pretty one for you, then?” the earl suggested. “I have a spirited Irish hunter almost the same color as your hair. You’ll look magnificent together.”

  Bell waved off the suggestion. “I won’t ride. I’ll hire grooms to follow them about. But Kit will need a steady pony.” To prevent further questioning, she buried her refusal under Kit’s requirements. “I don’t think he cares if it matches his hair, but I’d suggest one that will endure constant kicking.”

  She had no desire to explain why she’d vowed never to become attached to another animal. Once she’d lost Little Dream, she had learned to limit the amount of misery to be invited into her life. She wouldn’t summon more pain by doing more than providing her old friend with a happy retirement. From experience, she knew her family was likely to provide enough heartache.

  “I have a Welsh that will nip his lordship every time he kicks,” Fitz suggested with a laugh. “But I suppose that won’t teach him the proper way to ride.”

  “It might teach him consequences, but it might also cause him to fear horses. Tempting as that sounds, that’s probably the wrong direction.” Bell thought of the gentle ponies her sisters had learned to ride on. If only . . .

  She closed off that thought. The past was past.

  “I have more agreeable ponies,” Fitz said smoothly. “Jennie learned to ride on the Welsh, so our twins probably can, too.”

  “Knowing my sister, she probably encouraged the poor thing to bite,” Abby said with a laugh. “It would keep everyone else away. She’s possessive.”

  Bell smiled, remembering her childhood self doing much the same with a different mare. She hadn’t wanted her stepmother riding Little Dream’s dam. She wished she’d been kinder to the poor woman who had died birthing Syd. The painful memories she’d buried years ago kept crowding back with all this talk of horses.

  She stood and brushed out her skirts. “I think I’ll go up and check on Kit and Beebee, make certain they’re sleeping, and then I’ll retire. Thank you for the lovely dinner, Abby. You’re a marvelous hostess.”

  Ignoring protests, she glanced at Tess, who tilted her head as if to catch every precious word that Quent uttered. Bell scowled. “Syd, Tess, it’s been a long day. Say your good-nights.”

  “I’ll be up in a little while,” Tess said with a dismissive wave.

  Quent sent Bell a questioning look that she couldn’t quite translate, but at least he recognized her authority. She really didn’t want to be at constant odds with him.

  “Do I have to?” Syd didn’t rise from the love seat, although the ex-soldier had stood up the moment Bell had. “Mr. Penrose is explaining how the Portuguese make wine.”

  She wasn’t their mother, Bell reminded herself. Abby was a perfectly eligible chaperone. Just because Bell was irritable didn’t mean she had to ruin everyone else’s evening.

  “Lady Danecroft may wish to retire soon,” Bell reminded them. “You cannot remain down here with the gentlemen. It’s not done. Abigail, the instant you’re ready to turn in, send these chits upstairs, please.”

  “Actually, I need to check on the nursery, too. Let us all go up together.” The countess set aside her sewing.

  “Why can we not stay and talk with the gentlemen?” Syd asked peevishly, flouncing from her seat. “Tess and I aren’t children.”

  “Yes, you are, if you don’t see the impropriety. Besides, the men want to drink and play billiards and discuss inappropriate topics without you about. The world does not revolve on your whims.” Bell ushered both her sisters in front of her, then turned to glance at the men they were leaving behind.

  Fitz and Penrose were already engaged in a lively discussion of horses. Only Quent was watching them depart. He arched one eyebrow and saluted her, as if she were the officer in charge.

  Oddly, that pleased her, which only served to irritate her more—which was just too ridiculous for words.

  ***

  Quent tried to ignore a tug of abandonment as he watched Bell shepherd her sisters from the salon. Now that he’d set his mind on the course of marriage, he hungered for the feel of her mouth on his. He was a man accustomed to going after what he wanted. Denying himself was no doubt his problem. Once he had a marriage settlement, life would return to normal. Almost normal. After the sisters were out of the house.

  “Don’t think your list worked, old boy,” Fitz said cheerfully after the ladies had departed. “Bell sounded just a wee bit peeved, not the smoothest way to courtship.”

  “If I sent her flowers, she’d dump them over my head,” Quent said unrepentantly. “She’s not your pleasant-natured Abby.”

  “So, let her dump them over your head. At least you will have indicated you’re still interested,” Penrose argued.

  “You’re just interested in the sisters and want me to give you better access to them,” Quent countered. His aide’s blush confirmed his guess. “What was that about Bell not wanting her own mount?”

  “Nothing. She simply said she didn’t need one and that her grooms would be riding with her sisters.” Fitz shrugged. “She has a carriage. She doesn’t need a mount for showing off in the park.”

  That wasn’t quite right. Quent had been watching Bell’s expression, and there had been something there . . . But she wasn’t apt to tell him if he questioned. Damned hard trying to court a woman who didn’t want to be courted. Harder still when he didn’t entirely understand his own motivation.

  “The remark about there not being a perfect woman was an error,” Penrose informed him. “A proper suitor would have said there was only one perfect woman and let her wonder.”

  “Bell has spent these last years hearing all the pretty phrases. She won’t believe flattery,” Quent scoffed. “If I’m to go forward with this, I have to be frank and not pretend I’m the kind of man she knows I’m not.”

  “She rejected the man she thinks you are,” Fitz said with a laugh at Quent’s expense. “Did you ever consider that you might have to change a lot if you give up the bachelor state?”

  He had. And he didn’t like it—except for the part about having Bell in his bed. He growled irascibly and looked for the decanter. “Perhaps we could keep separate households. We’re both set in our ways.”

  “Then you want a mistress, not a wife. It’s a good thing both of you will be together here for a few days. You’ll discover whether you can tolerate each other’s company in the long hours where you aren’t being entertained by business or parties. Anyone for billiards?” Fitz asked, rising. “If not, I’m off to join Abby.”

  Quent declined a game and took his glass up to his chambers. He could hear feminine chatter around the corner but knew better than to join them.

  He’d brought work with him. He wouldn’t be bored.

  Although . . . His step picked up as he considered an even better, time-honored, and traditional method of relieving house party boredom.

  ***

  “I’m bored.”

  After opening her chamber door, Bell stepped away in startlement. Her visitor took advantage by crossing his arms and leaning against the jamb in all his glorious dishabille, preventing her from slamm
ing the panel in his face.

  Quent divested of neckcloth and coat, with his waistcoat open to reveal the breadth of his manly . . . she took a deep breath . . . his shirt, was a sight to behold. His thick dark hair had fallen over his forehead as if he’d been running his fingers through it. The open neck of his shirt, even in this dim light, revealed a few crisp curls.

  She had never mistaken him for a weak clerk type despite his business pursuits, but she had never fully comprehended the extent of his raw masculinity. She kept her gaze firmly on his . . . shirt . . . which was embarrassing enough without looking lower. Without a coat to distract from his tight trousers, she would have far too much to view.

  “You’re bored and you came to me to complain because . . .?” She let her voice drift off with ennui to disguise how her pulse raced.

  “Because you never bore me. Even though it’s more concealing, I think I like your robe better than that pretty gown you wore this evening.” He eyed her open neckline, although he had to see that she wore a high-necked shift beneath it.

  A summer shift, one sewn from the finest muslin and nearly transparent because the room was hot. She had not expected male company.

  “I am not part of the evening’s entertainment,” she retorted. “Please remove yourself so I might decently close the door. What would my sisters think if they saw you now?”

  “That we are pursuing the age-old tradition of house parties? Although they might not be aware of our traditions.” He came in and shut the door. “There, now the door is decently closed. I live to serve.”

  She backed further into her spacious chamber, heart improperly pounding. “I’m not certain what ideas you have created in your feeble mind, Hoyt, but I am not in the habit of entertaining men in my chambers. If you live to serve, then depart now.”

  “I’m fairly confident that you have not entertained other men, or I’d have heard them bragging. I simply think it’s time you considered it. We have the perfect opportunity here, where there are no city streets between us, no London audience to observe. Your sisters are at the other end of the corridor. What better chance will we have to see if we might suit? I promise not to tell.”

  He stalked her, as a lion hunts prey. Bell was fairly certain she’d read that a cat was more likely to chase prey that ran, so it was better to hold still, but instinct was difficult to fight. She crossed her arms over her robe and clutched her elbows.

  “It does not matter if we suit. I will not marry you, so there is no point in pursuing me.” She had learned from experience not to be easily intimidated, but she’d not learned how to combat her own desires.

  Lord Quentin Hoyt was a very desirable man. She’d dreamed of him for years—in a lascivious way, of course. She wasn’t quite dead yet. But romance simply wasn’t in the cards or stars or any other part of her life.

  He traced a finger down her jaw, and she tried not to shiver at the gentle contact. It had been a long time since she’d been touched with tenderness. Edward’s disappointment in not producing an heir had made him bitter and cold those last years.

  “Don’t tell me you aren’t a woman, Bell,” Quent said, “because I won’t believe it. Tell me I turn your stomach with disgust, and I won’t believe that either. We know each other too well, and we’ve deliberately avoided exploring our needs. But life changes. It’s time to take this one step further.”

  He lifted her chin with the side of his hand and placed his firm lips against hers. And she let him.

  Lord help her, she let him kiss her. The sensation spiraled straight from the brush of his masculine mouth into the pit of her soul. And lower. Very much lower. To parts much less innocuous than a feeble soul. She wanted to grab his arms and pull him closer, to rub against him and feel all that glorious masculinity, to part her lips . . .

  She shoved away before she could descend into the depths of hell. Her heart pounded, her blood raced, and desire pooled in places she’d thought long dead. Her breasts ached with need—for a man who was little more than a money-making machine, like Edward.

  “I cannot do this, Quent. I cannot. If you don’t wish to kill me, leave.” Frozen, she couldn’t even run. She simply trusted him to do as she asked.

  He brushed his finger down her jaw again. She flinched at how much she needed him to keep touching her.

  “I’ll leave for now,” he reluctantly agreed, “but I think we both know what we could have would be very, very good. I haven’t rushed you before, but I’m about to start pushing. Life is too short to deny our very natures.”

  He kissed her cheek and slipped out.

  A tear slid down that same cheek. She had spent ten years denying her impetuous nature. Could she spend ten more years denying herself—and all the years left after that?

  Nine

  Bell scarcely slept all night after the encounter with Quent. She tossed and turned and . . . burned.

  By morning, she was even more irritable than she had been the night before, but she donned her best smile for the sake of the company and descended the stairs wearing a riding habit, even if she had no intention of riding.

  She knew the tailored green spencer with the black braiding flattered her complexion, but her intent was to stay cool in the sleeveless chemisette beneath while keeping her more delicate muslins from being ruined in the dust.

  It was also her best travel costume. If she must, she could order her carriage and be gone by afternoon.

  Her sisters clattered down in their new boots, delightedly swinging their long trains and flashing their ankles as they did so. Of course, their ankles were encased in boots, but Acton Penrose was an appreciative audience. Bell thought it lovely that serious Tess had been relieved from her burdens enough to tease him a little.

  Bell looked for Quent, but he wasn’t there to escort them into breakfast. Or to escort them to the stable afterward. She refused to inquire after him. She didn’t have to. Her sisters did.

  “He’s taken his gelding out for a gallop, said the animal needs a holiday, although I think it’s Quent who needs to let off steam,” Penrose said, readily offering both arms to escort the girls to the stable, leaving Bell to rein in Kit. “Fitz has a neighbor with a Thoroughbred, so he’s probably visiting there.”

  Keeping an eye on the next earl of Wexford so he didn’t break his little neck kept Bell well occupied, so she needn’t become too involved with Fitz’s beautiful animals. She trusted Fitz to choose suitable mares for the girls. She concentrated on the ponies for Kit.

  “Wanta ride that one!” he cried excitedly as his sisters’ mares were led out. “Want that one!” he shouted even louder when Quent rode in on his enormous Friesian.

  “When you are as large as Lord Quentin, you may have that one,” Bell told him. “But first, you must learn to handle one your size.” She pointed out a dappled gray contentedly munching hay in his stall. A groom ran to fetch a saddle.

  Back outside, Kit tried to climb the fence. She held the back of his coat so he couldn’t go over. She didn’t remember her sisters being so rambunctious at this age. Of course, they had been taught to mind their manners. Kit obviously hadn’t. The nanny stepmother must have died when he was young. Bell mourned a woman she didn’t even know.

  “Oh, Lord Quentin, come help us decide!” she heard Tess coo. Looking tousled and manly and good enough for breakfast, Quent had emerged from the stable and lingered between the two enclosures that separated the pony from the larger mounts.

  Bell gritted her teeth but didn’t turn around to watch. She didn’t want to lose her sisters to Quent’s large family, but if it happened, her sisters needed to be familiar with at least some of the Hoyts. Quent was a safe start.

  Edward had taught her that his pragmatism was far more effective than her irrational outbursts. She would not yell at her sisters for being themselves.

  Kit had unbuttoned his jacket while her mind wandered. Before she could react, he slid out of it, leaving Bell clutching empty wool as he leaped over the top of the fence
.

  Never let it be said that Boyles were dumb—just insanely reckless. Kit ran straight toward the unsaddled ponies.

  Paralyzed, Bell didn’t know which way to turn. She wasn’t afraid of harmless ponies, but she hadn’t been near a horse or a child in a decade. Her mind was a blur of panic.

  The groom had gone inside to saddle the pony she’d chosen for Kit. She couldn’t climb a fence in her damned long skirts. The animals were calm and well-behaved. Kit was not.

  Before she could react, Quent sprinted to the fence and leaped over the bar as if he performed that acrobatic feat every day. Bell hadn’t realized she’d stopped breathing until she expelled a sigh of relief.

  Kit was grabbing a long mane and attempting to pull himself up—no doubt a maneuver he’d seen his damned father execute. The late earl of Wexford could have performed at Astley’s Circus had he been so inclined.

  Quent merely used his long arm and greater muscle to snatch the boy before the pony had time to take a chomp out of Kit’s sleeve. Fitz was running wide-eyed with horror across the stable yard. The slender earl stumbled to a halt beside Bell when it became apparent that Quent had Kit in hand.

  “He’s not civilized,” Bell said tranquilly, although she felt anything but.

  “Who, Quent or your brother?” Fitz asked dryly as Quent tucked the kicking, shouting boy under his arm and strolled toward the gate with him.

  Excellent question. There was a reason the Scots had been deemed savage by the English. They’d run about half naked in blizzards not so long ago. She’d always thought of Quent as eminently civilized, but after last night . . .

  Quent deposited the boy on a tall feed bin and pointed an accusing finger at him as Kit attempted to scramble down. Bell couldn’t hear his admonitions from this distance, but they were sufficient to force Kit to stick out his bottom lip, start kicking the bin, and sit still.

  Maybe she ought to let the Hoyts have him. Her heart hurt at the thought—all the more reason she ought to give him up, she supposed, but her wretched head and her heart were at war. She turned to check on her sisters.