Formidable Lord Quentin

by Patricia Rice

  “Hello, dears. Did our family squabble disturb you?”

  Oh, yes, that was just the dropped-jaw effect she’d hoped to see. Although Bell suspected Lady Anne was hiding a smile as she stepped back to enjoy the show.

  “I’m so sorry if we woke you,” Bell continued, narrowing her eyes to study the intruders. “Although, really, Lady Camilla, I cannot understand why you’d be interested. Is that dressing gown from Edinburgh? I’ve never seen anything quite so . . . practical.”

  The dowager countess pulled her velvet robe closed over her ample bosom with a huff. Her angry glare said she wasn’t buying Bell’s charade.

  But whatever plans the lady had made for Quent had been permanently disabled. Bell barely hid her triumph.

  Catching Tess’s shoulder from behind, Bell gently shoved her sister toward the doorway. “Save your histrionics for when we’re home, please. I’m aware we haven’t discussed how Quent will fit into our little family, but surely we need not do so tonight. Say good evening and take Syd with you, please.” She squeezed Tess’s shoulder reassuringly, warning her not to protest.

  Syd started to speak, but Quent had apparently dragged his mind back from Bell’s ankle and to the matter at hand. “No more outbursts, Lady Sydony. Your sister and I delayed making the announcements because of your arrival. I see no further reason for delay. You’re disturbing the other guests. Good-night.” He pointed sternly at the door.

  Bell didn’t know whether to laugh, run after her stricken sisters, or smack Quentin for escalating her charade to the next level of announcements. “Really, life has been so unbearably tedious until now,” she drawled, following her sisters and giving them hugs. “I anticipate circuses and operas hereafter. Off you go, now. You, too, Lady Camilla. So sorry to disappoint, but the show is over.” Bell winked at Lady Anne. “Horses aren’t as entertaining, are they?”

  Lady Anne’s lips quivered in amusement, but she simply shook her head and led her furious guest away. Aping Quent’s gesture, Bell pointed at the corridor when her sisters turned with pleading glances. “In the morning,” she commanded.

  Before she could even shut the door, Quent circled her waist and dragged her backward.

  “Since we are apparently affianced, my dear,” he whispered mockingly, “shall we continue where we left off earlier?”

  Thirteen

  Quent didn’t know what the devil had just happened or why. He simply knew he finally had Bell where he wanted her. Why think further? He’d thank her sisters later.

  He slammed the bolt home on the door, then wrapped his arms around the lady’s supple waist and lifted her beautiful mouth to meet his. Her lily-of-the-valley perfume wrapped his head in spring. Her pliant figure molded to his. And her kiss . . . sapped all his brains from his skull.

  Her lithe tongue tangled boldly with his. Nearly undone by this unanticipated surrender, he staggered backward until he had the sturdy bed to support his suddenly weak knees. She was Eve and Delilah and every wanton woman known to mankind, all wrapped in one intriguing package. And he wanted her . . . now.

  Her smooth fingers slid beneath the open neck of his shirt, massaging his shoulders while her mouth dissolved his will. He’d known Bell hid a well of repressed passion. He hadn’t anticipated the powerfully seductive result of liberating her inhibitions.

  Quent dragged her down into the bed with him until they lay sprawled across the mattress, their legs entwined. He found the untied ribbons of her bodice and slid his fingers beneath the silk. “Do you have any idea how I felt when I saw you crawling out of my bed?” he murmured, moving his mouth to her ear and down her throat.

  She gasped and wriggled, then ran her hand boldly over his shirt. “Cheated?” she asked teasingly.

  “Not even half of it.” He jerked her sleeve down so he could release her breast, but her chemise defeated him. Planting kisses anywhere he dared, he began untying ribbons. “You made me feel like one of my blue-painted ancestors. I wanted to slay dragons and drag you back to my lair and have my way with you. Repeated times.”

  Her chuckle was low and sexy and incited him more.

  “Surely the mighty Lord Quentin has had his moments of passion. Is there a simmering cauldron behind your polite composure?” She nibbled his ear and tugged at his shirt, attempting to remove it from his trousers.

  He unfastened buttons to ease the constraint of the cloth. “I assure you madam, I am a temperate man. You have simply driven me to madness.”

  “Fie, you lie. And we cannot do what you think we’re doing, so you had best prove your temperance and let me up.” Her hand lingered at his waist, tugging at his linen.

  “Not a chance.” With her bodice sufficiently unfastened, he released her breasts. Rosebud tips puckered temptingly, and he teased one with his tongue.

  She nearly came up off the bed, and Quent smirked in satisfaction.

  “Bad example for my sisters,” she murmured. “Cannot do this.”

  “Your sisters are the bad example. It’s no matter now. We’ll marry and do this every night. And morning. And maybe at noon. It will make all the rest of the chaos worth it.” Right now, with this amazing woman in his hands, he almost believed that sexual congress would make the world go away.

  He suckled, and she moaned. He caught the curve of her hips and pulled her under him.

  She arched to brush against his arousal. “No, nothing is settled. This is not how to do business.”

  He snorted inelegantly. “I should hope not.” He tugged her skirt up until he could finally stroke bare flesh. “Business tomorrow. Tonight, I show you what I have to offer.”

  “It’s been so long . . .” she murmured worriedly.

  His heart raced at this hint of capitulation. “I assure you, you can do nothing wrong. Practice isn’t necessary.” He kissed her again, making it long and slow, soothing her with caresses so she grew accustomed to his touch.

  She retaliated by sliding her hand between them and squeezing the bulge in his trouser placket. “I am not a yearling to be gentled to the bridle. Do not think there will be a repeat of this occasion because you will it so.”

  “You underestimate me, Bell.” He turned on his side and finished opening his placket. “You’ll want this as much as I do.”

  “Maybe I’ll find others to scratch the itch, then,” she taunted, tugging his shirt free and finally running her hands freely over his torso.

  His gut clenched with fierce possessiveness. “If I thought that, I’d just tether you to the bed and never leave. Don’t make light of what’s between us because you’re frightened. We’ll make it work.”

  He hoped. And prayed. And removed their clothing so he could see all of her. If he was to have only one night, he wanted heaven.

  ***

  The damned man knew her too well. Too much was happening too soon. Bell had only just discovered this part of her that had been lost. Lowering all her careful guards to rediscover what she’d so thoroughly buried . . .

  Her reactions to his touch both excited and terrified her. No other man had created this uncontrollable need. She wanted to do things she’d never thought of doing with any other man, not even Edward. And blast Quent—he wasn’t giving her time to recover.

  Without modesty, Quent stripped off his linen and trousers and let her gaze with impunity on his awe-inspiring physique. The candlelight cast his arousal in shadow, but she could see enough to doubt their compatibility. She was slender and only of average size.

  He was over six feet of brawn. Muscles rippled as he captured her beneath him. He was beautiful and formidable. She wanted to flee and kiss all those hard planes at the same time. The magic he created with his mouth and hands kept her fastened to the bed better than any velvet ties.

  She was hollow inside, aching, hungry, craving. With his terrifying ability to understand her needs, Quent sucked her breasts until she cried out with desire. He slid his fingers between her thighs in answer to her cry. She had to stuff a pillow in her mouth to pre
vent screaming at this intimate invasion. She tangled her fingers in his gloriously thick black hair, trying to tug him away. She needed a moment to regain control, but he nipped at her breast and pressed his fingers deeper. Pressure mounted below her belly, and she couldn’t find escape from the tension.

  He grabbed the pillow away from her and slid it beneath her hips. Then he inserted a second finger and pressed where she ached the most.

  All her restraint shattered. Bell surrendered to a glorious flood of sensation. She cried out in joy, then bit her tongue at the desperation of such an animal noise emerging from her own throat.

  Unperturbed by her uncivilized behavior, Quent continued his rhythmic thrusts and exploratory kisses. She writhed as the tension built impossibly higher.

  “Quent, please,” she pleaded. She tried to reach for his arousal, to help him if he needed it, as Edward often had.

  Quent kneeled over her, making it obvious he needed no help. “Say you’re mine, Bell,” he ordered, his voice rasping from deep in his throat. “From this moment on, we forsake all others.”

  She didn’t believe him, but she had no interest in other men if this one failed her. “You’re mine,” she repeated tauntingly, using his words and turning his request around.

  He grunted in appreciation. “You always have to be right.”

  He parted her thighs. She raised her knees. He leaned over to kiss her—and buried all that long masculinity deep inside until she cried out in pain and ecstasy.

  She was no longer empty, but oh, the joy! How could she ever have given this up?

  ***

  Quent lasted until Bell shrieked and rocked again with release before he took his own pleasure, plunging without restraint, encouraged by her caresses, roaring with the explosion of desire. Not having to withdraw was a luxury and joy in itself—he’d finally found a woman he trusted with his seed. He needn’t rush but could linger in her tight warmth, joining in the aftermath of the best lovemaking he’d ever known.

  “Stay with me,” he murmured, rolling over to remove his heavy weight but carrying her with him so she rested across his chest. “I can never have enough of you.”

  She kissed his shoulder, then eased away. “Nothing is settled,” she warned. “I must talk to my sisters. They’ll be at my door in the morning.”

  Quent wanted to tie her down, refuse to let her go, make her see sense, but his possessive nature would never work with an independent woman like Bell, which made him uneasy. Grudgingly, he released her. Cold air blew over his sweaty skin, leaving him chilled.

  “Your sisters know where to find you,” he reminded her, dragging the covers over them.

  “And I’ll pay for that in a thousand ways in the future. Give us time.” She sat up, threw off the covers, and slid out of bed.

  Knowing what he did of his own sisters, Quent groaned and granted her that. He didn’t know how the devil he would deal with two families, but after this night, he wanted Bell enough to move the moon and stars. “We’ll both talk with them in the morning,” he promised.

  She shimmied into her chemise and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Don’t count on it,” she whispered.

  Wrapping a sheet around his hips, Quent rose and helped her back into her gown. “I’m relentless,” he warned. “I won’t let you retreat into your hiding place again.”

  “Give me time to think,” she whispered, pushing against his chest when he tried to hold her.

  “Bad strategy.” But he let her go, reluctantly sending her off through the route she’d used earlier.

  ***

  Quent should have slept like a log after that. He didn’t. He never did the night before closing a major deal. Complacence wasn’t in his vocabulary. Until he had Bell exactly where he wanted her, he needed to keep an eye on her.

  He’d already recognized that tying her to his bed wasn’t reasonable. At least he wasn’t that far gone yet. After last night’s little drama, though, she didn’t have a great deal of choice about agreeing to marriage.

  If marriage was what it took to have her in his bed every night, he was now prepared to make the sacrifice. He had the uneasy notion that Bell could still slip back behind that dispassionate façade with which she’d learned to address society. He couldn’t give her time to slip away.

  He was dressed and in the breakfast room the next morning before the servants had set out the buffet. Grabbing coffee, he strolled toward the stable, wondering if he dared take a quick ride before the women arrived downstairs. Deciding he didn’t want to appear disheveled and smelling of horse, he merely sipped his coffee and wandered toward the paddock.

  “Help me up!” pleaded a childish voice on the other side of the hedge.

  Quent halted.

  “Spies don’t need help,” another, more familiar, voice whispered. “Hand us those apples. You can be our gunner.”

  “Hurry up,” a third voice commanded. “They’re almost here.”

  Quent wasn’t entirely familiar with the Wyckersham nursery set, but he knew the countess had a couple of much younger half-brothers. And then there was that familiar American accent— no doubt instigating the mutiny.

  Quent located the open entrance to the kitchen garden and found the culprits in the corner overlooking the stable yard. The youngest was oblivious to anything except gathering fallen green apples and placing them in a basket so that the spies in the tree could haul them up.

  The thick leaves hid the other two well enough, except his little lordship hadn’t donned his coat and the white of his shirt gleamed through the thicket. Out of curiosity, Quent peered over the hedge to discover their target.

  Lady Anne was already mounted on her elegant Thoroughbred. She was a fine figure of a woman in her tailored coat and draping skirt. He’d learned his lesson about duke’s daughters and would have given her wide berth even if she hadn’t been the quiet, boring sort.

  Closer to the hedge, however, stood flamboyant Camilla, haranguing a coach driver on the placement of her trunks. They were leaving already? Most excellent.

  Quent didn’t have to be six-years old again to understand the temptation of such a target. Camilla wore a rounded hat with a trailing feather and a brilliant red coat of a style that hadn’t been seen in London since last century. No doubt it was high fashion in the hills of Scotland, and the brilliant color drew the attention the lady craved.

  But to an American boy, the scarlet was that of the notorious British redcoats. And the pheasant-feathered hat . . . Even Quent itched to pick up an apple.

  Shrugging, he let the boys get off their first volley, just to see how good they were. One of them hit the red coat square in the back. The other just missed the hat. The lady screamed anyway.

  In a few quick steps, Quent was at the tree. He pointed the youngest at the walled herb garden. “Go,” he ordered. Abby’s wide-eyed sibling scampered. Then he reached into the tree and hauled down the white shirt on the lower branch.

  Kit predictably squealed and kicked. Quent tucked him under his arm and peered up at the eldest boy. “Inside, before I tell your mother where you are,” he commanded. More obedient than his lordship, the freckle-faced ginger hurriedly scrambled from his perch.

  While Camilla ranted in the stable yard, Quent strolled back through the hedge and toward the house, carrying his captive. “I should tie you up in bows and present you to your sister,” he told the miscreant. “You really don’t want that pony, do you?”

  “I want my pony!” Kit cried. “We’re spies. We’re supposed to stop the enemy! Put me down!”

  “In this case, lad, we want the enemy to ride away. A good spy learns the lay of the land before attacking.”

  Kit quit kicking. “What does that mean?” he asked with suspicion.

  “It means your sister already drove off the enemy. Attacking a retreating army will only cause them to turn around and strike back. Stupid move. And next time, make certain your target actually is an enemy. She could have been a spy disguised in a red coat. Al
ways have complete knowledge of your target if you’re to live to fight again.”

  Since he’d never been a soldier, Quent was making up the strategy as he went along. It wasn’t that difficult from the business world. He’d accomplished what he set out to do, at least. The boy was paying attention.

  “Who is the enemy then?” Kit inquired.

  Quent set him down and marched him up the front steps. “I’ll let you know when I find them. Until then, practice target shooting with trees. Who aimed for her hat?”

  “Tommy did,” Kit said in disgust. “He was showing off. Everyone knows to aim for the broadest part of the target to bring them down, then go for the head.”

  “Boyles are not only reckless idiots, but blood-thirsty as well?” Quent asked, rhetorically.

  That should cause a quiver of trepidation. Bell was a Boyle, although she’d hidden it well all these years that he’d known her.

  He and Kit arrived in the hall just as Tess and Syd swept down the stairs. Noses in the air, they marched past Quent as if he didn’t exist. The cut direct, even if they hadn’t a clue what that meant.

  Kit escaped and ran after them, heading for the breakfast room.

  Quent practically slavered, waiting for the last of the contingent to emerge. Bell didn’t disappoint. She was wearing her travel gown. The deep green brought out the red highlights in her hair and gave her fair complexion an otherworldly glow. She would make a gorgeous forest sprite—except for the wary expression she wore.

  “Going riding?” he asked hopefully.

  “My sisters tried to seduce and compromise you,” she said in resignation and disgust. “My family and I are going home . . . to Essex. I don’t advise that you follow until we’ve all reached a better understanding.”

  Fourteen

  “We didn’t do anything wrong,” Syd insisted as the carriage rattled down the road toward town. “We only did what Lady Camilla intended to do, except we got there first.”