Formidable Lord Quentin (11 page)

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?

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.

Syd was attempting to balance on a side saddle in the other
enclosure. Both of her sisters had learned to ride astride when they were
little, as Bell had. Instead of mounting her horse, Tess was worriedly watching
Kit to see if she should run to his rescue.

“Go see to the girls,” Bell told Fitz. “They’re mostly
civilized. If I’m the one who will inherit the responsibility of raising the
next earl, then I must learn to deal with him.”

“I can recommend a lion-tamer,” Fitz said, “But Quent
apparently has experience. I’ll leave you to him.”

She couldn’t do this alone, she realized with a pang of
regret. She would have to call for the tutor and maids and valet if they stayed
here any longer. And judging from her sisters’ inexpertise on their mounts, it
looked as if they might have to impose on the Wyckerlys for a while. She had
always been competent. These last years had given her new strengths and
independence. It was horribly humbling to recognize that she needed help.

The groom led the saddled pony from the stable. Bell
reluctantly joined Quent and Kit. She truly had no experience at dealing with
little boys. How did one make them behave?

“Shall I tell the groom to take the pony back, that his
lordship is too ill- mannered to deserve a good animal?” she asked, eyeing her
brother with disapproval. “Or do we just let the pony bite him next time?”

She was excruciatingly aware of Quent’s masculine proximity.
She had never seen him in less than perfection in London. Now, he smelled of
male musk and horse. He had made her indecently aware of how his broad
shoulders narrowed to a flat waist and muscled thighs, so unlike most of the
pot-bellied gentlemen of her acquaintance. Perhaps she ought to consider his
indecent offer—if only so she’d quit having such thoughts around children.

“I’d recommend a week in his room with bread and water, but
I suspect that would bother everyone else more than it would him.” Without even
looking down at her, Quent adjusted her hat so it didn’t tilt so rakishly.

Rebelliously, Bell tilted it again and glared at her
brother. “You nearly had a chunk of your arm removed, Christopher James. You
are an undisciplined heathen not fit for a gentleman’s saddle. Until you show
yourself capable of behaving with the proper respect toward others, including
the ponies, I think you need to be demoted to lead ropes. Like a baby.”

She gestured at the groom, who obediently returned to the
stable to find the appropriate tackle.

Kit, of course, had no idea what she was talking about,
until she reached the last part. He kicked his heels harder and hollered, “I’m
not a baby.”

“That behavior is precisely like a baby’s,” Quent intoned
solemnly. “And if you continue behaving as you are, I will take you to the
nursery with little Georgie. You can eat porridge and roll balls with him.”

Georgie was Fitz’s toddler son, just learning to walk. He
and Beebee had been having a fine time when Bell had checked on them last.

Kit wailed louder. Quent lifted him from his perch, stuck
him under his big arm, and marched back toward the house.

Kit shut up.

Quentin halted and lifted a questioning eyebrow at Bell.

“I want a pony!” Kit cried piteously. “I’ll behave. I
promise.”

Finally established in her saddle, Tess sidled her mare in
their direction. “I can take him up, Lord Quentin. I’ve had charge of him since
he was little.”

Bell hid a smile at Quent’s exasperated expression. The man
was human after all. She hastened to intervene before he bit his tongue in two.
If Tess had been in charge of the brat, she’d been far too lenient, but she’d
only been a young girl with no experience.

“Tess, you need to stay with Syd. She hasn’t your skill. I
think the two of us can deal with Kit a while longer.”