Formidable Lord Quentin (12 page)

Tess looked dubious, but Quent set the young earl on his
feet, pointed his finger, and the boy obediently stayed where he was put.

Fitz rode up on a restive gelding, effortlessly keeping it
under control. “I want to take the girls around the yard first, see how they
handle the reins. Do you want to wait until we’re back before putting his
lordship in the saddle?”

The groom was leading the dappled gray pony into the
now-empty paddock. Bell could practically feel her brother’s longing to run and
climb over the fence. She handed Kit back his coat and watched him pour his
energy into struggling into the tight arms.

“I think between us and the groom, we should be able to
handle him,” she said dryly.

“Famous last words,” Fitz warned with a grin, reining his
horse around.

“Quite possibly,” Bell muttered. “I truly dislike being
incompetent at caring for a child. I need a teacher.”

“You are already doing a better job than Tess,” Quent told
her, shrugging. “I have watched you learn everything you need to know over the
last years, and then go on to use your knowledge to exceed the pinnacles.
You’ll catch on to the nuances of child-rearing quickly.”

Bell stared at him surprise. A man who actually respected
what she’d accomplished? Or was he being facetious?

Fitz laughed and kicked his mount toward the other paddock.
“Come on, girls, we can watch the circus from afar.”

Bell didn’t have time to be envious of their escape. Still
stunned by Quent’s praise, she didn’t object when he gripped Kit’s shoulder. He
marched the boy toward the pen—or more like, kept him from running full tilt at
the gate. She appreciated the aid, but she knew what would happen as soon as her
brother was placed on the saddle. She might not know child care, but she had
experience in Boyle behavior.

She remained outside the paddock as Quent handed Kit to the
groom to be hoisted up. Kit’s fingers were fisted, as if to keep from grabbing
the pony as he’d tried earlier. He sat patiently while the stirrups were
adjusted. He was large for his age. He wouldn’t be on a pony for more than
another year. The guide rope really was an insult, but it had to be done.

As soon as he was released and in the saddle alone, Kit
whooped, grabbed the pony’s mane, and kicked. Bell shook her head. Male Boyles
were simply too predictable.

The pony obediently followed the groom’s tug on the rope and
didn’t budge.

Quent made a quiet threat. Kit settled down and pouted
again.

Bell was nearly as ready as Kit to tear her hair out at the
pony’s slow pace around the paddock under the groom’s guidance. Quent came to
stand beside her, placing a proprietary hand at the small of her back. Bell
started to move away, but he ran his finger under her jacket, discreetly caressing
her spine through the thin chemisette. A river of need flowed through her.
Knowing the others were too far away to notice, she couldn’t tear away.

It took half an excruciating hour before the boy could be
forced to sit quietly in the saddle. Bell feared her brother would burst into
tears of frustration at any minute. She sympathized, but it was like taming a
yearling. Kit would be good to no one if he was left unrestrained.

As if possessed of second sight, Quent removed his hand just
before the girls trotted back. She missed the caress, damn the man. But her
sisters were shouting excitedly over their triumphs and deserved her attention.

Kit saw them riding in without guidance and finally gave in
to tears, wailing his heartbroken protests.

Tess immediately dismounted with a wide-eyed look of
concern. Bell blocked her path. “He’s fine. He’s just angry because he’s being
punished for his earlier behavior.”

“But he’s just a little boy! He so wanted his own pony.
Can’t you let him go now?” Tess skirted around Bell, hurrying toward the fence.

Seeing her, Kit cried louder.

Quent stepped in, sweeping the boy off the pony, plopping
him on the ground, and marching him toward the gate, quietly scolding.

Kit wept and tried to run back to the pony. Quent lifted him
and swung him over the fence, where Tess crouched down to hug him and give
everyone black looks.

“Thank you,” Bell whispered to Quent. “You are about to be
called all sorts of dreadful names, but I am grateful for the way you handled
him.”

“How grateful?” he asked, lifting a leering eyebrow.

That look caused her to shiver with unwelcome desire. She pinched
his arm through his coat sleeve. And Tess launched into her furious tirade
about the poor little boy and his pony. Quent took it all in stride, reaching
up to help Syd down when she rode over to see what the commotion was about.

“Excellent seat, Lady Sydony. Less pressure on the mare’s
mouth next time. The groom keeps apples inside, if you want to take your mount
back to be brushed down.” Quent pointed at the open door.

And blessedly, Syd did as told.

The wretched man was not only turning her into a puddle of
wax, he was making himself useful, Bell realized. Did he do so on purpose? Of
course. Quent never did anything without a purpose.

Fitz swung down. “Want to try Wexford on another pony? It’s
hard to test them out on leading ropes.”

“No, I think this one is fine. He has excellent conformation
and best of all, patience. I’ll take Kit back to the nursery, if you’ll show
the girls what else might suit. I’ll be back shortly to look them over. I do
appreciate this, Fitz. I wouldn’t trust their horses to anyone else.”

“Not even me?” Quent asked, falling into step with her as
she half-dragged a rebellious Kit toward the house. He stooped down and picked
the boy up, placing him on his broad shoulders. “I’m a pretty good judge of
horses.”

“But not of women riders,” she retorted. “Or of my sisters.
Or Boyles in general. Fitz pays attention to what they want, not what
he
wants.”

“Which is why he’ll never be a successful businessman,”
Quent pointed out. “But he’s happy and he’ll fare middling well, even though he
has a couple of mares in there that would command a much higher price than the
ones you’re looking at.”

“I saw them,” Bell said, irritated that he kept inflicting
his presence on her but relieved she didn’t have to wrestle Kit. “They’re too
high strung for riders who haven’t been in a saddle in a while, and far too
high strung for the crowds and noises of the park. I respect him more for not
showing them to my sisters. Fitz will have clients lining up at his door
because of his honesty.”

“As I said, he’ll earn a middling income that way. He’ll get
by,” Quent agreed with a shrug. “I need to
more
than get by. I didn’t have his title or name or acres of land when I started
out. A middling income wouldn’t have fed my family.”

“I can’t help it if Edward was a miser!” Bell shouted,
finally aggravated beyond all reason over this ancient argument. “It wasn’t as
if I recklessly spent his wealth. He wouldn’t even let me have the windows
re-glazed. He’s dead, it’s over, you’re rich. You don’t need to prove yourself
any longer, and I don’t need to marry you to make your fortune. Why have you
decided to harass me now?”

“Because you need me,” he said decisively, with what sounded
like surprise. “You’ve never needed me before.”

Bell shut up and glumly faced that unpleasant fact the rest of
the way back to the house.

“I’m not sure Lord Quentin even knows I’m alive,” Tess
whispered to Syd as the company gathered in the family parlor prior to the
evening meal. She nodded toward the formidable gentleman, who was leaning
against the mantel, talking to a much more approachable Mr. Penrose.

“That’s just the English way,” Syd insisted. “They’re very
reserved, if you haven’t noticed. Even Bell isn’t the same anymore. I remember
her as being quite fun, but she’s more strait-laced than the countess!”

“She’s a marchioness now,” Tess said doubtfully. “I’m sure
that means she must be dour and authoritative. She must have much on her mind
if her husband’s holdings were large.”

“All the more reason for you to snare Lord Quentin,” Syd
insisted. “We’ll be one less burden for her.”

“How does one attach a man who pretends we don’t exist?”
Tess asked in puzzlement.

A footman arrived in the doorway, distracting Syd from any
inappropriate suggestions. Always eager to learn her new surroundings, Tess
watched the countess nod for the footman to approach. He handed over a note on
a platter.

“Do they expect a reply, Wrigley?” the countess asked,
glancing over the contents and raising her eyebrows.

“I’ve sent the messenger around to the kitchen for a bite to
eat in case you wished to send an answer, my lady.”

“Well, tell them of course they’re welcome, if they don’t
mind joining our small house party.” The countess waited for the footman to
leave before addressing Bell.

“That was from Lady Anne Montfort. Her father’s estate is a
short ride from here. She says she’s acquiring more horses and would like to
come over for a few days with a friend of hers. She’s never so much as visited
us before.”

“Jocelyn mentioned that the duke is entertaining the widow
of a distant cousin,” Bell said. “I like Anne, but I haven’t met her guest.”

So many names to learn! Tess didn’t think she’d ever master
society. Jocelyn Montague had been the grand lady who had given the political
dinner party, but how did a
duke
fit
into the conversation about their visitors? Was this the same old duke that Mr.
Montague assisted?

Lord Danecroft entered just then, and Tess noted that Lord
Quentin was now listening to the general conversation. She pinched Syd to make
her pay attention, then strolled in Lord Quentin’s direction.

“We’re to have company, dear,” the countess said, waving the
note at her husband as he came toward her. “Perhaps you’ll need to start buying
new stock if we stay this busy.”

“Lady Anne has been useful,” the earl said, glancing at the
note. “But I don’t know this Diana, countess of—”

Tess didn’t hear the rest of the name. With her gaze focused
on Lord Quentin, she was only aware that he froze like a panicked deer.

***

Bell noticed the same. She’d seldom seen Quent express any
emotion other than supreme confidence. Now, he looked as if he wanted to bolt.

The moment was brief. He took a sip of his drink and
returned to speaking with Penrose. Fitz’s wobbling old butler arrived to
announce dinner. Bell remained seated until Quent came over to offer his hand,
frustrating Tess’s apparent attempt to reach him first. Penrose stepped in to
escort Tess.

“I thought I knew everyone in society,” Bell whispered. “Who
is the countess of Renfrew-Fife? That sounds Scots to me.”

“Widow,” Quent said curtly. “Youngest daughter of the Duke
of Graham. No reason to know the family. Like my father, they never leave
Scotland.”

“Well, it seems she has left Scotland if she’s visiting Lady
Anne. Do you know her? Is she likely to scorn my sisters?” Bell watched his
expression as he held out a seat at the table for her. The man knew how to be
as impassive as a butler.

“I haven’t seen the lady in a very long time. I cannot say.”

She detected a definite hint of bitterness in his tone. Bell
bit her lip and spread her napkin on her lap and let him be. There was history
there, she was sure of it, but Quent wasn’t any of her concern.

After dinner, Quent didn’t join the ladies in the parlor,
much to her sisters’ disappointment. They had to practice their wiles on poor
Penrose, who practically glowed with delight. He was a decent young man, of
good family, Bell knew. He just didn’t have a feather to fly with.

Bell excused herself to check on Kit. The boy needed
constant attention, it was apparent. Abby’s young siblings were a help, but she
thought it best to keep her hand in so that he would be accustomed to her authority
when they returned to London. Without other children in the city, he would need
amusement. How would she arrange that?

After verifying that he was sharing a room with the other
boys, ostensibly settling down to sleep, Bell slipped down a side corridor and
outside into the still-warm summer night.

She didn’t know what drew her. She wasn’t a country sort of
person any longer. She didn’t know one English weed from another. Fitz’s
shrubbery was too overgrown to be called a pleasant garden. She lied to herself
for a while and pretended she didn’t want Quent finding her in her chamber
again.

She gave up that pretense when she found him standing by a
dry fountain. She didn’t turn around and go the other direction.

“It’s hard to drown one’s self in granite,” she reflected
aloud, warning him she was present. “Although I suppose one could flip a coin
into the cracked basin and wish for a bubbling spring.”

In the shadows of dusk and shrubbery, his expression was
hidden. “When I was young, I wanted to race yachts. I thought there could be
nothing more splendid than sailing the high seas and seeing exotic sights. What
happens to those dreams?”

“I wanted to be recognized for my ability to race horses,”
she admitted. “When I disguised myself and rode my father’s stallion, I could
beat every man in the county. When it became apparent that I
had
to win purses to put food on the
table, and that men would never appreciate my ability if they knew I was female,
I learned the dark side of dreams.”

“Is that why you don’t ride now?” he asked, lifting his head
to study her through the darkness.

“Not any more than you don’t race yachts. You still own one,
don’t you?” She gracefully dodged the subject.

She really didn’t know why she was out here in the still
night air, breathing the summer scent of mown grass, and the sensuous aroma of
bergamot toilet water. The blasted man had shaved before dinner and smelled good
enough to nibble. For her own well-being, she ought to leave, but she waited
for his reply.