Formidable Lord Quentin (13 page)

“I use my yacht for business and to transport my family from
Scotland,” he said stiffly. “Faster and safer than riding the northern road.”

“But that’s not why you’re out here now, pondering youthful
dreams. I gather you and Lady Anne’s guest have a history?” Bell generally preferred
the subtle approach with this man, trying not to show her curiosity for fear
he’d take it as interest. But she’d never seen him so discomposed. He’d helped
her today. She wanted to offer what little she could in return.

“Ancient history,” he said with a shrug. “It’s her present
history that concerns me. I believe the lady produced only daughters, and her
husband’s estate fell to a younger brother. If she’s applying to old school
friends for entrance to society the moment she’s out of mourning, she’s in
financial straits. Her father must have had an apoplexy when she left Scotland.
He despises England.”

“And this concerns you how?” she asked, fascinated despite
herself. Quent seldom told her anything.

“Because of ancient history,” he said with a shrug.

Without warning, he caught her waist with a powerful arm and
dragged her up against his hard torso. This time, his kiss wasn’t so polite as
the night before. He poured real need into it, a hunger that fired her own
banked desires.

Bell clutched his coat and surrendered to the consuming
heat, knowing the danger, craving it anyway. His mouth was hot and demanding,
as if he’d been saving up all his explosive emotions for this moment.

She’d never truly recognized the passion concealed by his civilized
composure. If this passionate man was the real Quentin, he terrified her—and
made her crave more of what she’d never had. She parted her lips and allowed
him a brief moment of triumph, but the moment her hands started sliding to his
shoulder, she used them to shove away.

“No, no, no, I am not going down this road again,” she
muttered, backing away. “I need you more as a friend than a lover.”

“One does not preclude the other,” he said irritably, tugging
his coat back in place.

“Yes, it does, really,” Bell said with sadness, turning back
toward the house. “I can’t take a lover without marriage. It would present the
wrong appearance to my sisters, not that I’m inclined to take lovers anyway. And
marriage is a different sort of trap. Once you have me where you want me, I’m
no longer a challenge. I’ll just become a nag who wants to do things that annoy
you. You’ll set up an office in the city. And then you’ll set up a mistress so
you don’t have to come home. I’ve watched it happen too often.”

“You are talking to a man who has had his sisters cluttering
his house during the Season for two years. If that’s not enough to drive me
out, I doubt I’ll be dislodged by you.” Quent took her arm, pressing
unnervingly close as they traversed the gravel walkway. “Just let me show you
what you’ve been missing by denying yourself for so long. You’re too young and
beautiful to become a nun. You’re a widow. Take advantage of that freedom for a
bit. I fear my father’s escalating demands about the guardianship will soon
generate lawyers, but at least give me a chance to win you over.”

“Such sweet words to turn a girl’s head,” she murmured.

“I didn’t think you wanted flattery.” He drew her to a halt
just outside the side door. “You saw that list of eligible females and you know
perfectly well you’re the only one who would suit me. Shall I make a list of
eligible males so you can decide if another would suit you better?”

“Why can’t you see that I don’t
want
another man in my life? The ones I had simply made me
miserable. I
like
my life the way it
is.” Bell tried not to shout. “Is it so very difficult to understand that men
are not indispensable?”

“Once women discover that, civilization as we know it will
disintegrate,” he said wryly. “So think of it as more a joining of forces, a
rather pleasant joining, if only you’d allow me to demonstrate.”

“I need to go pummel a pillow,” she grumbled, yanking from
his grasp. “Go away. Court anyone you like. Just don’t mix me up in it.”

She practically raced up the stairs in her need to escape
his persuasive logic.

***

Quent resisted following Bell. He didn’t possess the
seductive skills to persuade a woman to do what she didn’t want to do. He wasn’t
certain that he wanted to win her in such a manner.

But he was increasingly convinced that Bell was in over her
head if she thought tutors and servants would be sufficient to deal with her
sudden new family. Her siblings hadn’t been raised with decades of proper
training. They thought for themselves and acted on their own and they were
Boyles—willing to take dangerous risks.

It must be something in the blood, Quent decided the next
day, finding Syd timing Kit’s slide down the banister with a watch she must
have stolen from Bell. The ancient rail creaked threateningly as the boy flew
past him on the stairs, shouting in glee. Boyles were meant to be
devil-may-care soldiers.

At sight of him, Syd fled into the upper story shadows,
leaving her brother to Quent’s wrath.

Quent was about to grab Kit by the back of his coat and
march him back upstairs when a footman opened the front door and their visitors
spilled in.
Damnation.

“Go back up and tell Bell the guests have arrived,” he told
Kit, capturing him as he tumbled off at the newel post. “And if I ever catch
you on the banister again, I’ll glue you to a chair. The rail is old. It
breaks. So will you.”

“Bell will stick me with my stupid tutor,” Kit said,
pouting.

Quent’s carriage had arrived that morning bearing his
luggage and Bell’s servants. He was definitely questioning the efficacy of the
boy’s new tutor if he’d let his student escape already.

“Tutor now, pony later,” Quent promised.

“No ropes,” the boy countered.

“Ropes until you quit kicking the animal.” Quent was used to
bargaining. Kit didn’t stand a chance.

Kit glared. Quent blocked his escape to the lower floors.
Kit gave up and stomped back up. Quent followed him, but Syd was long gone. She
definitely needed a finishing school. He only hoped she was warning her sister
about the guests because he didn’t intend to search Bell out while her siblings
watched.

The tutor emerged on the upper landing just in time to grab
Kit and scold him back toward the schoolroom. Taking the back stairs down to
the stable, Quent avoided the clatter of servants carrying luggage and
preparing rooms.

Mostly, he was avoiding Camilla. Unless she’d changed, she
wasn’t here by happenstance. She had a purpose, and Quent was quite confident
that impoverished Fitz wasn’t her goal. The lady had expensive tastes. Quent
hadn’t maintained his bachelor status all these years without learning a few
fast maneuvers.

Penrose and Tess were just leading their mounts from the
stable when Quent arrived.

“Lord Quentin,” Tess cried. “Join us, please. The rain has
stopped, and I do believe we may even see some sun.”

Quent kept his snort to himself at his aide’s unhappy
expression at this invitation. “I promised your brother a ride, sorry. Take a
groom with you. Penrose, behave yourself or I’ll rip your good arm from its
socket.”

His aide gave a wry salute and waited while Quent told a
groom to saddle up and follow the pair. Where the devil was Bell and why wasn’t
she keeping an eye on her troublesome siblings?

He glanced toward the carriage spilling its contents on the
front lawn and groaned. Of course! Bell would be right in the midst of the new
arrivals, pumping Camilla and Lady Anne for information in the guise of aiding
her society-shy hostess. If he had any secrets, they wouldn’t be secret for long.
Wellington could use a good spy like the lady—and there was the Boyle in Bell.
She might no longer ride into battle, but she possessed a formidable mind and
instinct for infiltrating the enemy’s defenses, so she might bring him down
from within. It was how she had survived and conquered a society that had originally
scorned her.

Quent gazed longingly at the stable and wondered how it
would look if he just rode back to London without farewells.

The earl and countess of Danecroft were not inclined to
waste their limited funds on stylish clothing. In their company, Bell had happily
accepted the freedom of wearing her more comfortable summer gowns and little
jewelry in the interest of staying cool. Her sisters didn’t own a variety of
fine evening gowns as yet, so they fit their rural surroundings as well.

Camilla Abernathy, Countess of Renfrew-Fife, apparently had
different notions, Bell noted sourly as Abby’s guest entered the great hall
that evening. Even the duke’s daughter, Lady Anne, had not garbed herself in silk
and jewels—although Lady Anne seldom drew notice to herself as her relation
apparently did.

No longer burdened by mourning, the countess wore a splendid
gold silk gown to complement her red-gold hair, and a topaz-and-diamond parure
that glittered on her ears and wrists and accented her ample bosom. Large
diamonds gleamed on her fingers.

Only a woman on the prowl glittered that much.

“I’m contemplating a new occupation as jewelry thief,” Fitz
murmured irrepressibly in Bell’s ear. “One of those rings would buy me three
Thoroughbreds.”

“Learn to tell gems from paste first,” Bell recommended. “If
those are real, I’ll help you advance in your new criminal livelihood.”

Fitz chuckled, then strolled over to address their guests. Bell
noticed that in the process, he hugged his intimidated wife reassuringly and
treated her as if she were a princess more grand than the widowed countess. In
his presence, Abby regained her confidence sufficiently to lead her bejeweled company
around the hall, introducing the newcomer to anyone she had yet to meet.

They’d been using the smaller family parlor these past
nights. Apparently for the benefit of their grandiose visitors, the servants
had set up tea and drink trays in the towering medieval great hall with its
massive wooden beams, wall-sized fireplace, and echoing spaces. Wyckersham was
rather devoid of furniture since Abby had pragmatically used all the pieces
that had rotted beyond redemption as firewood. A few good sofas and settles
remained scattered about an enormous—much repaired—carpet. Conversation was
limited to shouting across the emptiness or running down elusive prey to speak
one-on-one.

Standing by the broad stone hearth, Bell sipped her sherry
and watched Abby introduce the countess to Quent—or not introduce, as the case
seemed to be. Over by the leaded windows, Quent bowed stiffly. Lady Camilla
rested her gloved hand on his immaculate coat in a gesture far too familiar for
propriety. She stood on her toes and whispered in Quent’s ear, leaving her
hostess to flail awkwardly on her own.

“I do not think I like Lady Camilla,” Bell murmured to Tess,
who was also observing the scene. “But I would like to know more of how she
knows Lord Quentin.”

“He doesn’t seem happy to see her, if that’s any
consolation,” Tess said. “I don’t remember the modiste showing us any gowns in
quite that style. Is it the fashion?”

The widow’s bodice revealed that after bearing two children,
she possessed a pair of well-developed udders, Bell noticed spitefully. She’d
have to ask for the name of the lady’s corsetiere. Such ampleness did not hold
itself up magically, especially when the silk bodice appeared ready to slip
off.

“Is it the fashion to look like a courtesan?” Bell mused.
Then remembering her sister needed insights into society, she continued, “No,
decidedly not the style, especially for young girls. It’s a design that says
I’m available and desperate.
”

Tess giggled but replied sensibly. “Men like it, though. If
a gown catches their attention, hasn’t it served its purpose?”

Bell thought this an excellent moment to begin teaching her
sister what she’d learned over the years.
“
You’ll see more gowns like that once the Season is in play again. Just
notice who is wearing them, and you’ll see what I mean. Men don’t mind the
display, but they prefer to do the hunting. Once they’ve sampled what she has
to offer, they’ll move on to other ladies more suitable for wives they can
trust not to roam.”

“I’m thinking he’s already sampled what she has to offer,”
Tess replied. “I don’t think human nature is any different between England and
America.”

“You are quite possibly right. They’re of an age. The lady
is older than I am. But that’s none of our concern. Let’s help poor Abby. She’s
quite out of her depth when it comes to such rudeness.” Bell started across the
room, picking up Lady Anne as she did so.

Quent was now wearing his frozen gargoyle expression. Abby
glanced helplessly about and smiled in relief at Bell’s approach. Lady Camilla
had hooked her hand possessively around Quent’s elbow and was whispering in his
ear.

“Where did you find this personage?” Bell whispered to Lady
Anne as they crossed the carpet.

“She more or less found us,” Anne said with what sounded
like exasperation. “Father wants her brother to vote for some bill and one
thing led to another, and here she is. She’s been a decent guest, but I suppose
she doesn’t know our ways well.”

“I don’t think ignoring one’s hostess is well done
anywhere,” Bell said dryly. She donned a beaming smile as they reached Abby. “I
love this hall. Do you decorate it in winter with evergreen branches and a Yule
log? You must have us down, if so. London is much too boringly sophisticated on
the holidays.”

Without waiting for a reply, Bell turned to Quent. “Fitz and
Lady Anne need your opinion about some horse or another.” She gestured
dismissively in the direction of the earl, who was pouring himself a drink and
speaking with Penrose and Syd.