Formidable Lord Quentin (18 page)

The chair leg snapped with a loud crack. Quent and bird nest
toppled toward her. She shrieked and tried to break his fall with her hands. He
rattled the contents of the dish cabinet by catching the corner in an attempt
to slow his descent. Terrified they were all about to die, Bell hastily backed against
the wall, away from the swaying cupboard.

Releasing his grip before he toppled anything else, Quent
hit the floor, boots first. He staggered into Bell, pushing her up against the
wall.

Too shaken by the freakish accident, Bell instinctively
wrapped her arms around his waist. “You could have broken your fool neck,” she
muttered, burying her head against his shoulder, as if that would prevent him
from falling again. She swore furiously while he grasped her shoulders and
breathed a little harder than normal. She could hear his heart pound.

He held her tighter than necessary, but she wasn’t inclined
to shove away just yet. She’d had flashes of seeing him cracking his skull, and
she hadn’t quite caught her breath. She didn’t wish to let him go. “The place
is dangerous.”

“Life is short. We should take advantage of every minute,”
he countered.

Before she could react, he lifted her chin and kissed her, a
kiss that started at her lips and burned clear down to curl her toes.
She
was breathing heavily by the time
she pushed away. But she no longer feared for his neck.

She took a deep breath and pushed away.

“This is ridiculous, spooning in the pantry like
adolescents.” She dusted herself off, glanced at the broken chair, and stalked
back to the main dining room to glare at the sheet-covered furniture. “It’s
probably all got wood rot.”

She spoke coolly, but her blood was racing so fast, she
thought she might give in to the vapors. How could he
do
this to her?

“I could stand on each one and test it,” Quent suggested
with amusement, picking up another chair and bringing it down hard on the wood
floor. The floor creaked. “But I want two kisses for the next one that breaks
and three for the third. And a whole lot more than that if the floor caves in.”

He was needling her over the contract she’d had Summerby
send.

She swung on him and smacked his broad—hard—chest. “Stop it,
stop it this instant. I have agreed to negotiate the possibility of marriage.
That’s as much as I have agreed. This is
not
a love affair. This isn’t remotely romantic. We’re two sensible people
admitting marriage might be convenient.”

“I admit no such thing. Marriage is a terrific inconvenience
as far as I can see,” he growled, glaring down at her. “I’ll be stuck with two
families demanding my time and attention, hosts of vaporish females running in
and out, and a shrew of a wife who will want to spend every farthing I earn.
The only pleasure I can hope to gain by marriage, you want to deny me. So let’s
start there.”

He hoisted her from the floor and stomped back through the
pantry toward the servants’ stairs with Bell pounding his back and attempting
to bite his ear off.

Damn, but Bell was a raw handful of female. Her delicious
bosom bounced against his shoulder as she twisted and attempted to either unman
him or bite off his head—although her nibbles were more erotic than painful. He
stumbled on a step when her tongue reached his ear.

He was fortunate she’d kept her shoes on or the sight of her
bare toes might cripple him entirely. He’d be forced to take her right there on
the servants’ stairs. Just the notion that he might have that right raised Quent’s
spirits. He cupped her firm round bottom to hold her in place, and for the
first time since childhood, he felt almost giddy with absurd joy.

He knew he was acting out of bruised pride, but Bell’s kiss
hadn’t been forced. She’d reacted to his tumble with concern, embraced him with
affection, and kissed him with passion. That’s all he’d needed to bolster his
confidence. She was wrong to deny what was between them. He was right to demand
they push past whatever invisible hobgoblin existed in her ridiculous head.

Except Bell was never ridiculous. That recognition took some
of the steam out of his fun. Then he reached the landing for the private floors,
saw the long corridor of doors, and realized he had no idea which chamber was
hers.

The American earl put an end to any further notions of intimate
entertainment. Kit raced down at them from the next flight of stairs, whooping
and hollering and brandishing . . . a rolling pin?

“Separate houses,” he muttered, setting Bell down on the
landing carpet. “One for us, one for them.” He caught the brat on the second
step up, before he could behead anyone.

“Where’s your tutor?” he demanded, turning the whooping boy upside
down and proceeding upward, abandoning a disheveled Bell. At least she wasn’t
shrieking at him.

He should probably be grateful to the lordling for
preventing him from a rash action that would have ruined everything, but he
wasn’t feeling grateful. He was feeling deprived and set upon, like a boy who
had just had his snowball fight interrupted by chores.

Bell pattered after them, ominously silent. Kit whooped with
glee at his upside-down position and tried to swing from Quent’s arm. Quent
almost grinned at the boy’s incorrigible high spirits.

Stalking through the upper warren of doors and rooms while
holding a wriggling six-year-old, he searched for anything resembling a
schoolroom. Muffled cries emerged from behind a closed door in the center of
the attic. Quent waited for Bell to reach him, set the boy down so she could wrangle
him, then turned the ancient key in the lock—on the outside of the door. Maybe
the Hoyts once locked mad aunts up here.

Inside, the tutor was half-tied to a chair, tangled in yards
of frayed gold braid from the draperies. He was still pulling off the last
tangle when they entered.

“I resign,” Mr. Thomas said with as much dignity as he could
muster, dropping the braid on the floor and rising from the chair. “There
aren’t enough demons in hell to control the boy. Without servants and under
these primitive conditions, it’s utterly impossible.”

“Is he ready for school?” Quent demanded. Bell still said
nothing but she was keeping a firm grip on Kit’s shoulder.

The tutor blinked in disbelief from behind his wire glasses.
“The question is, is there a school ready for
him
? I believe the answer is no. He will develop a reputation as
difficult, and in a year or so, no good school will have him.”

Quent grabbed the boy’s chin and forced him to meet his
eyes. “And what do you have to say for yourself, my lord?”

“Geography is boring. I don’t like books. I wanna go
riding.” His glare was defiant and not the pout of a week ago.

“Tying your tutor to a chair doesn’t look like geography.
Would someone care to explain?” Bell asked in a faint voice.

Quent could have told her. He and his brothers had pulled
this feat more than once. One more reason she needed his help. Women would
never understand. He waited expectantly.

“I was using a history text to explain the differences in
societies and cultures of different lands,” Thomas said stiffly. “Combining
subjects is a very effective learning technique.”

Quent rolled his eyes at this explanation and translated.
“He let the demon lord talk him into practicing sailor knots.”

“It was apropos of discussing how sailors reached the
Americas,” Thomas asserted.

The boy giggled, not in the least ashamed or afraid. Quent
squeezed Kit’s small shoulder to catch his attention. “You’re a worthless knot tier.
You’ll have to do better than that if you’re to sail with me. Now get down on
the floor and do twelve floor-dips.”

The boy glared. “I don’t know what they are.”

“And I’m not dirtying my knees showing you. Get down on the
floor and I’ll tell you when you get it right.”

Apparently intrigued by the opportunity to explore under the
furniture, Kit obligingly dropped to the floor. Once the boy was on his knees,
Quent returned his attention to the tutor. “Obviously, you were never a small
boy. If you wish to resign, I’ll send for the next man on the list. If you wish
to learn how to actually teach, start by finding ways of keeping him occupied
and thinking one step ahead of the brat. He’s not stupid. He needs activity.”

“I should show him how to do floor-dips?” Thomas asked dubiously,
watching the boy sprawled under their feet.

Quent put his boot on Kit’s back and forced him to lay
still. “Push up on your arms,” he ordered.

Bell murmured a puzzled protest, but already thoroughly
frustrated, Quent swung his glare to silence her, before answering the tutor. “
Never
let him bring you down to his
level. You are the authority in this room. Unless you descend to corporal
punishment, which we won’t allow, you have the right to demand obedience at all
times. And the authority to enforce it. Use your wits, man. Think like a boy
but don’t behave like one. He can learn to lead after he’s learned to obey.”

The tutor shoved his glasses up his nose and watched as
Quent let up his boot and Kit attempted to push up on his skinny arms. “He
needs to be challenged physically as well as intellectually?” the tutor asked.

“That’s a start.” Quent turned back to Bell. “Exactly how
primitive are the conditions here?”

She gestured with despair. “The flues don’t draw, the
plumbing is inadequate, the rodent problem is horrendous. The schoolroom must
have been abandoned in the middle ages, as was the kitchen. If you want to spit
your cow, we have the equipment. A delicate cream sauce and a good yeast roll,
however, are beyond our capacity. I am having difficulty hiring anyone decent
willing to work in this ruin.”

Narrowing his eyes, Quent turned back to the tutor. “Make a
list of what the schoolroom needs to bring it up to standards. I’ll not inflict
society with any more drunken Irish earls if we can prevent it. He needs
discipline and education. If you can’t provide it, we will find someone else.”

“Yes, my lord. I’ve already started a list. Shall I mention
the flues and plumbing or if the lady is already aware of the problem . . .”

“Major improvements will take time,” Quent said curtly, “but
we’re aware of the problems. Just tell us what books and so forth are needed.
And keep his lordship occupied in the meantime.” He hesitated and glanced at
the cracked plaster ceiling. “We used to fill bags with barley and hang them
from the rafters to pummel. That would probably bring down the roof here. Have
the stable hands put something together in the barn. He can learn how to box.”

Bell gasped, but Quent caught her elbow and dragged her from
the room, pocketing the crude key while he was at it. It probably locked every
door up here.

He hurried her toward the stairs, occasionally flinging open
panels to see what hid behind them.

“You are being arrogant and obnoxious,” she protested.

“Some of my better qualities,” he admitted, finding nothing
but moldering draperies and child-sized beds and servants’ quarters. Nothing
good enough for ravishing Bell. “Thinking on my feet is another one. Bringing
the lad here was an excellent idea. Pity the place is a cesspool.”

“This is
your
family’s estate,” she protested. “I am not responsible for its condition.”

“Understood. My father despises all things English and won’t
waste an eye-blink on this place. He collects the rents and lets it rot. Edward
did the same, mostly because he didn’t grow up here and despised the country.”

They reached the front stairs, and he tested the walls.
“Sound structure, though. Just needs improvements.”

“A fortune’s worth,” she said in exasperation. “I was hoping
to keep my siblings reined in for a while, until I could civilize them a
little. My townhouse is simply too busy and too small, as you said. But
punching bags in a barn . . .” She apparently didn’t have the
words to express her horror.

“Better than tying up tutors. I was thinking Syd and Kit
belonged in school instead of the city, but this way, we can bring school to
them.” The stairs were just wide enough for the two of them to walk side by
side, so Quent continued to hold her arm.

He needed to feel her delicious curves next to him while he
pondered the next step. Just smelling her enticing perfume encouraged him to
stay the course. He required all the incentive she could provide to deal with
the idea of setting up his own nursery with Bell’s hellion brother in it.

“They’ll still need school,” she argued. “I simply wanted
them to go in with a little experience first. I don’t want them labeled as
American oddities and bullied. Not that I think anyone could bully Kit,” she
added with a sigh.

“No, I rather think your siblings would lead revolts and end
up expelled, but I take your point. They need the knowledge to fit in, if they
want, and right now, they don’t, like my sisters when they’re in London.” Quent
started opening doors on the next level down, until he heard the girls. He
hurried Bell past that chamber.

“Your sisters are gems,” she argued. “Any sensible gentleman
should see their value. But yes, they are independent thinkers. I don’t intend
to change that!”

She stopped and held out her hand. “The key, please.”

Knowing these ancient locks were easily picked, Quent
surrendered the bit of metal with a questioning look.

She locked the door they stood beside, pocketed the key, and
sailed off down the corridor toward the front stairs. “You haven’t agreed to my
terms yet. Until you do, you will have to sleep elsewhere.”

Well, at least he now knew which chamber was hers. Quent
grinned at the challenge. Apparently, he didn’t want an
easy
woman.

***

Lord Quentin Damnable Hoyt left Bell in such irrational
humor that she didn’t know whether to fling the candlestick in her hand or
polish it. She’d never done either. Well, perhaps she might have done when she
was a child, except the candlestick would have been pewter, at very best.