Formidable Lord Quentin (19 page)

He’d meant to carry
her off and ravish her!

And then, he hadn’t.

She rubbed the rag over the silver in frustration and tried
to decide if she was disappointed or not but couldn’t. She’d never been so
unreasonable in her life. She’d always known just exactly what she wanted and
gone after it.

She’d never had the tables turned and been relentlessly
pursued, though, unless one counted the absurd duel a couple of penniless
bachelors had fought over her after she’d first been widowed. She’d quit
flirting after that. Like all the others, the duelists had had more interest in
Edward’s wealth than her. Quent, on the other hand . . . was a
complex man with complex goals.

Quent was a man who knew how to handle Kit.

Her ridiculous, absurd, irrational heart wanted that man, a
man who cared enough about children to see they were taught well and raised
properly. As a child, she’d longed for an adult to step up and take charge and
ease some of the responsibility from her small shoulders. No man ever
had—unless there was something in it for him.

That’s where her reasoning bogged down. Even her father’s
family . . .

She shook off that unpleasant memory. Uncle Jim and his
family had nagged at the back of her mind ever since the children’s return. She
could only hope they’d continue to leave her alone, but Summerby still hadn’t
reported back on the horses. She’d thought she’d succeeded in suffocating the
dreamy adolescent inside her—but the child still longed for her horse. Dratted
tears lined her eyes at all the years she’d unwittingly left Dream to her lazy
uncle’s neglect.

She shook off what couldn’t be changed. Experience had
taught her that everyone wanted to take. Very few wanted to give—not even when
all she asked was a little love or kindness or simple understanding.

She slapped the gleaming candlestick on the table. Her
protégées had appreciated what she’d done for them, even when she’d hidden the
source of their financial good fortune under the pretense that miserly Edward
had actually remembered them in his will. They’d enjoyed her hospitality and
her introduction to society. So she wasn’t a total failure or totally
unlikable. She had friends. She didn’t need more.

Yes, she did. She wanted love, like some mooncalf adolescent.

Unwanted tears returned to her eyes, and she hurried down to
the kitchen to avoid thinking about lonely nights and empty days. She had her
family now. Really, she didn’t need more—unless the marquess won and took them
away.

Reaching the cold stone floor of the cellar kitchen, she
nearly tripped over a man-sized mountain. She blinked in disbelief at Quent’s
long frame sprawled across the stones while he examined the kitchen chimney.
Even the old country cook she’d hired had protested the poor draft in this
horrid hall. Bell had sent out word for a sweep, but she worried the chimney
would crumble once centuries of soot was removed.

“More birds’ nests,” Quent called from his position on the filthy
hearth.

“Add them to the soup we were having for supper,” she said
acidly, kicking his boot sole. “The kitchen staff are standing about, waiting
to prepare our meal. What are you still doing here?”

“Taking charge.” He scooted out of the fireplace, leaving a
trail of ash. His face and traveling clothes were blackened, with the whites of
his eyes and teeth a striking contrast to his begrimed face. “Someone needs
to.”

She kicked his boot again. “I’ve hired as many good people
as I can find. It’s not as if I can turn the place around in a few days. And
you’re enjoying yourself entirely too much.” She added that last because his
grin didn’t diminish. He really
was
enjoying himself—fastidious, dignified Quentin Hoyt liked playing in dirt.

The staff very properly looked appalled as he dusted himself
off. Quent made no apology. He merely pointed at one of the young boys standing
around. “Take a broom up there. No more fires until the nests are cleaned out.
We’ll have to have a cold supper.”

Bell glared and pointed at the back door. “Leave that way
and wash. I’ll have someone bring you clean clothes. Then be on your way.” She
turned to the cook. “Have the staff use the old linens that Lady Sydony
gathered to cover everything thoroughly before anyone attempts to clean nests.”

The cook looked relieved and sent a scullery maid running to
find the housekeeper.

Quent shrugged. “I can fix things. I didn’t say I’d keep
them clean.” He trailed a cloud of dust out the back door.

She couldn’t fix things
or
keep them clean. But she knew how to tell others to do it.

Thirty years on earth, and all she was good for was ordering
people about.

She couldn’t order Quent about. She didn’t know how she felt
about that.

The groom in the stable eyed Quent askance when he
appeared in all his sooty glory, but the stoic man pointed out the well and
pump and the barrel the stable boys used for a cold shower. Quent admired their
ingenuity as the water sluiced over him. Even though the skies had clouded over
and started to mist, the August heat was still oppressive. Besides, the shower
was just the thing to cool off his ardor.

He needed to strip Bell down to her bare self as she had
done to him, he decided. But he had to do it in a way she enjoyed. He whistled
happily as he scrubbed his face.

He ought to feel guilty for not raising the cash for his
father’s roof. His family shouldn’t suffer for his father’s sins. But if Quent
was forced to choose sides, he would choose Bell, he had to admit. He hoped it
wouldn’t come to that, but for now, he ignored the castle roof.

Besides, the Hall needed work too. He could feel the coins
trickling from his pockets—and he still whistled. Chasing after Bell was even
more interesting than steam engines, although considerably less profitable.

A footman—thoughtfully provided by Bell, he assumed—carried
his valise into the stable. Once dressed, Quent refilled the water barrel so
the men could enjoy it at the end of a weary day.

Undeterred by Bell’s admonition that he remove himself from
the house, he talked to the groom, examined the new horses Bell had bought for
her siblings, and determined that this part of the estate was almost in decent
order. Stables were simple in comparison to houses. Feed could be bought, hands
could be hired. The roof could be repaired, but a little rain wouldn’t harm a
dirt floor in the meantime.

Wickedly, he gave permission for the head groom to hire a
roofer and buy canvas to protect the feed. He’d been slow to realize the
leverage he could employ if Bell truly wanted to redeem the family manse. The
estate belonged to his family. He had a
responsibility
to aid with the repairs. He added another negotiating point to his side of the
ledger.

His pursuit of Bell damned well surpassed his father’s
demands. Choosing his own path instead of his family’s for a change felt good, as
if a small planet had been lifted from his shoulders. He could almost taste
freedom.

He’d never realized he’d felt like a beast of burden until
he’d shaken off part of the load. Rebellion had its positive sides. What could
his father do—cut off his non-existent inheritance?

Well, the old man could take him to court over the
guardianship, but a lot could happen in years of fighting. He’d take his
chances. He’d made his fortune by taking calculated risks.

Knowing the servants wouldn’t lock the doors until dark, Quent
entered the side door of the house without knocking. Now that he knew where
Bell’s chamber was, he could find his own. He slung the hand with his valise
over his shoulder and began exploring.

The house had two enormous wings off the main medieval hall.
Bell had apparently chosen the east one for her family. He remembered from a
brief visit last spring that there had been several decent chambers along this
corridor. Apparently his ancestors had updated this wing at a later period than
Fitz’s, because the warren of rooms on this floor didn’t interconnect so
usefully. He couldn’t find a side entrance into Bell’s chamber.

Syd materialized while Quent was examining a large tester
bed in a chamber next to Bell’s.

“Are you moving in?” she asked with adolescent curiosity.

“No, Bell tossed me out. Says she’s not ready for company
yet.” He deliberately confused her. He hadn’t quite forgiven either of the two
conniving females for tricking him into that embarrassing incident at
Wyckersham.

“Is it proper for people who are only betrothed to live
together?” she asked.

Well, hell, now he had to give lessons in etiquette and
morality. He could see Bell’s difficulty. “Generally not, no.”

He’d had to arrange with the duke of Fortham to send Camilla
away before her tart tongue cut a swath through London. Quent was fairly
confident that Bell’s respectability would win over Camilla’s crassness, but he
saw no reason for gossip to tarnish his intended.

Of course, marriage to an untitled tradesman would reduce
her status. She hadn’t used that as a negotiating point, so he assumed that
didn’t cause her concern—another reason why Bell was perfect for him.

“But Bell is a wealthy widow and well established in society
and she has you and your aunt for chaperones,” he continued. “She doesn’t have
the same limitations as a young girl. And someone should look after her,” he
added righteously.

“Bell has always taken care of herself,” Syd protested, not
falling for his argument. “And now she has us to take care of her. Why did she
throw you out?”

He had sisters. He knew how their minds worked. Mostly, he
ignored them, or he’d never get anything done. But the only goal he wanted to
accomplish right now was Bell’s hand in marriage. Toward that end, it was
probably best to enlist her sisters.

“Bell thinks I’m after her money. She thinks I’ll interfere
in how she wishes to spend it. So we’re currently a little at odds.” And not
just over money, but the girls didn’t need details. He distracted her with a
question of his own. “Do you know why she doesn’t ride anymore?”

Syd shrugged. “She used to ride astride like a man and race
Daddy’s horses. I don’t know why she won’t even go out with us any longer.
Maybe we’re too boring.”

Quent kept his passive face on, but this nugget jolted him.
He’d known she’d had a hard life in Ireland, but he’d never really looked into
the extent of her poverty. He’d merely ascertained that her father had a title
and an estate, and her mother’s family came from a distinguished line of Irish
titles, even if most of them were Catholic, poor, and powerless.

Why would an earl’s daughter—a lady who appeared to be grace
personified—race horses like a hoyden? The thought appalled and intrigued him.

Had she been that rebellious—or had she needed to win the
prize?

“Perhaps she was thrown once,” Quent said, to divert any
suspicion.

“Maybe,” Syd said doubtfully. “Are you staying for dinner?”

“If Bell doesn’t heave anything at me. Tell her you want to
learn sailing, and I’ll offer my yacht. Perhaps that will persuade her to let
me stay.”

Predictably, Syd lit up like a sunbeam. “Oh, that would be prodigious fun!
I’ll tell Tess.”

She ran off in excitement. Quent hoped he damned well knew
what he was doing because he didn’t want to make an enemy of the woman he
wanted for wife. Just because there were a hundred practical reasons they
should marry didn’t mean he didn’t need her just for herself.

After just one night, he was in great danger of needing her
in his bed, the way he needed air to breathe. He’d once felt that way about
yachting and making money. Did that make him fickle or just too demanding?

***

Bell had yet to establish a good household routine in the
aging family manse. When it came to dining, one room was as bad as another. She
needed a raft of money and servants to put this place together as it should be,
but she was oddly content to let her family shape the routine.

She followed the sound of her sisters’ voices when it was
time for the evening meal. Before she even entered the small breakfast parlor,
their excited chatter warned that Quent had not left as she’d commanded. Not
that she’d actually expected him to do so. He had a hide as thick as old
leather.

She had to pinch the bridge of her nose to keep her eyebrows
from flying off her face when she discovered her sisters and Quent tying knots
with the old gold braid Kit had used to confine his tutor.

One of her well-trained footmen offered Bell a glass of her
favorite sherry. She knew there was a reason she’d brought the servants, even
if it wasn’t for cleaning rafters. She took a sip before speaking a word. She
didn’t have to. Syd explained without asking.

“We are learning knots so we may go yachting on the river,”
she announced excitedly. “Isn’t that absolutely famous?”

“Who’s been teaching her to talk like that?” Bell wondered
aloud, not offering her opinion on yachting—because she had none. She’d never
sailed except for the wretched experience of crossing the Irish Sea after she’d
married Edward. It was not an experience she longed to repeat.

“Mr. Penrose uses those words,” Tess said, frowning
worriedly. “Is his language not proper?”

“Cant seldom is, but I suppose that’s mild enough. Why would
one wish to tie knots for sailing? Isn’t that what sailors are for?” Bell
wondered if dealing with family caused an excess of nerves, thus bringing out
her father’s need for strong drink.

She set her sherry aside and tried to exhibit interest, but
Quent’s big body filled the small parlor. She was uncomfortably aware of him.

“For the joy of accomplishment,” Quent said. “Here, I’ll
show you.”

Bell studied the elaborate pattern he showed her with the
gold braid and tried not to think about those long, capable fingers caressing
her breasts. She picked up the sherry again.