Formidable Lord Quentin (29 page)

She patted her horse’s rump and moved on to another hoof.
“Any of your brothers inclined toward business? If not, then you’ll need to
drag Penrose back to town and hire one of your brothers to work here.”

“If I take Penrose, there would be no one out here with you.”
And he wasn’t about to suggest that his father send any of his family until the
knots were tied. If nothing else, he needed to check his office for his
father’s latest demands. “I can set up the estate books, I suppose.” Estate
books were child’s play. He needed to be in the city—with Bell.

This was the least romantic courtship he had ever heard of,
which left him frustrated for no discernible reason. Had he expected anything
different? Bell had agreed to be his. Shouldn’t his triumph be sufficient?

She must have heard something in his voice, because she set
the horse’s hoof down and emerged from the stall. Straw dangled from her skirt,
and she had a smudge of dirt on her nose, but her cheeks were pink and her eyes
glowed. She was the most beautiful sight Quent could imagine, and he loved that
she was paying attention even when it seemed she wasn’t. He was being churlish
to disturb her. He bent and pressed a kiss on her cheek that promised more in
privacy.

“Surely there is some business in the country to keep you
entertained?” she asked. “We could buy the inn or the dock or the butcher shop
or something to make you happy?” She caressed his cheek and offered one of the
glorious smiles that stopped his heart and made him lose his mind and want
nothing more than to please her.

“Or we could set up a blacksmith shop for all your horses or
a feed and grain store,” he said dryly. “Not precisely the same as investing in
steam engines and shipping lines, but they’d serve their purpose. If Essex had
anything worth transporting, I could open a carriage trade.”

She laughed. “All our profit would go into transporting our
families back and forth.” She looked past him to the long carriage drive
winding up the hill toward the house. “And it looks as if one of them has found
their way here already, unless the neighbors have taken to traveling coaches.”

Quent turned to examine the intruder and cursed. “That’s my family’s
barouche. I haven’t invited anyone.”

“Well, I can’t imagine anyone but your sisters leaving
Scotland, and they will be far more pleasant visitors than Dolly and Hiram,”
she said cheerfully. “I’ll need to change. Let’s send my sisters down to
entertain them and make them wait,” she said wickedly, catching his hand and
racing toward the side door.

His heart lightened just considering how long his family
could be made to wait—and what he could do with Bell while their uninvited guests
cooled their heels.

***

Bell thoroughly regretted her overly optimistic
declaration that Quent’s family couldn’t be any worse than hers.

The Marquess of Belden sat upon the largest chair in the
ancient hall, glaring at the company much as Henry VIII must have done when
displeased with his queens.

Lord Belden wasn’t much smaller than the Tudor monarch in
his later years. No wonder the marquess didn’t travel often. Even a barouche
would be uncomfortably small after a few hours. Bell was pleased to note that,
unlike the Tudors, Quent’s father maintained most of his thick hair, although
it had turned a distinguished gray.

“This is a surprise and an honor, my lord,” Bell said dryly,
dropping her best curtsy.

“Surprise being the foremost description,” Quent added, not
bowing. “What the devil did you think, risking your life with a journey like
that? I could have sent my yacht if you had simply let us know you wished to
visit.”

“And given you time to whisk everyone out of sight?” the
older man grumbled from the high-backed armchair he’d appropriated. “I’m not an
idiot. I’ve given you sufficient time to respond to my command to bring my new
wards to me, and you have failed to do so. I thought it my responsibility to
present myself to them. Where are they?”

“Hiding,” Bell responded pertly, before Quent could draw his
ire. “They are wary of strangers, and apparently your entrance was . . . less than
agreeable. We have not invited guests for a reason. The Hall is scarcely
habitable.”

“That damned carriage drive nearly broke every bone in my
body! I had reason to complain. Now bring them out of hiding so we can be on
with this.”

“We’ll discuss matters in my study like civilized gentlemen
and leave the ladies out of it,” Quent said, quashing Bell’s temper as
effectively as she’d halted his.

Bell started to object, but Quent shot her a warning glare.
Well, fine, she didn’t want to deal with the ill-tempered old goat anyway. She
smiled sweetly and dipped a partial curtsy. “As you say, sir, I’ll talk to Cook
and the housekeeper and see that all is prepared to your satisfaction.”

Her sarcasm was rewarded with Quent’s swift grin, but he
responded in his normal businesslike manner. “If you find Penrose in your
wandering, send him to join us. His penmanship is better than mine.”

That sounded ominous.

Bell told herself that the marquess was an old man, set in
his ways, and that he simply wasn’t willing to deal with a female. Quent would
know how to cope with him. Surely, the old Scot could be made to see reason.

She told her sisters the same, but they didn’t seem
convinced.

Tess was packing a valise and hastily ordering the nursemaid
to pack Beebee’s things. She shook her head at Bell’s argument. “I will not go
anywhere with that mean old man. Nowhere,” she insisted. “I will walk back to
town, if I must. I will hide in barns. I will return to Ireland!” She nearly
shouted this last.

“We aren’t that desperate,” Bell told her, feeling desperate
despite her plea. “He can’t kidnap you. He brought no bailiffs. We can argue
your marriage negates the age codicil of the will if we must go to court. Quent
will make him see reason before then. You must at least present yourself so he
sees you as a young lady and not an irrational child.”

“I feel like an irrational child,” Tess wailed, turning and
flinging her arms around Bell. “I want a home. I want Jeremy. I want daddy. Why
can’t anything stay the same?”

Caught unprepared, Bell hesitated, then wrapped her arms
around her grieving sister and hugged her. “I will always be here for you. I
won’t let anyone take you where you don’t wish to go. Do you understand me?”
She pushed away enough to meet Tess’s eyes. “You go nowhere you don’t wish to
go, I promise. I will have Summerby arrange it so that even over my dead body,
you will have a home of your own.”

Tess took a steadying breath and nodded. “I know you believe
that. I just can’t trust fate anymore.”

“I understand, but you have to trust
me
.” Bell knew what it was like to be tossed by the winds of fate.
She’d already given Summerby changes for her will. She would rush him.

“Maybe I haven’t earned your trust yet,” Bell continued, “but
I’m trying. I know next to nothing about the marquess except he’s in need of
funds, and I have what he wants. We’ll work it out. Leave your bag packed if it
makes you feel safer, but come down to dinner dressed in all your finery. Show
him that you’re a confident young woman who doesn’t need his guidance.”

“What about Syd and Kit?” Tess whispered anxiously.

“We ought to let Kit loose on him,” Bell said without
remorse, “but we’ll pretend we’re a proper household for just one night. After
that, it depends on how the marquess behaves. I think Syd should come down and
play the demure miss for now. We’ll see how that goes over first.”

“All right, but I still want horses saddled and waiting,”
Tess retorted.

“Make sure you have coins in your bags before you go,” she
warned, just to show she understood.

Not feeling any relief, Bell departed to hunt down Syd and
tell her the same. She felt as if her life had become a perpetual sail across
the Channel, all stomach-churning dips and swells.

Quent’s roars from the study did not reassure her. She
wondered if she could kidnap her own sisters, but she knew she wasn’t being
reasonable. Except for the domineering old marquess, Quent’s relations were
perfectly lovely and would welcome her family with open arms. She simply didn’t
want to let them go now that she had them back. Was that selfish of her?

Putting her heart on the table for her family to cut up was
probably a mistake, but Quent was right. If she couldn’t take chances now, she
would never move ahead with her life, and she would be forever lonely. Family
was worth the risk of another broken heart.

She made certain the marquess was given the next best
bedchamber and the new linens. She had a maid set coal to burning to take out
any lingering must. Perhaps if he understood that she knew how to manage a
household, he would soften a bit.

Quent’s father had despised Edward. She feared revenge was
his motive in demanding the guardianship.

And since Bell hadn’t given him access to any of Edward’s
funds, perhaps he despised her too. That just made her more angry than fearful.
Lachlann Hoyt, fourth marquess of Belden, had not once made himself known to
her, even when she’d been a grieving widow. She owed Quent’s father
nothing
.

But she dressed in the only decent dinner dress that she’d
brought with her, kissed Quent’s cheek when she entered the parlor where he
waited, and bobbed a brief curtsy to the grumbling marquess. Pretending she was
in complete control did little to settle her anxiety.

“I didn’t know we would have visitors so we haven’t stocked
the best brandy yet,” she said apologetically. “I’ll have someone run into the
village tomorrow to see what’s available there.”

“I brought my own whisky,” the marquess growled, holding up
a flask. “The English never stock the good stuff.”

Edward had despised Scots whisky, but Bell refrained from
mentioning anything that might anger their guest. “I’m sure Lord Quentin will
arrange to have the best he can find on hand the next time you visit. Did the
two of you have a good talk?”

“We did not. Where are my wards?” the querulous old man
demanded.

Bell glanced questioningly at Quent, who shrugged and looked
indifferent—not helpful. She continued smiling. “Lord Wexford is in the nursery
at this hour, of course. He’s only six. Mrs. Dawson and Lady Sydony will be
down shortly. You should have brought Lady Margaret and Lady Sally with you. My
sisters would enjoy their company as much as I do.” She reminded the old goat
that she had been sponsoring Quent’s sisters these last couple of seasons.

“I’m not frittering another farthing on the chits,” Belden
grumbled. “They’ve been offered positions as teachers at that school they
attended, and they’ll take them. The family is large enough as it is. They
don’t need to marry and bring home more hungry mouths to support. Tell the fillies
to hurry and let’s be on with dinner.” He heaved his girth from the chair.

Bell bit down hard on her fury and glanced at Quent. Had he
known that his father didn’t mean to let his sisters have the come-out she’d
planned? Quent remained stoic and didn’t look at her, which didn’t aid her
anger.

She knew exactly what the old curmudgeon was about. She and
Edward had had these power struggles frequently over his last years. It had
taken much practice, but she’d learned to retain her composure. She knew the
countermove and it did not include cracking a porcelain shepherdess over anyone’s
head.

“My household, my hours,” she said sweetly, tightening the
golden reins to remind him of who was in charge. “The dinner bell will sound at
six as planned, and my sisters will be down then.” She could have added
You will remember I am the marchioness and
this is my home until I die
, but she was still trying to be polite for
Quent’s sake.

The marquess sent Quent a hard look. “And this is what
you’re signing up for—wedded to a hen who rules the roost? You’d better think
again, boy.”

Quent, damn his leather hide, merely sipped his whisky and
raised his magnificent eyebrows. “You think I should prefer being under your
thumb rather than that of a beautiful woman’s?”

Bell didn’t know whether to conk him or kiss him.

If he only had Edward’s most excellent brandy, Quent
thought, he could easily drink himself under the table. He wondered what Bell
would think of public drunkenness.

That was a stupid question and proved he was already
half-foxed on bad wine. Bell would despise a drunkard like her father.

Resolutely, Quent dug into the fine potato dish the cook had
provided to accompany the roast beef.

The interview with his father had not gone well. His father
was quite convinced that with Sally and Margaret out of the house and
supporting themselves, and by marrying off Tess to the cousin with all the
children so Bell’s dower money would support them, he could save enough to buy
his own damned roof. The promise of a stewardship for one of Quent’s brothers
did not take the man’s eyes off possible income from rents from the earl’s
Irish estate.

The old man was a product of a different place and time. And
a product of poverty and injustice, which had made him bitter, ruthless, and,
yes, occasionally cruel—or in best case, just thoughtless. Bell wasn’t likely
to appreciate the problem of dealing with him.

Quent had kept his two lives separate for good reason. It
was a given that fiercely independent Bell and his dictatorial father would
despise each other on sight. He feared the old man was likely to antagonize
Bell into refusing marriage.

Sitting at the head of the table where Bell had placed him, Quent
signaled the footman to fill his water glass. Best to keep his head while Bell
and his father did their best to rip off each other’s. Bell, at least, bit with
socially acceptable politeness.