Formidable Lord Quentin (6 page)

Shaking his head at having his peace marred so
precipitously, Quent marched the brat into the study and looked around. Spying the
seven-foot-tall mahogany breakfront, he lodged the lad on top of it where he
couldn’t leap down. Howling, the boy kicked his boot heels into the delicate
inlaid wood, but that was Bell’s problem.

Quent turned and glared at the startled, bespectacled young
man sitting in Edward’s sumptuous desk chair—a chair Quent had coveted but not
dared to usurp. Worse yet, the intruder was reading one of the rare
Shakespearean folios from the locked cabinet, folios Quent had longed to peruse
but felt he hadn’t earned the right to ask for.

“Which one are you?” Quent bellowed as the young man
awkwardly struggled to put the folio together, push back the overlarge chair,
and rise.

“Uh, Albert Thomas,” the man said. “His lordship’s tutor.”
He glanced up at the boy swinging the wooden mallet as if it were a hatchet and
winced as his lordship whooped, undeterred by his lofty position.

“I was told you were an
experienced
tutor,” Quent yelled. He never yelled. He’d developed the patience of seven
saints over the years of dealing with his large family. But he had an explosive
letter in his pocket and the burden of nearly half a dozen lives—that weren’t
his
family or responsibility—on his
shoulders, and he was eminently Unhappy.

“I am experienced, sir,” Thomas said, removing his spectacles
and studying the rambunctious earl’s perch worriedly. “But my former student
Lord Heathmont was . . .”

Quent threw up his hands. “A cripple, right. No savage war
whoops or running amuck for Heathmont. He made it into Oxford and is doing
well, is he?”

“Yes, sir, milord, uh . . .”

Quent snatched the mallet from the boy when it became
obvious the tutor wouldn’t. When the half-dressed earl protested, Quent pointed
the mallet at him. “I will leave you up there for the rest of the day if you
don’t quiet down immediately.”

The six-year-old earl of Wexford pouted his bottom lip,
crossed his arms belligerently, and glared.

Satisfied, Quent donned his civilized demeanor again and
held out his hand to the tutor. “Hoyt, friend of the family.” He wasn’t in the habit
of using the honorific
lord
that he’d
acquired with his father’s recent ascension to the marquisate.

The tutor’s handshake was firm enough. “Lord Quentin, the
gentleman who referred me? It’s an honor, sir.”

A man needed more than a handshake to deal with a ruffian. Quent
continued, “If you feel you are not capable of dealing with a healthy young
lad, then we’ll give you one week’s notice to find another position.”

“Uh, yes, sir. Lady Isabell said . . .” He
swallowed hard at Quent’s glare. “Yes, sir. I’m certain I can learn to manage.
Perhaps I should take him to the park more often so he might work off some
energy.”

“Yes, perhaps you might. Has he been given a valet yet? Or
are the nursemaids still dressing him?”

“Umm, he just acquired a valet, sir. His wardrobe is not
quite complete, but I’m fairly certain . . .” He glanced at the
boy’s strange attire. “I’m fairly certain he owns breeches.”

The study door slammed open and a disheveled Bell flew in.

Quent had never seen the dignified marchioness less than
composed. She always dressed in immaculate, fashionable gowns unmarred by the
city’s filth and held herself with the calm authority and grace of her title.
She never appeared in public unless her shining chestnut tresses were
elaborately coiffed in the latest style.

The furious termagant propping her fists on her hips and
glaring at the miscreant on the cabinet was not the gracious lady he knew.

Silken curls had lost their pins and hung in lopsided
disarray. Her shapeless morning gown—at three in the afternoon—was dusted with
a fine powder of unknown origin. When she crossed the carpet and stood on her
toes to grab her brother’s leg and yank off his boot, Quentin noticed that she
was barefoot.

Barefoot. He stared in fascination.

“I should leave you up there until bedtime and feed you only
bread and water,” she scolded. “You have ruined my paints and your sister’s
gown. You are much too old to act the part of a toddler who doesn’t know how to
behave.”

“I want my pony!” the lad retorted. “You promised me a
pony!”

“And you think you will acquire it faster if you act the
part of infant?” she shouted back at him.

The marchioness had facets that Quent hadn’t known existed.
The pink in her cheeks looked natural. Her eyes flashed green fires. And those
lovely slender toes . . . Quent raised his eyes heavenward. He
would be pondering ankles and calves next, and then he would have to leave
until he was decent.

“Perhaps if Mr. Thomas takes him to the park and makes him
memorize the name of every tree, he might be allowed a better seat when he
returns, although bread and water sounds suitable if he doesn’t behave in the
park,” Quent suggested.

Bell turned and glared at him. “And where the devil have you
been? You send me a tutor who can’t teach and a valet who can’t keep breeches
on him and you disappear off the face of the earth.”

Quent raised his eyebrows. “I wasn’t aware that my presence
was required. I had rather thought you’d be happily entertaining your sisters.”

“Get me down, get me down!” the boy chanted from his perch.

“Umm, I’ll take him to the park, if uh . . .”
The tutor glanced uncertainly at the tall breakfront.

Mr. Thomas wasn’t any taller than Bell. With a growl of
disgust, Quent yanked off the boy’s other boot. Then he lifted the wary earl
down and handed him to the tutor, who staggered under the boy’s rather hefty
size and set him down.

“Put a leash on him if you must,” Quent suggested.

Bell smacked his arm, grabbed her brother’s shoulder, and
marched him from the study, leaving the two men to stare at each other blankly.

Contemplating fleeing, Quent swung his walking stick and
prayed to the almighty for guidance. He had never wanted more family. He’d fled
to London a decade ago to escape the extremely large, stubborn, argumentative
one he had. Wives and children had
never
been part of his horizon.

Despite all that, he had come here determined to do the
proper thing—but bare toes had reduced his mind to rubble that had nothing to
do with propriety.

“The boy knows his letters, does he?” he finally asked,
wondering how soon he should send a servant to remind Bell that he was here.

“And his numbers. He has a quick mind,” the tutor cautiously
agreed. “It’s just . . . The ladies have pampered him a bit,
rightfully so, I suspect, under the circumstances.”

“We can’t allow him to behave like a heathen. The Boyles, in
particular, need a firm hand. They’re all headstrong. Again, if you do not feel
yourself capable . . .”

Mr. Thomas ran his hand through his hair. “I can teach him.
But the ladies are not likely to allow me to discipline him.”

Bell marched back in in time to hear this last. Quent tilted
his chin up to prevent looking to see if her toes were still bare. There had
been little time to do more than hand the boy to a maid, so he suspected they
were. It was hard not to keep glancing down.

“He will not be beaten just for being a boy,” she said
firmly.

“A good whack on his bottom will get his attention,” Quent
argued. “But there are better methods to bring him in line. Thomas, since it
apparently takes two to dress the lad, go see that your charge is appropriately
garbed and let loose in the park with some educational project.”

The man hurried out wearing an expression of relief as Bell
geared up to fire again.

“Don’t,” Quent warned, holding up his hand. “I am in no
humor for it. You know perfectly well that the boy needs a man in the house,
and you and your sisters shouldn’t be dealing with tutors and valets. This
house isn’t large enough, for one thing. And it’s improper, for another. I sent
them for you to interview. I didn’t expect you to hire them on the spot.”

“Why shouldn’t I? I’m an aging widow. Who’s to question who
I hire?”

“Aging widow!” Quent rolled his eyes. “You are scarcely
older than your sisters! All of you need chaperones. Are you prepared to house
them too?”

She glared. “I have written Edward’s Aunt Griselda and asked
her to attend us. She can help me polish the girls. I appreciate your help,
Quent, but I don’t need your interference. Did you have a purpose in coming here
besides scolding me?”

She had powder on her upturned nose and a smear of black on
her bodice, just above her left breast. If they married, he would have the
right to kiss that pert nose and caress that breast.

His prick rose immediately to the occasion.

To cool his ardor, he reminded himself that if they married,
his life would descend to a living hell.

But having Bell in his bed would be preferable to suffering
that same hell without her. That was the conclusion he’d reached while studying
his father’s orders. If he was to suffer, so must she.

He produced the letter in his pocket. “You did not really
believe my father would respond otherwise once Summerby presented him with the
will?”

Bell glared at the vellum but refused to take it. “My father
meant to send my family to
me
. You
cannot tell me otherwise. Your father should be happy that I’m willing to take
them in.”

“My father believes in the letter of the law. He could be
sued should he fail in his legal responsibility. As you’re well aware, he
doesn’t have the wherewithal to spend years in court. As guardian, he has asked
me to send Lord Wexford and Lady Sydony to the schools the family has always
attended in Edinburgh. I can assure you, they are excellent schools. You may
ask my sisters, who are products of the one Lady Sydony will attend. I and my
brothers attended the other, and I have reason to believe we are well
educated.”

“Kit is a little boy!” she cried. “He cannot be shipped off
with strangers just after losing his father. No, I won’t have it. And Syd needs
me and the family she knows. There are excellent finishing schools in London so
she may come home whenever she wishes. She needs to meet London society, not
Edinburgh’s! You have seen how your sisters have struggled to fit in here.”

She swirled to walk away. Quent blocked her path. “My father
is opening a room for Mrs. Dawson and her daughter in our home. My sisters and
cousins are eager to welcome her. She will be near Lady Sydony and her
brother.”

Bell stamped her . . . bare . . .
foot.

Quent closed his eyes and prayed for salvation.

“No. Tell your father thank you,” she said, her tone turning
icy, “but if the children are to go to school, it will be only if they and I
agree on the lessons and faculty and location. And there is absolutely no
question of Tess going to Scotland. She is staying here with me so I may
present her to society so she may have choices beyond your collection of
impoverished relations.”

“That is what I was afraid you would say.” Quent knew what
he had to do now, and he returned to seeking her toes for incentive. “My father
will not accept your choices, and he has the law on his side. I have come to
offer an alternative.” He held his breath, wishing for better circumstances, or
at least, some interest on Bell’s part.

Although, somehow, seeing the sophisticated marchioness with
a ringlet hanging over her nose, the moment seemed easier. When she merely
tapped her tempting toe, Quent signed and just spoke plainly. “If you marry me,
we can solve the problem. My father will allow the children to stay with me,
and you will be there to make the decisions.”

“Marry you?” She sounded as appalled as she looked. “Whyever
would you even consider I might accept such a solution? We would never suit.
You merely want to gain control of Edward’s funds. No, no, a thousand times no!
The children are my family, and I will spend every cent to keep them, if
necessary.”

She tried to push past him. Quent thought perhaps he could
have done this better, but he was a businessman, not a seducer. He didn’t move
out of her way. “Bell, the funds are not in question. We can negotiate
settlements and trusts. Be reasonable and at least let us discuss this
sensibly.”

She turned and glared at him. “Marriage is not an
acquisition contract, my lord,” she said heatedly. “I am a human being, not a
ship or a load of silk, no more than my family is a piece of paper to be passed
through courts. There is nothing reasonable about your proposal. I’ll not hear
another word.”

She padded out on bare feet, leaving Quent in a state of
furious arousal.

Her rejection shouldn’t hurt this badly when all he’d done
was offer her a better choice than going to court—where she would most
certainly lose. He’d always admired Bell’s independence, but now he wanted to
shake her until she saw reason.

By Jove, why should he care? He shoved his father’s letter
in his pocket and stalked out.

Bell held herself together long enough to reach her room.
There, she sank into the vanity chair, glanced in the mirror, and buried her
face in her hands.

“I will call for some tea,” her maid said worriedly, yanking
a bell pull that would ring the kitchen. “Perhaps an egg-white masque and a
short nap,” she continued when Bell did not respond.

“No, an afternoon gown, please.” Bell dug in to her reserves
of strength, lifted her chin, and glared at the mirror which revealed her
disheveled state.

Quent had
proposed.
She
couldn’t decide whether to be insulted, furious, pleased, or simply laugh hysterically.
He had seen her at her absolute worst—well, not worst, that had been a decade
ago—and he’d
dared
propose marriage.

There had been many lonely hours when she had considered
inviting him into her bed. He was the only man she’d ever met who had intrigued
her enough to even consider such indiscretion. But the knowledge that he and
his family coveted her fortune had been too . . . demeaning.
Divisive. She feared a connection would raise hopes when there was none.