Formidable Lord Quentin (10 page)

Abby looked surprised. To Quent’s gratification, even Bell
sat up straight and sent him a suspicious look. He rather liked the quickness
of her mind.

“You are looking for a wife, Lord Quentin?” Mrs. Dawson
asked with interest, dropping her charade of playing charades.

“I am considering it, yes,” he said stiffly, figuring he
sounded pompous but not knowing how else to start this inane discussion. “I
cannot continue relying on Lady Bell to bring out my sisters and cousins. I
need a respectable female to shepherd them about.”

“I’ve told you I can still herd them,” Bell said irritably,
rising from the pianoforte to take the list from Abby’s hands.

“I fear I don’t go about much in society,” the countess
acknowledged. “The names are familiar, but I wouldn’t pretend to know any of
them well enough to judge their suitability. Bell would know more.”

Which was entirely what Quent had anticipated. Subterfuge
was the only tactic they’d ever used between them, and he didn’t mind employing
it now.

Bell was shaking her head and tapping her pretty slipper as
she scanned the list. “Fitz, you know better than to include the Wellingham
chit. She has her cap set for a title, preferably one who takes his seat in the
Lords so she can steer his career.”

“That doesn’t make her ineligible,” Fitz argued. “She’s
smart, pretty, and capable, right up to Quent’s mark. She might make an
exception for him.”

“Even if she is intelligent enough to see Quent’s worth, her
parents aren’t. They come from a long, aristocratic lineage. The Scots are far
beneath their dignity.”

“And one in trade, further still?” Quent asked silkily. He’d
already assessed the list and had come to the same conclusion.

“I didn’t say that, you did,” she retorted. “One cannot
account for the prejudices of society. They just are. For a little reverse
prejudice, you cannot consider the Smith child. She has no lineage at all. Her
father is a smarmy village merchant who gambled himself into a fortune. Yes,
she’s pretty, but as vapid as they come, without a single thought of her own.”

“And she and her family would be thrilled at Quent’s suit,”
Fitz argued.

Quent had done business with Smith and had barely been aware
that he had a daughter until Fitz had added her to the list. “The main concern
is that she can hold the advantage over my high-handed sisters, isn’t it?”

“She’s not eighteen. Not a chance,” Bell said firmly. “You
need a widow already wise in the social arena. Perhaps Lady Charlotte,” she
said with less certainty, studying the names.

“Who has the face of a horse and two left feet, I’m here to
attest.” Quent verified her doubt. “There is no one perfect woman. I must
settle for the one who can chaperone my sisters— and possibly your sisters, if
my father has his way.”

Belle slapped him with the paper and returned to the
pianoforte.

She was quick to catch on to his ploy, but he’d made his point.
She
was the only one suitable for his
wife.

Bell seethed.
There
was no one perfect woman,
indeed!
She
was perfect for Quent’s purposes . . . except she demanded love,
and he didn’t know emotion existed. So, strike her off the list, too.

She’d go back to Ireland and take her family with her before
she let any of those
less than perfect
women
introduce her sisters to society.

Why on earth had the bull-headed man suddenly decided he
needed a wife to deal with his sisters? She would ponder that, but she was too
angry. She could not imagine why men and women were on the same planet except
for the basic necessity of procreation.

Since she had never provided Edward with children in their
years of marriage, she obviously didn’t need men.

Once, the lack of children had broken her heart, but she
didn’t believe in looking back. There was no shortage of children in the world,
as her family proved.

Across the room, Tess boldly took Quent’s arm and asked him
to walk her around the parlor, presumably to discuss his requisites for wife,
if Bell knew anything at all. Her sister was safe practicing her limited wiles
on a skilled bachelor like Quent, so she let them go.

She would truly dislike seeing another woman holding his arm
and attention. That realization only heightened her anger. She had grown
complacent in believing she could rely on him as family friend. She must stop
that, at once. He must follow his own course.

While Bell pecked at the pianoforte keys, Syd engaged Acton
Penrose in an enthusiastic conversation about Spain. Her sister would gain a
reputation as a bluestocking with that kind of talk, except no one who saw her
excited gestures and heard her laughter could ever call Syd a bluestocking. No,
she’d be an Original if Bell had her way—if Syd wasn’t whisked off to a cold
corner of Edinburgh and buried in books for the next few years. Bell had no
objection to education, but she knew from experience that it must be
well-rounded with social instruction as well.

She’d forgotten how family added to worries. She would
simply have to learn to handle their problems again, as she had while still a
child—a child who had carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. She was
in a far better position to aid her siblings now. Fretting over her family’s
future was a small price to pay to have her sisters back, and it certainly
relieved the enormous fear of wondering if they were still alive.

Of course, now she had to fret about the mare who had been
the only loving companionship she’d really known, but she hoped Summerby had
that in hand. She should ask Fitz if she could house the mare here. She didn’t
want to grow attached again, but Dream deserved rich green pastures.

“Do you know what type of mounts you and your sisters will
require?” Fitz asked, pulling Bell from her reverie.

“The girls haven’t been on horseback since they left
Ireland. Let’s start with some of your gentler mares. Most of their riding will
be in the city for now, so they don’t need endurance, just a patient
temperament.” Bell knew precisely the mare she would have chosen from her
father’s stable, but she wasn’t familiar with Fitz’s stock.

“I have several that will suit, although one is older,
steadier, but not as pretty.”

Bell thought she heard amusement in the earl’s voice. Fitz
had a warped humor. He was comparing his mares to the list he’d drawn for
Quent.

“Syd doesn’t have to marry her horse,” Bell said tartly.
“Reliable is the best trait for her until she’s acclimated to horse and city.”

“How about a pretty one for you, then?” the earl suggested.
“I have a spirited Irish hunter almost the same color as your hair. You’ll look
magnificent together.”

Bell waved off the suggestion. “I won’t ride. I’ll hire
grooms to follow them about. But Kit will need a steady pony.” To prevent
further questioning, she buried her refusal under Kit’s requirements. “I don’t
think he cares if it matches his hair, but I’d suggest one that will endure
constant kicking.”

She had no desire to explain why she’d vowed never to become
attached to another animal. Once she’d lost Little Dream, she had learned to limit
the amount of misery to be invited into her life. She wouldn’t summon more pain
by doing more than providing her old friend with a happy retirement. From
experience, she knew her family was likely to provide enough heartache.

“I have a Welsh that will nip his lordship every time he
kicks,” Fitz suggested with a laugh. “But I suppose that won’t teach him the
proper way to ride.”

“It might teach him consequences, but it might also cause
him to fear horses. Tempting as that sounds, that’s probably the wrong
direction.” Bell thought of the gentle ponies her sisters had learned to ride
on. If only . . .

She closed off that thought. The past was past.

“I have more agreeable ponies,” Fitz said smoothly. “Jennie
learned to ride on the Welsh, so our twins probably can, too.”

“Knowing my sister, she probably encouraged the poor thing
to bite,” Abby said with a laugh. “It would keep everyone else away. She’s
possessive.”

Bell smiled, remembering her childhood self doing much the
same with a different mare. She hadn’t wanted her stepmother riding Little
Dream’s dam. She wished she’d been kinder to the poor woman who had died
birthing Syd. The painful memories she’d buried years ago kept crowding back
with all this talk of horses.

She stood and brushed out her skirts. “I think I’ll go up
and check on Kit and Beebee, make certain they’re sleeping, and then I’ll
retire. Thank you for the lovely dinner, Abby. You’re a marvelous hostess.”

Ignoring protests, she glanced at Tess, who tilted her head
as if to catch every precious word that Quent uttered. Bell scowled. “Syd,
Tess, it’s been a long day. Say your good-nights.”

“I’ll be up in a little while,” Tess said with a dismissive
wave.

Quent sent Bell a questioning look that she couldn’t quite
translate, but at least he recognized her authority. She really didn’t want to
be at constant odds with him.

“Do I have to?” Syd didn’t rise from the love seat, although
the ex-soldier had stood up the moment Bell had. “Mr. Penrose is explaining how
the Portuguese make wine.”

She wasn’t their mother, Bell reminded herself. Abby was a
perfectly eligible chaperone. Just because Bell was irritable didn’t mean she
had to ruin everyone else’s evening.

“Lady Danecroft may wish to retire soon,” Bell reminded
them. “You cannot remain down here with the gentlemen. It’s not done. Abigail,
the instant you’re ready to turn in, send these chits upstairs, please.”

“Actually, I need to check on the nursery, too. Let us all
go up together.” The countess set aside her sewing.

“Why can we not stay and talk with the gentlemen?” Syd asked
peevishly, flouncing from her seat. “Tess and I aren’t children.”

“Yes, you are, if you don’t see the impropriety. Besides,
the men want to drink and play billiards and discuss inappropriate topics
without you about. The world does not revolve on your whims.” Bell ushered both
her sisters in front of her, then turned to glance at the men they were leaving
behind.

Fitz and Penrose were already engaged in a lively discussion
of horses. Only Quent was watching them depart. He arched one eyebrow and
saluted her, as if she were the officer in charge.

Oddly, that pleased her, which only served to irritate her
more—which was just too ridiculous for words.

***

Quent tried to ignore a tug of abandonment as he watched
Bell shepherd her sisters from the salon. Now that he’d set his mind on the
course of marriage, he hungered for the feel of her mouth on his. He was a man
accustomed to going after what he wanted. Denying himself was no doubt his problem.
Once he had a marriage settlement, life would return to normal. Almost normal.
After the sisters were out of the house.

“Don’t think your list worked, old boy,” Fitz said
cheerfully after the ladies had departed. “Bell sounded just a wee bit peeved,
not the smoothest way to courtship.”

“If I sent her flowers, she’d dump them over my head,” Quent
said unrepentantly. “She’s not your pleasant-natured Abby.”

“So, let her dump them over your head. At least you will
have indicated you’re still interested,” Penrose argued.

“You’re just interested in the sisters and want me to give
you better access to them,” Quent countered. His aide’s blush confirmed his
guess. “What was that about Bell not wanting her own mount?”

“Nothing. She simply said she didn’t need one and that her
grooms would be riding with her sisters.” Fitz shrugged. “She has a carriage.
She doesn’t need a mount for showing off in the park.”

That wasn’t quite right. Quent had been watching Bell’s
expression, and there had been something there . . . But she
wasn’t apt to tell him if he questioned. Damned hard trying to court a woman
who didn’t want to be courted. Harder still when he didn’t entirely understand
his own motivation.

“The remark about there not being a perfect woman was an
error,” Penrose informed him. “A proper suitor would have said there was only
one perfect woman and let her wonder.”

“Bell has spent these last years hearing all the pretty
phrases. She won’t believe flattery,” Quent scoffed. “If I’m to go forward with
this, I have to be frank and not pretend I’m the kind of man she knows I’m
not.”

“She rejected the man she thinks you are,” Fitz said with a
laugh at Quent’s expense. “Did you ever consider that you might have to change
a lot if you give up the bachelor state?”

He had. And he didn’t like it—except for the part about
having Bell in his bed. He growled irascibly and looked for the decanter.
“Perhaps we could keep separate households. We’re both set in our ways.”

“Then you want a mistress, not a wife. It’s a good thing
both of you will be together here for a few days. You’ll discover whether you
can tolerate each other’s company in the long hours where you aren’t being
entertained by business or parties. Anyone for billiards?” Fitz asked, rising.
“If not, I’m off to join Abby.”

Quent declined a game and took his glass up to his chambers.
He could hear feminine chatter around the corner but knew better than to join
them.

He’d brought work with him. He wouldn’t be bored.

Although . . . His step picked up as he
considered an even better, time-honored, and traditional method of relieving house
party boredom.

***

“I’m bored.”

After opening her chamber door, Bell stepped away in
startlement. Her visitor took advantage by crossing his arms and leaning
against the jamb in all his glorious dishabille, preventing her from slamming
the panel in his face.

Quent divested of neckcloth and coat, with his waistcoat
open to reveal the breadth of his manly . . . she took a deep
breath . . . his shirt, was a sight to behold. His thick dark hair
had fallen over his forehead as if he’d been running his fingers through it.
The open neck of his shirt, even in this dim light, revealed a few crisp curls.