Formidable Lord Quentin (16 page)

Her chuckle was low and sexy and incited him more.

“Surely the mighty Lord Quentin has had his moments of
passion. Is there a simmering cauldron behind your polite composure?” She
nibbled his ear and tugged at his shirt, attempting to remove it from his
trousers.

He unfastened buttons to ease the constraint of the cloth.
“I assure you madam, I am a temperate man. You have simply driven me to
madness.”

“Fie, you lie. And we cannot do what you think we’re doing,
so you had best prove your temperance and let me up.” Her hand lingered at his
waist, tugging at his linen.

“Not a chance.” With her bodice sufficiently unfastened, he
released her breasts. Rosebud tips puckered temptingly, and he teased one with
his tongue.

She nearly came up off the bed, and Quent smirked in
satisfaction.

“Bad example for my sisters,” she murmured. “Cannot do
this.”

“Your sisters are the bad example. It’s no matter now. We’ll
marry and do this every night. And morning. And maybe at noon. It will make all
the rest of the chaos worth it.” Right now, with this amazing woman in his
hands, he almost believed that sexual congress would make the world go away.

He suckled, and she moaned. He caught the curve of her hips
and pulled her under him.

She arched to brush against his arousal. “
No
, nothing is settled. This is not how
to do business.”

He snorted inelegantly. “I should hope not.” He tugged her
skirt up until he could finally stroke bare flesh. “Business tomorrow. Tonight,
I show you what I have to offer.”

“It’s been so long . . .” she murmured
worriedly.

His heart raced at this hint of capitulation. “I assure you,
you can do nothing wrong. Practice isn’t necessary.” He kissed her again,
making it long and slow, soothing her with caresses so she grew accustomed to
his touch.

She retaliated by sliding her hand between them and
squeezing the bulge in his trouser placket. “I am not a yearling to be gentled
to the bridle. Do not think there will be a repeat of this occasion because you
will it so.”

“You underestimate me, Bell.” He turned on his side and
finished opening his placket. “You’ll want this as much as I do.”

“Maybe I’ll find others to scratch the itch, then,” she
taunted, tugging his shirt free and finally running her hands freely over his
torso.

His gut clenched with fierce possessiveness. “If I thought
that, I’d just tether you to the bed and never leave. Don’t make light of
what’s between us because you’re frightened. We’ll make it work.”

He hoped. And prayed. And removed their clothing so he could
see all of her. If he was to have only one night, he wanted heaven.

***

The damned man knew her too well. Too much was happening
too soon. Bell had only just discovered this part of her that had been lost.
Lowering all her careful guards to rediscover what she’d so thoroughly buried . . .

Her reactions to his touch both excited and terrified her.
No other man had created this uncontrollable need. She wanted to do things
she’d never thought of doing with any other man, not even Edward. And blast
Quent—he wasn’t giving her time to recover.

Without modesty, Quent stripped off his linen and trousers
and let her gaze with impunity on his awe-inspiring physique. The candlelight
cast his arousal in shadow, but she could see enough to doubt their
compatibility. She was slender and only of average size.

He was over six feet of brawn. Muscles rippled as he
captured her beneath him. He was beautiful and formidable. She wanted to flee
and kiss all those hard planes at the same time. The magic he created with his
mouth and hands kept her fastened to the bed better than any velvet ties.

She was hollow inside, aching, hungry, craving. With his
terrifying ability to understand her needs, Quent sucked her breasts until she
cried out with desire. He slid his fingers between her thighs in answer to her
cry. She had to stuff a pillow in her mouth to prevent screaming at this
intimate invasion. She tangled her fingers in his gloriously thick black hair,
trying to tug him away. She needed a moment to regain control, but he nipped at
her breast and pressed his fingers deeper. Pressure mounted below her belly,
and she couldn’t find escape from the tension.

He grabbed the pillow away from her and slid it beneath her
hips. Then he inserted a second finger and pressed where she ached the most.

All her restraint shattered. Bell surrendered to a glorious
flood of sensation. She cried out in joy, then bit her tongue at the
desperation of such an animal noise emerging from her own throat.

Unperturbed by her uncivilized behavior, Quent continued his
rhythmic thrusts and exploratory kisses. She writhed as the tension built
impossibly higher.

“Quent, please,” she pleaded. She tried to reach for his
arousal, to help him if he needed it, as Edward often had.

Quent kneeled over her, making it obvious he needed no help.
“Say you’re mine, Bell,” he ordered, his voice rasping from deep in his throat.
“From this moment on, we forsake all others.”

She didn’t believe him, but she had no interest in other men
if this one failed her. “You’re mine,” she repeated tauntingly, using his words
and turning his request around.

He grunted in appreciation. “You always have to be right.”

He parted her thighs. She raised her knees. He leaned over
to kiss her—and buried all that long masculinity deep inside until she cried
out in pain and ecstasy.

She was no longer empty, but oh, the joy! How could she ever
have given this up?

***

Quent lasted until Bell shrieked and rocked again with
release before he took his own pleasure, plunging without restraint, encouraged
by her caresses, roaring with the explosion of desire. Not having to withdraw
was a luxury and joy in itself—he’d finally found a woman he trusted with his
seed. He needn’t rush but could linger in her tight warmth, joining in the
aftermath of the best lovemaking he’d ever known.

“Stay with me,” he murmured, rolling over to remove his
heavy weight but carrying her with him so she rested across his chest. “I can
never have enough of you.”

She kissed his shoulder, then eased away. “Nothing is
settled,” she warned. “I must talk to my sisters. They’ll be at my door in the
morning.”

Quent wanted to tie her down, refuse to let her go, make her
see sense, but his possessive nature would never work with an independent woman
like Bell, which made him uneasy. Grudgingly, he released her. Cold air blew
over his sweaty skin, leaving him chilled.

“Your sisters know where to find you,” he reminded her,
dragging the covers over them.

“And I’ll pay for that in a thousand ways in the future.
Give us time.” She sat up, threw off the covers, and slid out of bed.

Knowing what he did of his own sisters, Quent groaned and
granted her that. He didn’t know how the devil he would deal with two families,
but after this night, he wanted Bell enough to move the moon and stars. “We’ll
both talk with them in the morning,” he promised.

She shimmied into her chemise and leaned over to kiss his
cheek. “Don’t count on it,” she whispered.

Wrapping a sheet around his hips, Quent rose and helped her
back into her gown. “I’m relentless,” he warned. “I won’t let you retreat into
your hiding place again.”

“Give me time to think,” she whispered, pushing against his
chest when he tried to hold her.

“Bad strategy.” But he let her go, reluctantly sending her
off through the route she’d used earlier.

***

Quent should have slept like a log after that. He didn’t.
He never did the night before closing a major deal. Complacence wasn’t in his
vocabulary. Until he had Bell exactly where he wanted her, he needed to keep an
eye on her.

He’d already recognized that tying her to his bed wasn’t
reasonable. At least he wasn’t that far gone yet. After last night’s little
drama, though, she didn’t have a great deal of choice about agreeing to
marriage.

If marriage was what it took to have her in his bed every
night, he was now prepared to make the sacrifice. He had the uneasy notion that
Bell could still slip back behind that dispassionate façade with which she’d
learned to address society. He couldn’t give her time to slip away.

He was dressed and in the breakfast room the next morning
before the servants had set out the buffet. Grabbing coffee, he strolled toward
the stable, wondering if he dared take a quick ride before the women arrived
downstairs. Deciding he didn’t want to appear disheveled and smelling of horse,
he merely sipped his coffee and wandered toward the paddock.

“Help me up!” pleaded a childish voice on the other side of
the hedge.

Quent halted.

“Spies don’t need help,” another, more familiar, voice
whispered. “Hand us those apples. You can be our gunner.”

“Hurry up,” a third voice commanded. “They’re almost here.”

Quent wasn’t entirely familiar with the Wyckersham nursery
set, but he knew the countess had a couple of much younger half-brothers. And
then there was that familiar American accent— no doubt instigating the mutiny.

Quent located the open entrance to the kitchen garden and
found the culprits in the corner overlooking the stable yard. The youngest was
oblivious to anything except gathering fallen green apples and placing them in
a basket so that the
spies
in the
tree could haul them up.

The thick leaves hid the other two well enough, except his
little lordship hadn’t donned his coat and the white of his shirt gleamed
through the thicket. Out of curiosity, Quent peered over the hedge to discover
their target.

Lady Anne was already mounted on her elegant Thoroughbred.
She was a fine figure of a woman in her tailored coat and draping skirt. He’d
learned his lesson about duke’s daughters and would have given her wide berth
even if she hadn’t been the quiet, boring sort.

Closer to the hedge, however, stood flamboyant Camilla,
haranguing a coach driver on the placement of her trunks. They were leaving
already? Most excellent.

Quent didn’t have to be six-years old again to understand
the temptation of such a target. Camilla wore a rounded hat with a trailing
feather and a brilliant red coat of a style that hadn’t been seen in London since
last century. No doubt it was high fashion in the hills of Scotland, and the
brilliant color drew the attention the lady craved.

But to an American boy, the scarlet was that of the
notorious British redcoats. And the pheasant-feathered hat . . .
Even Quent itched to pick up an apple.

Shrugging, he let the boys get off their first volley, just
to see how good they were. One of them hit the red coat square in the back. The
other just missed the hat. The lady screamed anyway.

In a few quick steps, Quent was at the tree. He pointed the
youngest at the walled herb garden. “Go,” he ordered. Abby’s wide-eyed sibling
scampered. Then he reached into the tree and hauled down the white shirt on the
lower branch.

Kit predictably squealed and kicked. Quent tucked him under
his arm and peered up at the eldest boy. “Inside, before I tell your mother
where you are,” he commanded. More obedient than his lordship, the
freckle-faced ginger hurriedly scrambled from his perch.

While Camilla ranted in the stable yard, Quent strolled back
through the hedge and toward the house, carrying his captive. “I should tie you
up in bows and present you to your sister,” he told the miscreant. “You really
don’t want that pony, do you?”

“I want my pony!” Kit cried. “We’re spies. We’re supposed to
stop the enemy! Put me down!”

“In this case, lad, we want the enemy to ride away. A good
spy learns the lay of the land before attacking.”

Kit quit kicking. “What does that mean?” he asked with
suspicion.

“It means your sister already drove off the enemy. Attacking
a retreating army will only cause them to turn around and strike back. Stupid
move. And next time, make certain your target actually is an enemy. She could
have been a spy disguised in a red coat. Always have complete knowledge of your
target if you’re to live to fight again.”

Since he’d never been a soldier, Quent was making up the
strategy as he went along. It wasn’t that difficult from the business world.
He’d accomplished what he set out to do, at least. The boy was paying
attention.

“Who is the enemy then?” Kit inquired.

Quent set him down and marched him up the front steps. “I’ll
let you know when I find them. Until then, practice target shooting with trees.
Who aimed for her hat?”

“Tommy did,” Kit said in disgust. “He was showing off.
Everyone knows to aim for the broadest part of the target to bring them down,
then go for the head.”

“Boyles are not only reckless idiots, but blood-thirsty as
well?” Quent asked, rhetorically.

That should cause a quiver of trepidation. Bell was a Boyle,
although she’d hidden it well all these years that he’d known her.

He and Kit arrived in the hall just as Tess and Syd swept
down the stairs. Noses in the air, they marched past Quent as if he didn’t
exist. The cut direct, even if they hadn’t a clue what that meant.

Kit escaped and ran after them, heading for the breakfast
room.

Quent practically slavered, waiting for the last of the
contingent to emerge. Bell didn’t disappoint. She was wearing her travel gown.
The deep green brought out the red highlights in her hair and gave her fair
complexion an otherworldly glow. She would make a gorgeous forest sprite—except
for the wary expression she wore.

“Going riding?” he asked hopefully.

“My sisters tried to seduce and
compromise
you,” she said in resignation and disgust. “My family
and I are going home . . . to Essex. I don’t advise that you
follow until we’ve all reached a better understanding.”