Formidable Lord Quentin (21 page)

“That’s between you and the lady. She may enjoy the thought
of seeing you hanged.” Penrose shrugged, obviously enjoying his predicament. “I
should think a good magistrate and your father’s name ought to pry the mare
loose if the lady has some documentation of ownership, but spitting and
roasting may be more satisfying.”

“Courtship is a damned obstacle to accomplishing any
business. I should be in Lancashire, investigating that steam engine.” Quent
straightened his legs and glared at his boot toes. “Remind me why I’m doing
this.”

“Because you’re bored, making money isn’t a challenge any
longer, and you want in the lady’s bed,” Penrose recited promptly.

London was full of fair ladies. They all came with strings
attached. Bell was the only one worth being tied in knots for, Quent realized
glumly, transferring his glare to the gold braid he’d removed from Kit’s
depredations.

“I can’t be in two places at once,” Quent concluded. “My
instinct says sail to Ireland and thrash the louts and come back with the mare,
but my yacht isn’t built for hauling cattle.”

“A twelve or thirteen-year-old horse, or older, isn’t worth
the effort,” Penrose agreed. “Stay here and go after the lady and let your
minions take care of the spitting and roasting.”

Quent tented his fingers and rested his chin on them.
“You’re looking at only the one small problem. The larger one is that Kit has a
usurper sitting on his estate, one who apparently doesn’t have his best
interests in mind. We need Nick and his ship, and quite possibly whips and
chains, to restore authority.”

His aide’s eyes gleamed with interest. “Atherton is back in
the country, terrorizing Brighton at the moment. He and his bride are preparing
to leave for Amsterdam on some diplomatic mission, but he’s momentarily at
loose ends. He’d enjoy threatening a few villains.”

“What better man to send to terrorize a villain than a
pirate?” Quent asked in satisfaction. “The heavens smile upon us. Do we have
enough information to send him off to retrieve the lady’s pet or do we need anything
else?”

“Ask the lady about papers first. Nick is trying to be legal
these days. He would prefer proper reclamation of the lady’s property to actual
abduction. Otherwise, we have everything else we need. I can go with him, if
that helps.”

Quent considered the offer. “Let me think on it. If I’m to
pry Kit’s guardianship out of my father’s grasping fingers, I need leverage.
This
is
more interesting than making
money.” Oddly, what he felt was anticipation more than dismay at discovering
Bell had hidden facets to explore.

“Go find your own chamber,” he told Penrose. “I’d advise
looking on this floor and not the next where the tyrant dwells, unless you wish
to wake up tied to your bed.”

Penrose rolled his eyes. “And you’re so besotted you haven’t
considered tying the brat to his own bed? I might as well hand in my
resignation now. Good luck with whatever plot you’re hatching.”

He gathered his traveling desk and valise and departed—no
doubt to ascertain where the girls were housed. Quent had no objection to
marrying off one of Bell’s sisters to a fine man. It saved the expense of a
presentation. Bell might have other ideas—which was a great part of their
problem.

Bell would not be the sort of wife who obediently followed
his wishes. She’d defied him since the day they’d met. He had to start the
foundation of dealing with what could become a life-long battle.

***

Bell sent her maid off for a well-deserved rest, then sat
at her vanity and brushed her hair, expectantly watching the door reflected in
her mirror.

She wasn’t disappointed. The latch turned, then rattled.
Stupid man, thinking she would leave it unlocked. She’d made certain to claim a
room with no other entrance, not even a maid’s antechamber. And she had the
key.

He scratched discreetly on the panel. She ignored him and
braided her hair.

She trusted that Quent wouldn’t shout at her with the girls
sleeping just down the corridor. Summerby and Penrose were there, as well,
since she’d had the servants find linens for their chambers.

She rolled her eyes at her reflection when he rattled
something metal in the ancient lock and the tumblers fell. The same key
unlocked all the doors, she assumed. If so, there would be more than one key.
Or he’d picked the lock.

“Not invited, Mr. Hoyt,” she admonished when he entered and
closed the door behind him.

He leaned against the heavy panel, crossed his dauntingly
muscled arms over his shirt, and watched her with admiration. A heavy hank of
black hair fell messily over his brow. “If I waited for you to invite me, I’d
die an old and lonely man. Or did you wish me to consider Lady Grace for my
bed?” He named another of the available spinsters on his list.

He reminded Bell of that huge black Friesian he rode, all
muscle and strength and sturdiness. Fortunately, the animal had been gelded—because
stallions were damned dangerous.

She rose from the vanity and sauntered toward him, watching
his gaze drift from her face downward. She wore only a diaphanous gown—because
she was a self-destructive lackwit. “Lady Grace would spend your money on her
charities and you would have to share her with Lady Charlotte.”

She’d caught him by surprise with that, she could tell. He
really did not pay proper heed to society gossip. Bell caressed his shirt, just
barely skimming the heated hardness beneath. That apparently surprised him even
more.

He caught his breath, then reached for her. “I suppose that
would keep her occupied and out of my hair,” he acknowledged.

She stepped back. “If uninvolvement is what you wish, then I’m
not what you want. My life grows ever more complicated. Go home, Quent.”

He crossed his arms again. “I don’t wish to be
involved
with Lady Grace. You, on the
other hand, require firsthand engagement.”

She slid her palm approvingly beneath the open neck of his
linen. “Yes, I think I would like that.” She grasped his hands, uncrossed his
arms, and placed his fingers on her breasts. “Definitely, hand engaged.”

To Edward’s dismay, she had never been shy or even reserved.
Quent, however, didn’t seem to have any objections to her forwardness. Those
long fingers she’d admired earlier cupped and caressed and aroused most
deliciously.

“Not just once a week,” he murmured, referring to the
notorious settlement letter. He leaned over to kiss her cheek. “That is not
negotiable.”

His big body drew her as lodestone drew iron, which was why
she’d added that clause, hoping to keep some distance between them. She tried
to push away, but his lips were tracing swirls of desire down her throat.

“We are not foolish adolescents. We can restrain ourselves,”
she protested. “I don’t wish to pretend we have a love match. This is merely
lust.”

“Not negotiable,” he repeated, before kissing her to prevent
further dispute.

She forgot the argument when he crushed her in those big
arms and tantalized her with caresses. She’d never known a man could be so
gentle, and so arousing. Her pulse raced. She stood on her toes and returned
his kisses, plying them along his freshly-shaven throat, nibbling at his ear,
until he leaned against the door for support.

She loved that she could have that effect on this arrogant
man. “Separate residences then,” she countered wickedly, shoving his shirt off
one shoulder and tweaking his nipples.

“Right. You can have my sisters, your sisters, and Kit. I’ll
keep Penrose.” He lifted her from the floor and carried her to the bed. “You
get the screaming babes.”

“Tess will marry and take Beebee with her,” she said with
regret, refusing to go further than the edge of the bed. She wrapped her legs
around his hips and tugged his long shirt from his breeches.

“You’re not too old to have your own. You could already be
breeding.” He unfastened the placket of his trousers. “One of the few
advantages of marriage is that I needn’t take care any longer.”

She snorted rudely and rubbed the bulge behind his buttons.
“You plow an infertile field. I do not marry for babes. If an heir is your
desire, try the Widow Willington. She has a tribe at the age of twenty-five.”

“My family is tribe enough. One old man is not the test of
your fertility.” He slid her gown up to her wa
ist and
rubbed her where she ached. “But I won’t object to testing it regularly.”

Just the talk of planting a child where there had never been
one made her contrary body water. She didn’t want to love again, not horses,
not children, and certainly not a man. But one night of lovemaking hadn’t been
enough. She wanted what Quent had to offer again. With his buttons undone, he
sprang free and eager, and she drew a sharp breath at the powerful sight of his
aroused masculinity.

She tightened her legs around his hips and drew him closer,
tired of the silly argument.

Quent disobediently dropped to his knees and held her thighs
apart with his big hands. And then he lapped her with his tongue.

Bell shrieked. She grabbed his hair and tried to tug him
away. He refused. And then she was utterly lost to a tidal wave of pleasure.
She fell back against the mattress, weeping and rocking with the tremors he
induced with just his tongue.

When she was limp and lost and confused, he stood, parted
her thighs further, and rammed his reproductive organ deep inside her.

“Every night,” he murmured, leaning over to kiss her.

Bell was in no condition to argue. In moments, he had her
quaking again, milking him with her muscles, causing him to rear like a
stallion and roar as he poured his seed into her womb.

Perhaps a marriage bed might be worth considering with a man
like Quent in it.

***

Thunder still rolled in the distance when dawn arrived.
Quent didn’t let Bell escape his arms until he’d had his way one more time. To
his utter amazement and delight, she was everything he’d ever dreamed of and
more—a wild mare in heat, a lithe acrobat, a daring lover. The proud dowager
marchioness she presented to the world disappeared in bed, thank all that was
holy.

“I hadn’t dared imagine your lovemaking could be this good,”
he admitted when he lay limp and momentarily sated in the gray light. “I feared
you might be frigid and in need of lessons.”

She relaxed against his shoulder, drawing the sheet over
them in the early morning coolness. “I know how to be frigid. Don’t test me.”

“You know how to be
angry
.
That isn’t the same. Let’s practice dealing with anger. I’m sending Nick to
Ireland to bring back your mare. Do you have any legal papers on it so he can
pretend he’s not a pirate?”

She yanked his chest hair and sat up, taking the sheet with
her. “I saw them in my father’s box. I did wonder why they were there but
hadn’t thought . . .” She swung her legs from the bed. “But you
cannot simply take over my life. It’s my mare, my uncle,
my
problem.”

He hid his grin at her predictable response. “You can cede
the mare to me in the marriage settlements. Unfortunately, you cannot cede your
uncle.”

Quent sat up, rubbed his stubbly jaw, and grimaced at the
lack of pitcher filled with warm water. “I’ll have to send for my carriage and
valet if you mean to stay here. We can send Summerby for the papers at the same
time.”

Bell stirred the banked coals and added more fuel to raise
the flames. Most of the fireplaces here had iron arms to hang kettles over. She
swung the iron over the coals to heat the water the maids had carried up last
night. “You are growing soft, Hoyt, if you cannot heat your own water.”

Since she was delectably naked, his brain didn’t register a
word she’d said. Bell’s waist was slender, but her hips were made for birthing
babes and her bosom was ripe for feeding them. He’d never considered adding to
his already ample family, but he suddenly had a possessive desire to know he’d
planted his seed.

His father could take care of his own damned family. Quent
wanted to start his own, to watch Bell swell with
his
child.

He was growing soft in the head, but not in other parts
south. There would be children. Instead of rearing back in panic, he decided
that was one more negotiating point in his favor.

Striding across the room to where Bell bent over the fire,
he covered her breasts with his palms, and thrust his arousal between her legs
from behind. Just to remind her that he wasn’t a gelding, he nipped her
shoulder as he lifted her onto him.

She cried out, writhed, and then gave him the ride of his
life while the rain unleashed torrents outside.

“I’ll send to have the banns read on Sunday,” he said
afterward, carrying her to the bed.

“Send all you like,” she whispered sleepily, curling into
the pillow. “I still won’t let you have my money.”

But this time, she didn’t deny him her bed.

The wind and rain lashed and howled at the eaves, but Bell
felt only a golden afterglow after Quent returned to his own chambers to dress.
Still pleasantly sore from their vigorous lovemaking, Bell washed and strolled downstairs.

In the breakfast room, she discovered the entire household
waiting for her— including the nursery set, the tutor, and Aunt Griselda, who
never rose before noon.

“Roof’s leaking. We couldn’t leave anyone upstairs,” Tess
said in explanation.

“No, naturally not,” Bell said faintly, attempting to adjust
to this new routine. Even growing up, she’d grabbed food from the kitchen and
ran. Dining
en famille
had never been
part of her daily life.

She could be a
mother
.
Could she put herself through that torment of hope again?

Kit was making sailboats of his toast in his hot chocolate.
Beebee had been seated on a short foot stool on top of a broad chair and tied
with a towel to the chair back to keep her from toppling. Spoons were beyond the
infant’s capability, apparently. She tossed bits of toast and eggs on the
table, the floor, her lap . . .