Formidable Lord Quentin (33 page)

Quent certainly agreed after they’d kidnapped the boy and
nearly given him failure of the heart. But aware that he’d already trampled all
over Bell’s authority, he preferred not to issue any death sentences in her
name.

“One of them is an old retainer of the marchioness’s
family,” Quent warned. On his own, he’d have the gang drawn and quartered—but
there were children and an old man back in Ireland who would be badly affected
by a public hanging. He had to think in terms of Kit’s future and not just
himself. “And the female upstairs is a childhood acquaintance. I’d rather not
upset Lady Belden if it can be avoided. Remand them to assizes and let the
court take them off your hands.”

They might still end up hanged, but it would be on the
court, not him.

“You’ll provide the transportation?” the squire asked
warily.

“I’ll pay for it and send guards, if needed. I don’t know
how you want to deal with the one upstairs.” Quent laid coins on the counter
for the squire’s drinks. He wanted this over quickly so he could return to
Bell. Negotiating his way back into her life might not happen, but he was
constitutionally unable to give up trying. Now that he’d recognized his
sentiments, he realized Bell had meant too much to him for too long.

“We’ll just lock in the thief until morning,” the innkeeper
said cheerfully, reaching for a key ring. “Won’t be the first time.”

“I’ll verify that it’s her,” Quent agreed in resignation.
“It’s likely to be a scene.”

“She’s had enough blue ruin that she’ll be no problem,” the
innkeeper assured them.

And so it was. Dolly opened the door with an air of triumph.
She tottered in the entrance, regarding them through blurry eyes. Before she
realized that her visitors weren’t a victorious Hiram and gang, Quent
identified her and walked away, leaving her in the capable hands of the squire
and innkeeper. He’d lost all sympathy for her long before she’d hired
kidnapping thieves.

If the court ruled on transportation because she was female,
he’d have to hire an agent to travel to Ireland to ask Bell’s uncle if he and
his family would like to travel with Dolly to New South Wales.

He couldn’t trust his father to care about the people on
Kit’s Irish estate, he realized. There was far more to this guardianship
business than handing the children over to chaperones and tutors. Bell
understood that as he had not in his single-minded pursuit of her bed.

He had to accept all of her—bag and baggage. That’s what she
had been trying to tell him while he’d been building his precarious house of
cards, thinking he could deal with family as if they were business.

As he and Penrose rode back to the Hall, the fury that had
driven him this far died to weariness of mind and soul. The world was full of
terrible people. Quent had a need to cuddle Bell and tell her he would protect
her from all woe, even knowing she’d hit him over the head if he said any such
thing. After the childhood she’d endured, she deserved a future of happiness
and carefree laughter. One way or another, he was determined to see that she
had it.

He didn’t push his fancies any further than that. He wasn’t
a fanciful man. He had a goal—Bell’s happiness. He’d find some way to attain
it.

Penrose took their horses to the stable. Quent climbed the
Hall’s interior stairs in the light of a single candle, loosening his neckcloth
and waistcoat. A bath would have been nice, but it was late, and the servants
would be abed. He should have brought his valet with him.

He hesitated outside her bedchamber, not wanting to wake Bell.
But he couldn’t help himself—he opened the door.

She wasn’t there.

Unaccustomed to being swept on the storm of emotion he’d
suffered this day, he panicked. He had to furl his canvas and tighten the lines
to regain control. The carriage had been sitting outside the stable. She was
here somewhere.

He turned to his own chamber. The fire was lit and water was
heating in the kettle. Bell would have seen to that. In relief and gratitude,
he stripped to wash.

By the time he’d scrubbed and donned a dressing gown, Bell
still hadn’t arrived. She was still angry. He couldn’t let her finish all the gains
they’d made this way. He dragged on clean breeches and found slippers and went
in search of her.

Not wanting to wake her sisters, he started at the far end
of the corridor where they’d moved Kit and his retinue. Quent wasn’t entirely
certain which door was which, but a footman stood guard near the back exit.

“Lady Bell?” Quent inquired.

The footman nodded at the door on his right.

Quent cracked the door to peer in. Bell sat in a wing chair
beside Kit’s bed. Her hair tumbled over her brow and her head leaned at an
uncomfortable angle, indicating she slept. In the bed, the boy slumbered,
motionless for a change.

He ought to walk away, but he couldn’t. After years of
living alone, he’d let this pair attach themselves to his insides.
Heartstrings, his mother had called this connection. To walk away would be to
sever them. He would most likely die if that happened. He’d never lied to
himself. To deny his attachment would be a weakness.

He slipped in and lifted Bell into his arms. Kit was
well-guarded and sleeping soundly. The boy didn’t need him. Bell did. She
stirred in his arms, started to push away, but settled again when Quent reached
the corridor. He nodded approval at the alert footman, then carried his
intended to his chamber, where the linens would still be warm from the fire.

She didn’t protest when he removed her dressing gown and
slid her under the covers. She wore a nightshift. He removed his breeches and
wore nothing.

After this past night, he wasn’t letting any chance to hold
her go. She turned to him with kisses, and that was all the encouragement he
needed to seek the bliss she offered.

***

Bell was gone from Quent’s bed when he woke the next day.
Would the day ever come that he could count on waking beside her?

He told himself it was his usual restlessness before closing
a deal that had him climbing out of bed at dawn to search for her. Their
lovemaking last night should have settled the quarrel. It hadn’t. He needed the
words said and the license signed before he’d believe fate would finally reward
him.

As long as his father was here, he wouldn’t be traveling
into the city for business. Quent dressed in boots and a tweed jacket and the
last of his clean linen, then walked down the corridor to be certain Kit had recovered
from his adventures.

The boy was bouncing on his cot, refusing to let his valet
wrap his neckcloth. He shouted in glee at sight of Quent and dived at him.

With a laugh, Quent caught the boy, winked at the valet, and
let Kit ride on his back. “I’ll carry you down to the breakfast room, just this
once,” he said sternly. “Only because your sisters will worry if you’re not at
the table on time.”

The boy blew a rude noise and tried to kick with his boots.
Quent imprisoned his ankles in his grip and held him until they reached the
small downstairs dining table the family had adopted for breakfast. There, he
leaned over and dumped Kit, laughing, to the floor.

His father glowered from behind the newssheet. “The boy
needs to learn restraint, not to behave like a hooligan.”

“The boy needs love and laughter and his family, which is
why I’ll sue you before I let you have him,” Quent said without rancor.

His father paled. He was definitely up to no good.

Bell’s sisters stared over their teacups. Bell was nowhere
in sight. Filling his coffee cup, Quent gestured it in salute, then headed for
the stable.

When in doubt, always look for Bell in the stable. He was a
quick student.

He found her in a morning gown and shawl, standing at the
paddock, stroking Dream’s head and feeding the horse from her palm. At least
she wasn’t dressed for running away. Breathing a little easier, he strode
across the gravel.

“Dolly and Hiram are in the hands of the authorities. I’ll
send a man to Ireland to talk with your uncle.” He leaned against the fence,
sipping his coffee, and studying Bell. “Arrangements should be made to look
after Kit’s holdings.”

She didn’t look at him. The stone in his stomach doubled in
size.

“I received word from Summerby yesterday,” she said
matter-of-factly. “He has been making inquiries. Uncle Jim has been ill and
confined to bed for a while, just as Dolly said. That’s why our agents haven’t
spoken with him. Hiram has been acting as their steward. If Dolly and Hiram are
transported, there will be no one to look after her children or Jim or the
estate.”

He should have known that Bell’s quick mind would have
already anticipated the problem and probably considered a possible solution.
Why had he even thought this was his burden to bear?

Because he wanted her to need him as he needed her.

Irritated despite himself, he asked, “You’ve inquired with
the local church to discover if they have other family?”

She nodded, brushed off her empty palm on her gown, and
turned to face the Hall—again, not looking at him. “Summerby has also looked
into Kit’s mother’s family. They’re Irish, poor but respectable, as I
suspected,” she said without inflection. “It’s possible they might be
interested in moving in. Kit ought to know all his family.”

“The poor lad,” Quent murmured, “a passel of ill-bred
cousins on his father’s side and who knows what starving aunts and uncles on
his mother’s side. He’ll have to find gold in Africa to support them.”

“Taking care of extended family and tenants is what having a
title and land entails,” she said sadly. “Edward refused to acknowledge that.
I’ll teach Kit differently.”

“
We’ll
teach Kit
differently,” he said, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. “You needn’t do
everything alone anymore, and I needn’t fight my father’s whims by myself.
You’ve cowed him nicely.”

That statement surprised him. He’d been thinking marrying
Bell would add to his responsibilities. He hadn’t quite adjusted to the notion
of a woman who would actually
help
him. But he already knew that Bell was just that sort of woman—if he’d let her.
Maybe he was a slower student than he’d thought.

Bell turned glistening green eyes up to him. “Your father
has agreed to grant guardianship of the children to me. You’re a free man.”

Her tears registered first. The impact of her statement took
a moment longer.

A free man?
Quent
thought he quit breathing. He nearly crushed the cup he was holding while he
gasped for air as if the breath had been knocked out of him.

“You won’t have to give up your peaceful bachelor life,” she
continued, not acknowledging his reaction. “There will be no need to decide how
to combine our households. I will be forever grateful that you were willing to
help me, but now I will return the favor. I’ll call off the banns. Everyone
will place the blame on me. I hope we can still be friends.”

She really was crying off! After everything that had
happened last night . . . Why had he thought he could mend
irreparably damaged fences?

Quent struggled with the war exploding inside him. Fury
fired cannons. Grief performed a mournful bagpipe dirge. Desolation lamented
his lost soul. He thought his heart quit beating.

He’d no notion that all that tumult could
still
roil his insides. Maybe she was
right. Maybe he needed to return to his orderly . . . solitary . . .
life. It certainly seemed as if love might kill him.

“My warrior instincts don’t lend themselves to swords and
pistols in the manner of our ancestors,” he heard himself saying. He’d never
tried to explain himself before, but desperation required that he try now, if
only so he understood what was happening while his complacent world drowned in
tidal waves of despair. “I’m better at winning economic battles. I established
my small shipping company in Edinburgh straight out of school.”

She leaned against the fence and glanced at him with
curiosity. “I understand that. The term ‘gentle giant’ was made for you. But
when you roar, people listen.”

“It wasn’t always that way,” he said, thinking back. “Back
then, I was still a student of business and learning the ways of society and discovering
women. When Camilla came to town for her debut, she encouraged my attentions
and introduced me to the rarified atmosphere of her father’s wealthy,
aristocratic company. I made acquaintances at her soirees that I could never
have made without the duke’s invitations.”

Beside him, Bell almost growled. “We were all young once.
You didn’t need them. You would have won them on your own.”

“Perhaps.” He shrugged, still struggling with his inner
turmoil and trying to pour it out in an orderly manner to better examine his
devastation. “I was arrogant. I thought Camilla’s attentions meant she would
welcome my suit. I courted her. I’d been raised in a large family, where a wife
and children were part of being a man. I was perfectly confident that I would be
wealthy someday. I assumed she thought the same.”

Bell took his hand, pried his fingers out of a fist, but
didn’t interrupt, even though she had to know the rest of the story.

“When I went to the duke to ask for her hand, he laughed at
my pretensions, said he was doing a favor for my father by inviting me into his
circle, that his daughter would only marry a title. Who or what I was or would
be meant nothing to him.” Quent hadn’t replayed the painful humiliation of that
scene in years. It didn’t hurt as much now as it had then.

“Foolishly, I demanded that he ask Camilla. She’d allowed me
favors that only a couple with an understanding should have indulged in.” Quent
sighed and rubbed the back of his head. “It’s hard to believe I was so young
and stupid. Camilla laughed, of course, told me I was lovely. And then the pair
of them hit me with the truth . . . Belden had just married a
young Irish bride, and my father was no longer heir to a wealthy marquessate.
In their eyes, I had become nobody but an impoverished younger son of a younger
son.”