Formidable Lord Quentin Read online

The stable was hot and musty and for horses, not men of business. Quent acknowledged the necessity of animals, but then, outhouses were a necessity, and he didn’t feel inclined to spend much time in them. Bell, on the other hand, was developing a decided tendency to emulate the duke’s horse-mad daughter and live in her stable.

  He found his wife-to-be instructing the head groom on the proper diet for her neglected animals. Her riding habit was the worse for wear. He had a suspicion she would prefer breeches, but he wasn’t ready to relent that far on the proprieties.

  “They won’t be ready to ride for a while, will they?” Quent asked, stroking Dream’s nose.

  “Probably not until spring,” she said absently, checking the horse’s hoof.

  “Do you mean to stay here all winter to tend to them?”

  She glanced up and blinked in surprise. “I hadn’t thought about it. It would be pleasant to have Christmas in our own home. But you have business in town, don’t you?”

  “Christmas is a few months away, and your sisters have made it plain that we have a wedding to plan—which needs to be in our parish unless I obtain a license.”

  She grimaced. “I suppose we should be back in town before the end of September anyway. It will be cooler and people will be returning for the short session. It would be easier on our wedding guests if we wait until then.”

  At least she wasn’t putting off the wedding to December, Quent realized in relief. But he needed to be in town before then. “I don’t like leaving you alone out here, but I have business that requires my attention. If Penrose is turning himself into a steward, I’ll have to think about hiring another assistant.”

  She patted her horse’s rump and moved on to another hoof. “Any of your brothers inclined toward business? If not, then you’ll need to drag Penrose back to town and hire one of your brothers to work here.”

  “If I take Penrose, there would be no one out here with you.” And he wasn’t about to suggest that his father send any of his family until the knots were tied. If nothing else, he needed to check his office for his father’s latest demands. “I can set up the estate books, I suppose.” Estate books were child’s play. He needed to be in the city—with Bell.

  This was the least romantic courtship he had ever heard of, which left him frustrated for no discernible reason. Had he expected anything different? Bell had agreed to be his. Shouldn’t his triumph be sufficient?

  She must have heard something in his voice, because she set the horse’s hoof down and emerged from the stall. Straw dangled from her skirt, and she had a smudge of dirt on her nose, but her cheeks were pink and her eyes glowed. She was the most beautiful sight Quent could imagine, and he loved that she was paying attention even when it seemed she wasn’t. He was being churlish to disturb her. He bent and pressed a kiss on her cheek that promised more in privacy.

  “Surely there is some business in the country to keep you entertained?” she asked. “We could buy the inn or the dock or the butcher shop or something to make you happy?” She caressed his cheek and offered one of the glorious smiles that stopped his heart and made him lose his mind and want nothing more than to please her.

  “Or we could set up a blacksmith shop for all your horses or a feed and grain store,” he said dryly. “Not precisely the same as investing in steam engines and shipping lines, but they’d serve their purpose. If Essex had anything worth transporting, I could open a carriage trade.”

  She laughed. “All our profit would go into transporting our families back and forth.” She looked past him to the long carriage drive winding up the hill toward the house. “And it looks as if one of them has found their way here already, unless the neighbors have taken to traveling coaches.”

  Quent turned to examine the intruder and cursed. “That’s my family’s barouche. I haven’t invited anyone.”

  “Well, I can’t imagine anyone but your sisters leaving Scotland, and they will be far more pleasant visitors than Dolly and Hiram,” she said cheerfully. “I’ll need to change. Let’s send my sisters down to entertain them and make them wait,” she said wickedly, catching his hand and racing toward the side door.

  His heart lightened just considering how long his family could be made to wait—and what he could do with Bell while their uninvited guests cooled their heels.

  ***

  Bell thoroughly regretted her overly optimistic declaration that Quent’s family couldn’t be any worse than hers.

  The Marquess of Belden sat upon the largest chair in the ancient hall, glaring at the company much as Henry VIII must have done when displeased with his queens.

  Lord Belden wasn’t much smaller than the Tudor monarch in his later years. No wonder the marquess didn’t travel often. Even a barouche would be uncomfortably small after a few hours. Bell was pleased to note that, unlike the Tudors, Quent’s father maintained most of his thick hair, although it had turned a distinguished gray.

  “This is a surprise and an honor, my lord,” Bell said dryly, dropping her best curtsy.

  “Surprise being the foremost description,” Quent added, not bowing. “What the devil did you think, risking your life with a journey like that? I could have sent my yacht if you had simply let us know you wished to visit.”

  “And given you time to whisk everyone out of sight?” the older man grumbled from the high-backed armchair he’d appropriated. “I’m not an idiot. I’ve given you sufficient time to respond to my command to bring my new wards to me, and you have failed to do so. I thought it my responsibility to present myself to them. Where are they?”

  “Hiding,” Bell responded pertly, before Quent could draw his ire. “They are wary of strangers, and apparently your entrance was . . . less than agreeable. We have not invited guests for a reason. The Hall is scarcely habitable.”

  “That damned carriage drive nearly broke every bone in my body! I had reason to complain. Now bring them out of hiding so we can be on with this.”

  “We’ll discuss matters in my study like civilized gentlemen and leave the ladies out of it,” Quent said, quashing Bell’s temper as effectively as she’d halted his.

  Bell started to object, but Quent shot her a warning glare. Well, fine, she didn’t want to deal with the ill-tempered old goat anyway. She smiled sweetly and dipped a partial curtsy. “As you say, sir, I’ll talk to Cook and the housekeeper and see that all is prepared to your satisfaction.”

  Her sarcasm was rewarded with Quent’s swift grin, but he responded in his normal businesslike manner. “If you find Penrose in your wandering, send him to join us. His penmanship is better than mine.”

  That sounded ominous.

  Bell told herself that the marquess was an old man, set in his ways, and that he simply wasn’t willing to deal with a female. Quent would know how to cope with him. Surely, the old Scot could be made to see reason.

  She told her sisters the same, but they didn’t seem convinced.

  Tess was packing a valise and hastily ordering the nursemaid to pack Beebee’s things. She shook her head at Bell’s argument. “I will not go anywhere with that mean old man. Nowhere,” she insisted. “I will walk back to town, if I must. I will hide in barns. I will return to Ireland!” She nearly shouted this last.

  “We aren’t that desperate,” Bell told her, feeling desperate despite her plea. “He can’t kidnap you. He brought no bailiffs. We can argue your marriage negates the age codicil of the will if we must go to court. Quent will make him see reason before then. You must at least present yourself so he sees you as a young lady and not an irrational child.”

  “I feel like an irrational child,” Tess wailed, turning and flinging her arms around Bell. “I want a home. I want Jeremy. I want daddy. Why can’t anything stay the same?”

  Caught unprepared, Bell hesitated, then wrapped her arms around her grieving sister and hugged her. “I will always be here for you. I won’t let anyone take you where you don’t wish to go. Do you understand me?” She pushed away enough to meet Tess’s eyes. “You
go nowhere you don’t wish to go, I promise. I will have Summerby arrange it so that even over my dead body, you will have a home of your own.”

  Tess took a steadying breath and nodded. “I know you believe that. I just can’t trust fate anymore.”

  “I understand, but you have to trust me.” Bell knew what it was like to be tossed by the winds of fate. She’d already given Summerby changes for her will. She would rush him.

  “Maybe I haven’t earned your trust yet,” Bell continued, “but I’m trying. I know next to nothing about the marquess except he’s in need of funds, and I have what he wants. We’ll work it out. Leave your bag packed if it makes you feel safer, but come down to dinner dressed in all your finery. Show him that you’re a confident young woman who doesn’t need his guidance.”

  “What about Syd and Kit?” Tess whispered anxiously.

  “We ought to let Kit loose on him,” Bell said without remorse, “but we’ll pretend we’re a proper household for just one night. After that, it depends on how the marquess behaves. I think Syd should come down and play the demure miss for now. We’ll see how that goes over first.”

  “All right, but I still want horses saddled and waiting,” Tess retorted.

  “Make sure you have coins in your bags before you go,” she warned, just to show she understood.

  Not feeling any relief, Bell departed to hunt down Syd and tell her the same. She felt as if her life had become a perpetual sail across the Channel, all stomach-churning dips and swells.

  Quent’s roars from the study did not reassure her. She wondered if she could kidnap her own sisters, but she knew she wasn’t being reasonable. Except for the domineering old marquess, Quent’s relations were perfectly lovely and would welcome her family with open arms. She simply didn’t want to let them go now that she had them back. Was that selfish of her?

  Putting her heart on the table for her family to cut up was probably a mistake, but Quent was right. If she couldn’t take chances now, she would never move ahead with her life, and she would be forever lonely. Family was worth the risk of another broken heart.

  She made certain the marquess was given the next best bedchamber and the new linens. She had a maid set coal to burning to take out any lingering must. Perhaps if he understood that she knew how to manage a household, he would soften a bit.

  Quent’s father had despised Edward. She feared revenge was his motive in demanding the guardianship.

  And since Bell hadn’t given him access to any of Edward’s funds, perhaps he despised her too. That just made her more angry than fearful. Lachlann Hoyt, fourth marquess of Belden, had not once made himself known to her, even when she’d been a grieving widow. She owed Quent’s father nothing.

  But she dressed in the only decent dinner dress that she’d brought with her, kissed Quent’s cheek when she entered the parlor where he waited, and bobbed a brief curtsy to the grumbling marquess. Pretending she was in complete control did little to settle her anxiety.

  “I didn’t know we would have visitors so we haven’t stocked the best brandy yet,” she said apologetically. “I’ll have someone run into the village tomorrow to see what’s available there.”

  “I brought my own whisky,” the marquess growled, holding up a flask. “The English never stock the good stuff.”

  Edward had despised Scots whisky, but Bell refrained from mentioning anything that might anger their guest. “I’m sure Lord Quentin will arrange to have the best he can find on hand the next time you visit. Did the two of you have a good talk?”

  “We did not. Where are my wards?” the querulous old man demanded.

  Bell glanced questioningly at Quent, who shrugged and looked indifferent—not helpful. She continued smiling. “Lord Wexford is in the nursery at this hour, of course. He’s only six. Mrs. Dawson and Lady Sydony will be down shortly. You should have brought Lady Margaret and Lady Sally with you. My sisters would enjoy their company as much as I do.” She reminded the old goat that she had been sponsoring Quent’s sisters these last couple of seasons.

  “I’m not frittering another farthing on the chits,” Belden grumbled. “They’ve been offered positions as teachers at that school they attended, and they’ll take them. The family is large enough as it is. They don’t need to marry and bring home more hungry mouths to support. Tell the fillies to hurry and let’s be on with dinner.” He heaved his girth from the chair.

  Bell bit down hard on her fury and glanced at Quent. Had he known that his father didn’t mean to let his sisters have the come-out she’d planned? Quent remained stoic and didn’t look at her, which didn’t aid her anger.

  She knew exactly what the old curmudgeon was about. She and Edward had had these power struggles frequently over his last years. It had taken much practice, but she’d learned to retain her composure. She knew the countermove and it did not include cracking a porcelain shepherdess over anyone’s head.

  “My household, my hours,” she said sweetly, tightening the golden reins to remind him of who was in charge. “The dinner bell will sound at six as planned, and my sisters will be down then.” She could have added You will remember I am the marchioness and this is my home until I die, but she was still trying to be polite for Quent’s sake.

  The marquess sent Quent a hard look. “And this is what you’re signing up for—wedded to a hen who rules the roost? You’d better think again, boy.”

  Quent, damn his leather hide, merely sipped his whisky and raised his magnificent eyebrows. “You think I should prefer being under your thumb rather than that of a beautiful woman’s?”

  Bell didn’t know whether to conk him or kiss him.

  Twenty-five

  If he only had Edward’s most excellent brandy, Quent thought, he could easily drink himself under the table. He wondered what Bell would think of public drunkenness.

  That was a stupid question and proved he was already half-foxed on bad wine. Bell would despise a drunkard like her father.

  Resolutely, Quent dug into the fine potato dish the cook had provided to accompany the roast beef.

  The interview with his father had not gone well. His father was quite convinced that with Sally and Margaret out of the house and supporting themselves, and by marrying off Tess to the cousin with all the children so Bell’s dower money would support them, he could save enough to buy his own damned roof. The promise of a stewardship for one of Quent’s brothers did not take the man’s eyes off possible income from rents from the earl’s Irish estate.

  The old man was a product of a different place and time. And a product of poverty and injustice, which had made him bitter, ruthless, and, yes, occasionally cruel—or in best case, just thoughtless. Bell wasn’t likely to appreciate the problem of dealing with him.

  Quent had kept his two lives separate for good reason. It was a given that fiercely independent Bell and his dictatorial father would despise each other on sight. He feared the old man was likely to antagonize Bell into refusing marriage.

  Sitting at the head of the table where Bell had placed him, Quent signaled the footman to fill his water glass. Best to keep his head while Bell and his father did their best to rip off each other’s. Bell, at least, bit with socially acceptable politeness.

  He’d feel more comfortable with Bell at his side. Unfortunately, Bell had chosen to distance herself in the role of dazzling society hostess tonight. She was seated at the opposite end of the table—next to his father. She was incredible, adorned in pearls and silk, directing the conversation with the skill of a dowager marchioness—and smothering his father in the most insincere smiles Quent’s imagination could conjure. She was formidable—and so very much out of his plebian league.

  The dowager marchioness side of her was capable of burning acid with her tongue. Bell could give lessons to the queen on subjugating pretension. His father had better be careful or he’d be fortunate to come away with his skin intact.

  Which was when Quent realized that Bell’s exquisitely dignified behavior was leadi
ng the marquess down the garden path, and chances were very good, right over a cliff. His hopes for keeping relations amicable between Bell and his father plummeted to nil.

  She was forcing him to choose sides.

  “You are kind to consider the welfare of my sisters,” Bell was saying in that false tone she’d employed dangerously all evening. “But they are newly bereaved and need close family for comfort. When we’re ready, we’ll certainly consider a good school for Lady Sydony.”

  Sitting on either side of the table, Bell’s sisters sat blessedly mute, toying with their food and sending the marquess glances from beneath their lashes. Gauging from their unusual lack of smiles and chatter, Quent would have to say the girls weren’t thrilled with his father’s blustering autocratic habits.

  Since they’d been raised by a dissolute Irish rebel in the freedom of American society, Quent was fairly certain his father’s iron-fisted imperialism would not bend them to his will any better than it would bend Bell. Quent would wager they were already plotting. The sisters merely waited to see if he and Bell stood up for them. Quent reached for his wine glass again.

  His family had been his reason for existence for most of his life. His siblings needed him as much as Bell’s needed her. If battle lines were drawn . . . He didn’t want to choose sides.

  “Nonsense,” his father declared. “Your sisters don’t know you any more than they know me. And they certainly don’t know my son. Marrying just to take them as wards is asking for trouble. They’ll be fine once they’re settled.”

  Quent almost spurted his drink in surprise. The old man, in his curmudgeonly way, was trying to protect him from marriage—to a woman the marquess thought was a manipulative harridan. His father’s old-fashioned defense of his family was the reason Quent couldn’t tell him to go to the devil. He himself was guilty of a little too much of the same.

  If Quent judged Bell’s rising color at all, his father was about to learn how the Virgin Widow protected her own. Battle lines were being drawn as he watched.