Formidable Lord Quentin Read online

  “I told you the subject was not open to discussion,” Quent warned, stepping in to prevent his intended bride from pushing his father over the cliff. “I am marrying Bell, and that’s final. We will sue for the guardianship of her family, if necessary. Without my funds, you cannot afford an English barrister to fight us. So let’s have a decent family meal and speak of more interesting topics. I believe Lady Tess can tell us more of American shipping concerns.”

  The girls gazed at him with awe and admiration. Bell looked as if she might slap him. Bell was the smartest person at the table tonight. She knew he’d just set off the old man’s stubbornness. But sometimes, a man could only take so much.

  “My sister’s boy, your cousin Gareth, is clerking with a barrister,” the marquess reported in triumph. “He will have my case heard.”

  With all the regal dignity and grace only a woman with one of the highest positions in society could command, Bell rose from her chair. Even the marquess hushed. Pink stained her cheeks. Her eyes flashed emerald fires. Quent could swear her hair gleamed with more red than russet, and had there been a sword at hand, she would have held it.

  Well, he had warned the marquess to try to keep the peace. For the sake of family harmony, it had seemed best to maintain a respectful dialogue.

  His father had been the one to break the rules.

  As much as he feared the result, Quent refused to follow Edward’s path and deny Bell her chance to speak.

  Leaning back in his seat, he crossed his arms, nodded, and let her loose. Very few ever stood up to his intimidating father’s authority—especially when the old man was legally in the right.

  Quent anticipated the fireworks with trepidation.

  ***

  Bell didn’t need Quent’s approval for what she was about to say. She’d been struggling all through dinner, trying to be polite and reasonable—just as she’d used to do with Edward. That had grated badly.

  Then she had tried a subtler approach, showing the marquess that her sisters were grown, with minds of their own, and not in need of an oppressive guardian. But if the irascible old codger could diminish the prospects of his own daughters— obviously, he was the sort who thought women were mindless tools to be used for his own benefit. His suppression of Quent’s requests did not bode well for dealing with headstrong Kit.

  She had wanted to be generous for the sake of the children. Hell would freeze over now before she left them in his hands.

  “My lord,” she addressed her dinner companion in her best dowager frostiness. “You and my late husband have far more in common than you can possibly know.”

  The marquess harrumphed. “Edward was a clutch-fisted, obstinate bigot. There isn’t a man alive who could call me that.”

  “Then this woman will call you so,” she said coldly. “All that matters to you is how much coin you have and how you can acquire more. Women are no more than pawns on your chessboard—proving your bigotry. The one honest thing Edward ever did in his life was to respect me enough to marry me. And it turns out that he even did that for selfish reasons—just as you are forcing my sisters into servitude for your own selfishness. My father was in no position to protect me, but by all that is holy, I will defend my sisters!”

  “Servitude!” the marquess bellowed. “School isn’t servitude!”

  “It is when all you think of is how cheaply you can push them out of the house until you can marry them off to the highest bidder without a bit of consideration to their happiness! You are doing the same thing to your own daughters! How can I possibly believe you have my sisters’ happiness in mind when you are making your own daughters miserable? Quent and I shall invite them to stay with us. You cannot force them to become spinster teachers if they wish to marry. Sally and Margaret are of legal age—they can choose to leave you anytime they like.”

  At the far end of the table, Quent gave a muffled cough that might have been objection, but Bell was too furious to care. “Women are too valuable a resource to be thrown to any available man or cast aside as worthless dependents,” she continued, not letting the marquess speak. “We have minds and abilities and are your equal—unless you’re such a coward that you fear we’re better than you and seek to suppress us.

  “If you attempt to force my family from my care, you are a bigot, a coward, and far greedier and more spiteful than Edward ever was. I will not hear you speak another word against me or mine when you sit there like a fat cockroach, feeding off your young. Quent could be racing yachts and horses instead of working himself to the bone trying to keep you in comfort. You have smothered his life just as you would your daughters. Did you ever consider their happiness? Or were you hoping to force me into paying your expenses so Quent might pursue more grandiose projects than your roof?”

  Quent rose, ire flaring in his eyes and his fists knotting on the table. “That’s going too far, Bell. You needn’t defend me along with your sisters. You’re hurting yourself as well as them to speak to my father in such a manner.”

  “Someone needs to speak plainly to him,” she threw back. “And if you won’t, I will! I have no intention of politely obeying still another tyrant wearing the bedeviled Belden title—if I have to haul the girls back to the Americas to stop you.”

  “I’ll go to Ireland before I’ll go back to the Americas,” Syd protested.

  “Beebee and I’ll go with you, and we’ll take Kit with us,” Tess agreed stoutly.

  “You won’t go anywhere without my permission,” the marquess roared. “The Irish estate is under my authority until the lad comes of age.”

  “You can’t earn enough to keep a roof over your own head,” Quent shouted, as Bell had never heard him shout before. “I told you we’ll fight you. You accomplish nothing by antagonizing the ladies.”

  “You owe me a roof,” the marquess shouted back. “I paid for your education so you can provide what the cattle cannot. And you owe me respect. You don’t owe Edward’s doxy a second thought. What’s the matter with you, boy? I’ve come to set you free from her clutches.”

  “I don’t owe you a spot of respect when you behave like a tyrant,” Quent said, pounding his fist on the table until his water glass jumped. “You’re ruining everything.”

  Bell waited for Quent to say he didn’t want to be released from her clutches, but he was too caught up in his power struggle with his father.

  “You wanted your fancy city life,” the marquess countered. “Are you giving it up for this moldering piece of expensive rock? Is that what you want?”

  “Of course not! I told you, we’ll find a place for Stuart to work here, and possibly Elizabeth, if she would like to take charge of running the place. That’s two more of your dependents off your hands. Then you can buy your own roof. Bell and I prefer the city.”

  She didn’t remember discussing where they’d be living. She hadn’t even agreed to a settlement yet, and he was catering to the damned marquess, directing her life—as she had vowed never to allow another man to do again.

  “What the devil does the roof have to do with it?” she cried over the men’s bellows.

  “The damned roof has nothing to do with it!” Quent roared, sounding very much like his father.

  The marquess finally dragged his bulk to his feet. “And is this how you plan to raise the bairns then? Shouting and roaring over their heads?”

  Bell shot him a look of incredulity. Then cast her glare to her no-longer betrothed.

  He didn’t even notice her horror.

  Quent was just like every other Hoyt who’d ever lived—concerned only with himself. She didn’t need to hear more.

  Heart crumbling to ashes, Bell coldly interrupted the tirade. “Edward’s doxy will buy your foolish roof if you’ll simply assign guardianship to me, my lord,” she said sardonically, with all her foolish hopes crashing around her. She cast Quent a deprecating glance. “Then you can keep this puppet of yours and let him dance to your tune in his lonely tower for the rest of his years.”

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nbsp; Looking stricken, Quent started after her. The marquess yelled at him in Scots, then collapsed heavily into his chair and grabbed for his whisky glass.

  Uncaring, Bell nodded at Tess and Syd. “Come along, we’ll leave the men to finish biting off each other’s heads.”

  “This is not over!” Quent shouted after her.

  ***

  Quent feared it was very much over. Bell’s horror-stricken face would be etched into his worst nightmares for years to come.

  “You’ve just destroyed everything I’ve worked for these last ten years,” he said heavily, shoving away his wine and glaring at his unrepentant father.

  “No, lad, ye did that yerself. Ye don’t love the lass. Let her be. Find yerself a good woman who’ll knit your sweaters and warm your bed, not a flighty Thoroughbred who skitters off at every loud noise.”

  “What the devil do I want with a woman who knits?” Quent asked in disgust. “If I want sweaters, I’ll buy them!”

  And if he wanted a woman to warm his bed, it was Bell, but even he refused to discuss some things with the bully. Besides, he greatly feared he’d seen the last of the beautiful, laughing woman who had adorned his sheets these last nights.

  Pain crushed him.

  Worse yet was the agony of knowing there was a certain truth in what his father said.

  He didn’t know how to raise a family. Or to argue without creating a gale storm of the likes his family created over every dinner table. All he knew how to do was negotiate a business deal.

  As he watched his entire precarious house of cards crumble, he shoved up from the table and glared at his self-satisfied parent.

  “If love is what you feel for me and the reason for driving off the only woman I’ve ever wanted, then you can take your love and shove it into the frozen loch of your damned heart,” Quent told him. “I’ll not be your puppet a day longer.”

  The marquess raised his flask and drank deeply.

  Through an open window, the wild cry of a terrified horse blended with Kit’s furious screams of outrage.

  ***

  Quent dashed for the nearest exit. Bell had already lifted her skirts and was racing through the hall. He stopped her sisters from doing the same. “Wait here until we know what’s happening. You’ll need to direct the servants.” With longer strides, he sped after Bell.

  He’d spent the last ten years building up a sturdy fortress of civilized behavior to hide behind while he acquired a fortune.

  The proper, dignified mate he’d chosen had obliviously shredded every ounce of his civility in less than ten days. He was prepared to crush heads with his fists and stomp her enemies with his boots.

  The madwoman evidently thought she could do it on her own. Quent ran faster, catching up with Bell outside in the side yard, hauling her up by the waist until she kicked his shins with her slippers.

  “That was Dream’s call,” she said fiercely. “Put me down.”

  “First, we—” He didn’t need to finish the sentence. One of the new mares cantered through the open stable door, with Kit on her bare back, clinging to her mane.

  The boy was weeping and screaming obscenities no six-year-old should know and so focused on his target that he didn’t even notice Quent and Bell in the shadows of the house.

  Turning in horror, Quent glanced down the carriage drive in time to see a dust cloud of horses galloping away.

  “They’ve stolen Dream,” Bell cried in horror, picking up her skirt and sprinting for the stable.

  “Or your damned brother let them loose,” Quent muttered, but he was hot on her heels and not prepared to argue.

  Inside Dream’s empty stall, Quent hauled a dazed groom to his feet. The filly and stallion were gone as well. He was amazed the thieves hadn’t taken any of the other horses, which were in far healthier shape.

  “This is Hiram’s doing,” Bell called from another stall, as if she understood his thoughts. “He’s taken the horses he knows.”

  “What the devil was Kit doing out here with them?” he yelled back, flinging a saddle on his Friesian.

  “Feeding his pony,” the groom said, rubbing his injured jaw. “They didn’t even know he was here until one of them planted me a facer. When he came out squalling and swinging a pitchfork bigger than him, they shoved off right quick. They mighta taken more animals if he’d not screamed like a banshee.”

  Damnation, but the Boyles had more courage than brains sometimes. Quent was almost proud of the lad—except if the thieves had known he was the earl, the boy could have been kidnapped.

  Irrational panic set in at that thought. He had to reach Kit before the boy caught up with the raiders.

  “Go up to the house,” Quent shouted at the groom. “Tell them to send for help, then saddle up as many men as you can to follow us.”

  “Aye, sir. I’ll fetch t’other grooms. We’ll be arfter them horses. I never seen such bloody bold thieves.”

  “I’ll introduce my family before I hang them,” Bell called furiously over the stall wall.

  What the devil was she doing in there?

  Adding a whip and stout stick to his arsenal on the saddle, Quent mounted up and looked over the panel to where Bell was yanking on a groom’s boots over a pair of men’s breeches. She had her evening gown hiked nearly to her waist while she assembled her unseemly attire.

  The damned woman could distract him even when he was murderously furious. Her legs in men’s breeches were a sight to behold. He shook off his lust to concentrate on the moment.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he warned. “I’ll fetch Kit home. The thieves won’t travel far on those malnourished nags.”

  “They don’t need to travel far if they have friends waiting down the road. Never, ever underestimate an Irish horseman.” Boots on, she stood and yanked down her skirt over the breeches.

  “I don’t have time to argue. Just use your head for once and stay here. Don’t make me tether you like a mare.” Impatiently, Quent kicked his gelding into action. The Friesian wasn’t a race horse, but it could last all night, if needed.

  Bell caught up with him a few minutes later—riding astride the bare back of one of Fitz’s mares with her evening gown hiked up to her hips. The breeches were too baggy for her slender thighs or Quent might have expired from lack of blood in his head at the sight.

  “Devil take it, Bell,” he shouted in fury and utter fear. “Go back to the house! Don’t make me have to look after you as well as the boy.”

  She saluted him and kicked the mare into a full gallop.

  Cursing, Quent pushed his mount faster. And he’d thought he wanted to settle down to a civilized life with . . .a mad Irishwoman?

  Moments later, Bell’s horrified scream sliced through his gut worse than any sword.

  From the road, Quent watched Kit’s small body fly over the head of his balking mare. It had to be the most appalling sight Quent had ever faced in his life, and his heart nearly stopped in his chest. He kicked his horse into a full gallop across the pasture as that sturdy little body splashed into the pond the mare had refused to enter.

  Quent choked on terror and guilt as the boy sank—and didn’t come back up.

  He’d considered the lad no more than a nuisance and an obstacle to work around, but he was a damned plucky brat and would make a good earl someday. Losing him like this . . . wasn’t happening on his watch.

  Bell reached the pond first, but even as she reined in her mount and leapt down, she hastily grabbed the bridle to steady herself. What the devil was the woman thinking? It had to have been ten years since she’d been on a horse.

  Quent reached her just as Bell stumbled toward the brackish pond. He doubted that she even knew how to swim. His terror doubled. Rather than try to tussle with her, he leapt off his horse and ran past, wading into the mud and water to where the surface rippled.

  With no thought to his expensive clothes, he dived beneath the dark waters. They weren’t deep, thank all that was holy. He found the struggling
dark shadow and filled his hands with whatever he could grab.

  He came up for air, hair and water streaming down his face. But over his shoulder he held a soggy, limp bundle of clothes. Bell had waded in after them, weeping as Quent had never seen her do. Her sobs of relief and panic shattered what remained of his poise. He bit his tongue to prevent shouting at her to get her damned derriere out of the water and back to shore, where she belonged.

  Still suppressing his rage and panic, Quent whacked Kit’s back with his hand as he strode from the pond, hoping Bell had the sense to pry herself out of the muck because his head was too jumbled by feelings to think clearly. Before they had reached solid ground, Kit was coughing and crying and starting to kick.

  Weeping, Bell lifted him from Quent’s arms the instant they hit shore. She cradled Kit’s heavy weight and stumbled to her knees, hugging her sobbing little brother.

  Still too shaken for rationality, uncertain whether he had the right to comfort either of them any longer, Quent grabbed his gelding’s reins. He’d almost lost a spirited, courageous little boy before he’d recognized the value of the boy’s character. How had he thought he would make a good guardian if he didn’t grasp that the children were more important than his father’s damned roof?

  Distraught, he lingered a moment until the pair were in a state to listen and obey. He might be damned useless for all else, but he wasn’t having any more women and children drowning if he could prevent it. The thieves could go to hell first.

  “They stole your horses,” Kit hiccuped, trying to wiggle out of his sister’s arms.

  “But they didn’t steal you, and you’re far more valuable,” Bell asserted, refusing to let him go. “Don’t ever, ever do that again. You will make an old lady of me. Lord Quentin will drown trying to save you. We thank you for what you tried to do, Kit, but . . .” She broke down weeping again.

  “Can you even swim?” Quent asked, wringing out his coat.

  “Of course,” Kit replied, belligerent now that he wasn’t as terrified.

  “Bell, can you?” Quent demanded, stomping his boots in an attempt to empty them.

  She looked up, dazed. “Swim? No, I don’t think so. What does it matter now? You saved him, and as much as I want to hate you, I can’t. You have my undying gratitude, if only for this.”