Formidable Lord Quentin Page 26
She almost wailed this last.
He chuckled and held her close, so she could feel his heart clamoring. “I know I have a lot to learn about families, but I’m confident you can teach me what I need to know. I could never be happy without you, and I could not live if you took my heart and left me nothing.”
“You have a heart to go with all that formidable brain,” she said in wonder. “I had never dared hope you would condescend to open it for me.”
“I give you my unworthy heart for safekeeping,” he warned. “You have the power to destroy me as others never have.”
“I will take very good care of it,” she assured him. “After all, you have told me I am strong. I shall be a fortress in your defense.”
He laughed. “And here I thought I would be the one to protect you!”
Twenty-eight
Mid-September sunshine beamed through the cathedral windows. The bright rays through the stained glass mellowed the old oak benches and slate floors. Oddly, a white banner bearing an Irish crest rippled on one side of the nave. A red banner with a Scots crest hung unobtrusively on the other side.
Both sides of the aisle were unfashionably filled.
Standing in a small room at the rear of the church, Bell peered around a door and bit back an inappropriate whistle. “My word, did Quent invite all London?”
“No, all London invited themselves. You did announce the date, after all,” Jocelyn Montague reminded her. “Here, let me adjust the lace. You have too much hair for that little scrap.”
“It’s Bruges lace. Quent imported crates of it years ago. I’m about to make it fashionable again,” Bell declared. “A large audience will help.”
“You are marrying to increase his profits?” Tess asked with a grin, tucking a white rose bud into Bell’s primrose-colored sash.
“We are marrying because it is easier than fighting over who pays for what,” Bell said airily. “And because he will keep you and Syd on tight strings where I will not, and I will introduce his sisters to society where he will not, and for all sorts of very practical reasons. I have loaned the marquess money for his roof, with good interest. We are also investing in steam engines together.”
“She lies,” Syd said with assurance, holding a bouquet of white and yellow roses and lavender phlox and prancing in front of a window, straining to see her reflection. “It’s all very romantic but neither of them will admit how smitten they are.”
Abigail Wyckerly and Nora Atherton looked at each other and laughed. Bell cast her former protégées a disparaging glance, but a smile tugged the corner of her mouth. How could she do anything else except smile when she had friends and family around her and the most wonderful man in the world waiting for her?
“You will see,” Bell said sternly. “We shall establish a dynasty that will rule all London. And maybe Ireland,” she added as an afterthought, hearing Kit’s familiar shouts from the cathedral.
“I swear, you and Quent will compete on your death beds to see who gets to heaven faster. I’ll have to loan you my husband to work out a diplomatic settlement.” Jocelyn quit fussing with hair pins and lace and stepped back to admire her handiwork. “Really, there should be more purple, but you’ll do.”
“Blake would just drive a dirk through their hearts to speed them on their way,” Abby said with a laugh, knowing Jocelyn’s husband for the warrior he was.
Ignoring the byplay, Bell spun around in her striped lavender and yellow gown, letting the silk train swish for the benefit of her admirers. “I’ll wear a lavender spencer to the breakfast. Will that suit?”
“Most excellently. Is that a bagpipe I hear?” Jocelyn peered around the doorway and the others jostled to see. “Oh my word, one of them has a bagpipe—and he’s wearing a kilt!”
“I suspect that’s the marquess’s call to arms. He’s tired of waiting. He’ll have us all arrested as traitors to the crown if they’re wearing kilts.” Bell peered with them, but her gaze was only for the striking man waiting at the altar, looking harassed, impatient—and most elegant in his dark coat and crisp white neckcloth.
“Yes, I think we’ve dallied as long as we can,” Bell murmured in amusement. “Fitz and Nick appear to be betting on something. Quent may strike them dead with his glare at any moment. Blake looks as if he’s sizing them up for coffins.”
Abigail smiled with confidence. “My husband only bets on sure things, so Nick is about to lose more of his gold, not his life. Perhaps we should go out there before Fitz bankrupts anyone else.”
“I’m amazed Quent and Blake aren’t persuading the duke to invest in fashionable weddings while they’re idling their time,” Bell said dryly. “I don’t know which is worse, your noble rakes or our less-than-noble tradesmen. Out you go,” she said to her sisters, pushing them toward the door. “Let all society admire your charm. Try not to let Kit trip you.”
Her sisters strolled out with the confidence of young women who expected all of society to admire them. Boyle arrogance came naturally. For a moment, Bell wanted to weep. Her sisters would be married with families of their own shortly.
A sea of handsome dark male heads on Quent’s side swerved to admire the sight.
Nora leaned over and kissed Bell’s cheek in the Italian fashion. “They are beautiful. You will be proud of them. And you will make a wonderful aunt for all their beautiful babies. Come along now, it’s time.”
Taking a deep breath, Bell sent her friends ahead of her to find seats in the first pew on her side of the nave. When the horrendous bagpipe hit the highest note, she stepped out after them.
***
Quent clenched his gloved fingers and tried not to make a fool of himself in front of his entire family. Entire family. The marquess had dragged every last one of the lot to London to see him marry the dowager marchioness. If Bell decided to take flight . . . he’d have to emigrate.
“That noise machine is bound to send her raving for the exit,” Nick said cheerfully, hitting on Quent’s worst fear.
“The lady is smart,” Fitz asserted. “She’ll marry him first, then run for the exit, leaving Quent with both their families.”
Quent wondered if he could slam his friends’ heads together.
Diplomatic Blake appeared to be studying the crowd for politicians whose arms he could twist later at the wedding breakfast. Quent understood Blake’s need to further his causes better than Quent understood his own anxiety. He knew Bell wouldn’t desert him. But this moment had been ten damned years in the making. He expected the world to end before it happened.
On the verge of strangling his uncle and setting fire to the bagpipe, Quent finally noticed Bell’s sisters emerging from the rear. They didn’t appear to be anything other than delighted to be the center of attention, however briefly. He unclenched his fingers and took a deep breath but kept his gaze fixed on the rear of the church.
Bell’s friends emerged next. He scarcely saw them—until Abby, Lady Danecroft, caught an escaping Kit and steered him back to a pew. Once in the pew, the boy’s tutor removed what appeared to be a Chinese firecracker from the young earl’s grip.
Fitz, watching his wife with delight, laughed. “Oh, you will have your hands full with that one,” he whispered. “Think about sending him to the Navy.”
“Nora’s family sent over the fireworks,” Nick said with a sigh. “The Italians love gunpowder. I can’t believe she let the boy have one. I assume it’s one of the small ones that won’t blow off his fingers.”
Quent quit listening. His bride had emerged looking like a spring garden, although Bell had assured him that she was wearing sedate autumn colors. Her russet hair was the only autumn color he noticed. The yellowed Bruges lace allowed her spectacular tresses to gleam in the light from the stained glass.
Even the bagpipe shut up.
She looked happy, and he finally breathed freely again. Reaching for his bride’s hand once she reached him, Quent held her close as the vicar finally spoke the words making the dowager marc
hioness, the Virgin Widow, the beautiful Lady Bell just plain Lady Quentin Hoyt.
***
Later that evening, after their guests had bedded down in both townhouses, the Hall, and in the homes of their friends, Quent carried his new bride onto his yacht.
Bell laughed at the quantities of lace adorning every inch of the cabin. “You mean to sell your cargo to Cyprians and bordellos?”
“Excellent idea, although I’ll have to find more bachelor friends to do the selling.” He lay her on the lace-adorned bed. “But tonight is reserved for just us. No arguing siblings, no complaining nannies, no papers to be signed.”
“No bagpipes,” she added teasingly, sitting up to remove the pins in her hair.
Quent pushed aside her hands. “Allow me. I’ve been wanting to do this all day.” He removed the lace, and with satisfaction, set a gloriously silky tress free. “I am tempted to set sail for parts unknown and come back in ten years to see how they all managed without us.”
“They would, you know,” she said seriously, tugging him down beside her. “Our families are intelligent and capable. We need only let them intrude as far as we like, if you will only give up on trying to protect them from the consequences of their rashness.”
He kissed the side of her neck and her shell-shaped ear and began unfastening her spencer. “You are a dreamer, my dear, but I love you anyway. Champagne now or later?”
“Later,” she agreed, to his happiness, reaching for his neckcloth. “My courses were due a fortnight ago. You may have nine months of uninterrupted lovemaking in your future. After that, I make no promises.”
Quent choked and ripped off his own neckcloth while staring in incredulity at his amazing bride. “You cannot know for certain this soon,” he said warily.
“Of course not.” She started on his waistcoat buttons. “In life, nothing is certain. But just keep in mind black-haired, green-eyed chubby babes when you feel the need to drag me off to bed.”
“That is most definitely not on my mind now,” he said firmly as he yanked off his tailored coat. “Off with that bodice, woman. My only purpose tonight is to make you the happiest bride this world has ever seen.”
She laughed and smothered his face in joyful kisses. “And how do I make you the happiest groom? You know I will not stand in your way if you wish to take Nick up on his challenge of a yacht race to Amsterdam.”
Finally conquering the pearl buttons of her bodice and the lace ties of her undergarments, Quent bent to lavish her curves with kisses. He lifted one beautiful breast from its confinement for further ravishment before responding to her question.
Caressing her peaked nipple, he met her gaze. “You challenge me more than any race. If we need the wind in our hair occasionally, we’ll choose the means together. But for now, you make my heart race. I do not need wind and speed. Tell me you feel the same, and you will make me the happiest of men.”
“I do not need wind and speed,” she agreed. “I need you. I need you more than rain and sun, more than air itself. And I am ashamed to be so slow at admitting it.”
“As long as you admit it now, I am happy. Kiss me, wife, and let us try harder for green-eyed babes in our future.”
If the yacht rocked harder than the tide that evening and the cries of the gulls found human accompaniment, there was none to notice.
Copyright & Credits
Formidable Lord Quentin
Rebellious Sons 4
Patricia Rice
Book View Café 2015
ISBN: 978-1-61138-444-4
Copyright © 2015 Patricia Rice
Production Team:
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Copy Editor: Jennifer Stevenson
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Formatter: Vonda N. McIntyre
This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Wicked Wyckerly (April 2015
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Wicked Wyckerly: Sample Chapter
A Rebellious Sons Novel
The daughter of middle-class gentry, her parents recently deceased, Abigail Merriweather gave up her fiancé to take charge of her four young half-siblings, only to have the executor of her father’s will relieve her of parental duties because she’s female.
Assuming no man in his right mind would want to marry a spinster with only a farm for dowry, much less take on a ready-made family, she has applied to her father’s distant relation, a marquess, for aid in having the children returned.
***
“I need a man,” she declared so decisively that a squirrel leaped from the fence and hid under the hedge. “I need to marry a rich solicitor,” she amended, applying her hoe to the rhubarb bed. “A responsible gentleman who loves children and would take my case to the highest courts. An upright, respectable man with enough wealth not to worry about the expense!”
Please, let him say he would help her fetch the children back. If she couldn’t find a rich solicitor to marry, she needed a respectable, wealthy London gentleman like her father’s distant, titled, cousin willing to fight for her cause.
The coach lingered, and she hurried toward the gate, hoe still in hand. Perhaps their guardian had relented and sent the children home for a visit. The coach might stop out here for young children—
“Keep the demon hellion off my coach until you’ve tamed or caged her!” a cranky male shouted.
“I hate you, you bloody damned cawker!” a child screamed.
Despite the appalling curse, Abigail hurried faster. She did not recognize the voice, but she recognized hopeless desperation on the verge of tears. She would not let harm come to any child under her notice.
“Your generosity will not be forgotten,” a wry, plummy baritone called over the thump of baggage hitting the ground.
Abigail almost halted. Sophisticated aristocrats with rounded vowels and haughty accents were not a common commodity in these rural environs. She wasn’t young or foolish enough to believe the heavens had thrown a wealthy noble onto her front lawn in answer to her plea.
Her innate social insecurity kicked in, and she froze, until a small figure darted through the hedgerow dragging a ragged doll and shouting, “Beetle-brained catch-farts can’t catch me!”