Formidable Lord Quentin (34 page)

“Mea culpa,” Bell whispered

Quent refrained from doing more than holding her hand. “Not
your fault at all. It was a good lesson. My fury and humiliation pretty much
diluted any heartbreak I might have suffered. I packed up my bags and business
and rode to London. My first sight of you nearly brought me to my knees, but I
persevered. I had every reason to hate you. I had you investigated. I watched
you like a hawk, waiting for you to fail Belden. And while I waited, I built my
business on my own terms.”

“While I tried to build a marriage,” she murmured.

“Which is why I learned to love you from afar,” he said,
admitting what he’d only just recognized himself. He was ready to cry and fall
to his knees with the pain of genuine heartbreak. “Despite every reason to hate
you, I learned to admire your strength. You were lost and naïve and you bravely
faced society’s contempt, learning how to speak properly, learning the
ridiculous etiquette of precedence, and demanding respect as the wife of a
powerful man. You forged connections that helped Edward, even if he never
bothered to tell you.”

She tilted her head thoughtfully, and her bonnet brushed his
jaw. Just that touch made his insides clutch.

“I wanted to be useful,” she said sadly. “I was used to
doing everything for my family. I would willingly have conquered Spain if he’d
asked it of me.”

“And you would have,” Quent said with certainty,
understanding now how deep her courage ran. Holding his heart in his hand, he
touched a finger beneath her chin, and still, she did not notice. He tilted her
head so he could meet her eyes. “You’re not hearing what I’m saying again,
ma belle.
I have loved you from the
first time I laid eyes on you. You were married, and I wasn’t worthy. But these
past weeks, you’ve given me reason to believe that perhaps I’ve at least earned
your respect. Don’t make me beg.”

Her eyes widened. Her lips parted, but words didn’t emerge.

Taking that as a good sign, he wrapped his arms around her
and lifted her into his kiss. She hesitated, for just a fraction, and then she
flung her arms around his neck and returned his kiss with all the passion of
which she was capable. He nearly staggered under the immensity of her trust.

And then she pulled back to meet his eyes. “I have loved you
for so long that I could not begin to tell you how it came about. You are just
always there, a sturdy presence inside my soul, a trusted friend, a shoulder to
lean on, and a man I admire above all others. How could I not love you? And
loving you, how could I burden you with my quarrelsome family while keeping you
from your own? I love you so much, I had to let you go free so you could be
happy!”

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!”

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 marchioness, 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.”