Formidable Lord Quentin (9 page)

“Marry a wealthy lady and own your own stable,” Fitz said.
“I recommend marriage to all my friends now. Gives one a new perspective.”

“Because bachelorhood is so tedious?” Quent asked with
sarcasm. “But we have come for your advice as a married man. I need a brandy
before I’m ready to discuss the matter, though.”

“There might be a bottle reserved just for you.” Fitz
slapped him on the back and shoved him toward the door. “Anytime you’re willing
to discuss marriage is a good time for a drink.”

That was Quent’s opinion, too. A drink . . . or
three. He shuddered, remembering the last woman he’d proposed to marry—before
he’d learned the folly of confusing lust for loyalty and love. The experience
had scarred him for life.

“Why has Lord Quentin arrived with you?” Abby whispered
after they’d left the children in their rooms and strolled the corridor to
Bell’s chamber. “I thought your intent was to remove your family from his
notice.”

“He spies,” Bell complained morosely. “He knew I was coming
here, probably even before I did. I have no idea why he decided to follow. He
doesn’t have much interest in country life.”

“Well, I suppose business is slow now that the season is
over and everyone has retreated from the city.” Abby puckered her forehead in a
frown and opened the door to a chamber on the far end of the corridor. “But he
has never visited just for the pleasure of it. Will this room suit? It’s not
the tower. You didn’t give me time to clean that out.”

Bell glanced at the lovely airy chamber with freshly
starched muslin bed curtains, ancient blue velvet draperies, and a newly waxed
wood floor sans whatever moth-eaten carpet had left the large light square in
the middle of the floor. This was so far above the ruins of her origins, she
could not begin to quibble.

“This is charming, and you know it,” Bell said honestly. “You
have an excellent eye for creating warmth. I am sorry to have barged in upon
you like this, but I needed time to think, and Quent isn’t leaving me alone to
do so.”

“That’s almost promising,” Abby said with a twinkle in her
eye. “Has he finally realized what a gem you are and decided to pursue you?”

Bell dropped wearily onto the soft mattress. “He asked me to
marry him. He says he can talk his father into letting him keep the children so
I might have them instead of sending them to Scotland. But we both know he’s
just using this as an excuse to lay his hands on my purse strings.”

“Not necessarily,” the countess contradicted. “He’s been
sniffing around you for years, and you cannot be so blind as to not know it.
Perhaps he’s decided it’s time to settle down. He’s never seemed fond of housing
family, so proposing marriage is quite a condescension for him.”

“It’s pure arrogance,” Bell retorted. “I have been married
once for convenience. I will not do so ever again. I will go to Scotland with
the children should it come to that.”

“Wasn’t he the one carrying Kit when you arrived?” Abby
asked in puzzlement. “That doesn’t sound like a man who doesn’t like children.”

“He likes getting his own way. Kit is simply a means to an
end. No, we shall choose horses for the girls and a pony for Kit, and then
retire to the house in Essex, where Quent will not be welcome,” Bell said
decisively. “The children will be too tired this evening, but in the morning,
perhaps, we can see what Fitz has. Then we may disappear in a cloud of dust.”

“Do not hurry off!” Abby protested. “You must take your
time, let the children come to know each other. And if Fitz doesn’t have
precisely what you need, he’ll be happy to go to Tattersall’s. He’s beyond
thrilled to have this opportunity to help you, after you’ve helped us so much.”

Bell almost grew teary at the kind words when she was
feeling so beleaguered. “I have done nothing that shouldn’t have been done
years ago, had Edward not been such a miserable misogynist who thought of all
women as no more than useless ornaments, at best. He and Quent are much of a
kind, a family trait, I fear.”

“I don’t think Quent
hates
women,” Abby argued. “He’s simply too busy to look beyond his nose.”

Bell shrugged wearily. “Not much difference. Women have no
power or wealth, so they’re beneath his notice. I’m the only challenge of the
fairer sex that he’s met. Should I ever give in to his whims, I’ll be reduced
to the same level as all other women. He’s just being stubborn because I’ve
bested him for so long.”

“I hate to see two good friends at loggerheads. Perhaps we
can find a solution if we all talk these next few days. It will do Quent good
to take some time out of the city to enjoy life. Rest a bit, and I’ll send a
maid to help you dress for dinner.”

Abby bustled off to keep her nest pleasant by performing
other missions of mercy. Bell wished she could be more like her friend, able to
find love in adversity and be happy under any circumstances.

She had thought she was happy living alone, but now that she
had her family again . . . It was chaos. She had to admit that
she was miserably incompetent at childcare. Still, she felt as if some long-lost
part of her was returning to life. And she knew she was up to the challenge of
learning to deal with her siblings—if given enough time.

Real families
loved
each other, wanted the best for each other, and stuck together through thick
and thin. She would not abandon her siblings the way she had been cast aside.

***

Syd eagerly threw back the moldering draperies of their
bedchamber window. “Have you ever seen anything like this, Tess? It’s a castle!
Look, the village is way down there in the valley. That’s where the
common
folk live.”

“Common folk, as in people like us?” Tess asked in
amusement. They’d been given a chamber to share, but a nursemaid had carried
off Beebee and Kit, so she was free to indulge in silliness for a few minutes.

“That’s just it,” Syd said excitedly. “Here, we’re special!
We’re the daughters of an earl. No one cared about that back in Boston.”

“That’s because we were living with dirt poor Methodists who
despised aristocrats and no one told them who we are. It’s hard to be special
when you’re working for food. And you will notice that the windows in this
castle are cracked, the bed posts are older than any existing forest, and we
have no carpet on the floor. I’m betting the sheets are threadbare, too. This
is no palace, Syd, just a mountain of old rocks, larger but not so different
from home.”

Despite her words, Tess didn’t mind any of that. She lay
back on her mattress and admired the grand space. Once upon a time, the plaster
ceiling over her head must have been molded with cherubs and garlands and
probably gaily painted. Now, the crumbling plaster cherubs had patched flat
places where their noses and wings had been, and the paint had paled to specks
of pastels.

It was still more charming than any place they’d ever
stayed, including her moldy room in Ireland. She remembered that pile of rocks
for its greenery—even growing inside on the walls. As a child, she used to
bring snails into her room to see if they’d live on the moss on her windowsill.

“I wonder if Lord Quentin’s home in Scotland is grander?”
Syd asked idly, examining the wardrobe where the maid had hung their still
meager attire.

Syd never asked anything idly. Syd was young, but she’d
always been a schemer and a reckless doer. Tess was the one who pondered for a
long time before acting. But she didn’t have to think too deeply to understand
Syd’s concern.

“Even if his Scots home is a castle, would you want to live
there?” she asked. “What would we do all day in someone else’s home? I’m sick
and tired of being a poor dependent. I want a home of my own.”

“Lord Quentin is a wealthy man,” Syd said slyly. “If Bell
really doesn’t want such a lovely man . . .”

Tess sighed. Even her mind had traveled that road. “Do you
really think he’s in search of any wife, or is it just Bell he seeks?”

“You look much like Bell, so where’s the difference? If you
were his wife, it would be most excellent, in my opinion,” Syd said loyally. “I
don’t mind being a dependent until I’ve had a grand ball and been squired about
by dozens of handsome suitors!”

Syd was right. If Bell didn’t want to marry the gentleman, Tess
had no such compunction. She could have a home and stability for a change, plus
have her family around her.

Tess had married the love of her life and lost him. She
didn’t expect to ever love again. She could marry an older, wealthier man for
the sake of her family—just as Bell once had. Really, it was almost her duty to
do so.

***

“I think you’re inviting disaster,” Fitz warned his guest
as they sat about the dining table, drinking their brandy, after the women
withdrew. “My gambler’s instinct says this is entirely the wrong way to go
about pursuing a woman.”

“That’s not your gambling instinct, that’s your innate
honesty. Whereas Quent has the morals of a cheap pettifogger,” Penrose
corrected with the bluntness of a man who had been a friend longer than an
employee.

Quent laughed. “I don’t come
cheaply
these days. And Bell isn’t any woman. She doesn’t want to
be courted, especially by me. I need to catch her attention first.”

He
needed
to be
the one in charge, but his friends understood that. They might not understand
why, but they accepted his leadership as a given. He was older, wealthier, and
in many ways, wiser. Life had pounded experience into him—with a cudgel—at an
early age.

Unfortunately, Bell really was like him in that measure,
although he supposed her experiences had scarred her in different ways. Finding
a path around her defenses was akin to finding one around his own. He twitched
his shoulders in discomfort, fingered the intriguing list in his pocket, and
set his empty glass back on the table. Time to leap into the fray. Nothing
ventured, nothing gained, and all that.

The sooner he settled this marriage/guardianship problem,
the faster he could pry his father off his back and return to generating cash
for the family roof. Making money, he understood. Dealing with warring
family—he avoided.

He accepted that Bell would insist on tying her funds up in
a trust for her sisters and herself. He wouldn’t argue with her over the
marriage provisions, and he would never ask her for money—even for the roof. He
was confident that his family’s fortune would be repaired on what he earned.
Money was not the question in his suit—although his sanity might be.

At least, this time he was entering into courtship with eyes
wide open. Lust and a need for commitment were more sensible than weak
affectations like
love
.

The women were scattered about the parlor when the men
joined them. Quent knew all the ladies to be pretty, but his gaze just
naturally gravitated to Bell. She’d always had the ability to draw his eye,
even when he’d been young and perishing of a stupidly broken heart and had
vowed to never let another woman into his life. For Bell, he was now ready to
make a reluctant exception.

He knew she couldn’t play the pianoforte, but she’d draped
herself elegantly on the bench, idly punching the keys and matching the notes
to a musical score she was trying to read. A sconce above her head emphasized
the red threads in her dark hair. A curl adorned her bare nape. Her gold silk
dinner gown draped seductively over a curvaceous figure that had developed from
a child’s skinniness to that of a full-grown woman over the years he’d known her.

And her position revealed one dainty shoe and stockinged
ankle. Quent reluctantly dragged his gaze away and bowed to the amused
countess. Fitz’s wife could be an annoying know-it-all, but she was generally
demure and kept her thoughts to herself—

—Unlike Bell’s sisters. They leapt from their chairs to
usher the men in, chattering about a game of charades. Penrose seemed
particularly stricken when the younger chit grabbed his arm and led him toward
a chair near the pianoforte.

The older one—Tess, he thought Bell called her—took Quent’s
arm and steered him toward a loveseat beside her. “We thought we could have a
challenge in the evenings, gentlemen versus the ladies. We are well matched,
aren’t we? Four ladies against three gentlemen?”

Bell arched an eyebrow in apparent surprise at her sister’s
eagerness, but she shrugged in reply to Quent’s questioning expression. He
resisted Tess’s placement and strode to the cold fireplace instead.

“I am not much at games, but I’ll be happy to judge, if you
like.” He leaned against the mantel, wondering how to steer the conversation in
the direction he had in mind. He’d only been thinking in terms of shocking
Bell, not her young sisters. Should he wait? Or would they all go upstairs
together?

“Oh, but it will be fun,” the younger girl cried. “You don’t
want to spoil the fun for everyone.”

“Hush, Syd, I’ll sit out the game with Mr. Hoyt, and the
rest of you can play,” Tess suggested.

That did not sound as if they were planning on retiring
soon. His own sisters could stay up later than he had any inclination for,
particularly if he was in their chatty company.

Fitz took a seat beside his wife, who was adding trim to a
child’s attire. Very practical woman was the countess. Abby leaned over and
kissed her husband’s cheek but didn’t object to the game.

Penrose actually looked interested. The ex-soldier hadn’t
had the time or funds to play in society’s drawing rooms. And now he had the
attention of two attractive single ladies. Quent knew his friend would cut his
own throat before disagreeing with the women. Penrose took the empty seat
beside Mrs. Dawson.

Quent refrained from rolling his eyes. While the younger
ones chattered about the best topic for a charade, he removed the list from his
pocket and handed it to the countess. “I am calling on your expertise, my lady.
Fitz agrees these ladies are all suitable for courtship, but he has more
insight into their wealth than their personalities. May I have your opinion?”