Syd was attempting to balance on a side saddle in the other enclosure. Both of her sisters had learned to ride astride when they were little, as Bell had. Instead of mounting her horse, Tess was worriedly watching Kit to see if she should run to his rescue.
“Go see to the girls,” Bell told Fitz. “They’re mostly civilized. If I’m the one who will inherit the responsibility of raising the next earl, then I must learn to deal with him.”
“I can recommend a lion-tamer,” Fitz said, “But Quent apparently has experience. I’ll leave you to him.”
She couldn’t do this alone, she realized with a pang of regret. She would have to call for the tutor and maids and valet if they stayed here any longer. And judging from her sisters’ inexpertise on their mounts, it looked as if they might have to impose on the Wyckerlys for a while. She had always been competent. These last years had given her new strengths and independence. It was horribly humbling to recognize that she needed help.
The groom led the saddled pony from the stable. Bell reluctantly joined Quent and Kit. She truly had no experience at dealing with little boys. How did one make them behave?
“Shall I tell the groom to take the pony back, that his lordship is too ill- mannered to deserve a good animal?” she asked, eyeing her brother with disapproval. “Or do we just let the pony bite him next time?”
She was excruciatingly aware of Quent’s masculine proximity. She had never seen him in less than perfection in London. Now, he smelled of male musk and horse. He had made her indecently aware of how his broad shoulders narrowed to a flat waist and muscled thighs, so unlike most of the pot-bellied gentlemen of her acquaintance. Perhaps she ought to consider his indecent offer—if only so she’d quit having such thoughts around children.
“I’d recommend a week in his room with bread and water, but I suspect that would bother everyone else more than it would him.” Without even looking down at her, Quent adjusted her hat so it didn’t tilt so rakishly.
Rebelliously, Bell tilted it again and glared at her brother. “You nearly had a chunk of your arm removed, Christopher James. You are an undisciplined heathen not fit for a gentleman’s saddle. Until you show yourself capable of behaving with the proper respect toward others, including the ponies, I think you need to be demoted to lead ropes. Like a baby.”
She gestured at the groom, who obediently returned to the stable to find the appropriate tackle.
Kit, of course, had no idea what she was talking about, until she reached the last part. He kicked his heels harder and hollered, “I’m not a baby.”
“That behavior is precisely like a baby’s,” Quent intoned solemnly. “And if you continue behaving as you are, I will take you to the nursery with little Georgie. You can eat porridge and roll balls with him.”
Georgie was Fitz’s toddler son, just learning to walk. He and Beebee had been having a fine time when Bell had checked on them last.
Kit wailed louder. Quent lifted him from his perch, stuck him under his big arm, and marched back toward the house.
Kit shut up.
Quentin halted and lifted a questioning eyebrow at Bell.
“I want a pony!” Kit cried piteously. “I’ll behave. I promise.”
Finally established in her saddle, Tess sidled her mare in their direction. “I can take him up, Lord Quentin. I’ve had charge of him since he was little.”
Bell hid a smile at Quent’s exasperated expression. The man was human after all. She hastened to intervene before he bit his tongue in two. If Tess had been in charge of the brat, she’d been far too lenient, but she’d only been a young girl with no experience.
“Tess, you need to stay with Syd. She hasn’t your skill. I think the two of us can deal with Kit a while longer.”
Tess looked dubious, but Quent set the young earl on his feet, pointed his finger, and the boy obediently stayed where he was put.
Fitz rode up on a restive gelding, effortlessly keeping it under control. “I want to take the girls around the yard first, see how they handle the reins. Do you want to wait until we’re back before putting his lordship in the saddle?”
The groom was leading the dappled gray pony into the now-empty paddock. Bell could practically feel her brother’s longing to run and climb over the fence. She handed Kit back his coat and watched him pour his energy into struggling into the tight arms.
“I think between us and the groom, we should be able to handle him,” she said dryly.
“Famous last words,” Fitz warned with a grin, reining his horse around.
“Quite possibly,” Bell muttered. “I truly dislike being incompetent at caring for a child. I need a teacher.”
“You are already doing a better job than Tess,” Quent told her, shrugging. “I have watched you learn everything you need to know over the last years, and then go on to use your knowledge to exceed the pinnacles. You’ll catch on to the nuances of child-rearing quickly.”
Bell stared at him surprise. A man who actually respected what she’d accomplished? Or was he being facetious?
Fitz laughed and kicked his mount toward the other paddock. “Come on, girls, we can watch the circus from afar.”
Bell didn’t have time to be envious of their escape. Still stunned by Quent’s praise, she didn’t object when he gripped Kit’s shoulder. He marched the boy toward the pen—or more like, kept him from running full tilt at the gate. She appreciated the aid, but she knew what would happen as soon as her brother was placed on the saddle. She might not know child care, but she had experience in Boyle behavior.
She remained outside the paddock as Quent handed Kit to the groom to be hoisted up. Kit’s fingers were fisted, as if to keep from grabbing the pony as he’d tried earlier. He sat patiently while the stirrups were adjusted. He was large for his age. He wouldn’t be on a pony for more than another year. The guide rope really was an insult, but it had to be done.
As soon as he was released and in the saddle alone, Kit whooped, grabbed the pony’s mane, and kicked. Bell shook her head. Male Boyles were simply too predictable.
The pony obediently followed the groom’s tug on the rope and didn’t budge.
Quent made a quiet threat. Kit settled down and pouted again.
Bell was nearly as ready as Kit to tear her hair out at the pony’s slow pace around the paddock under the groom’s guidance. Quent came to stand beside her, placing a proprietary hand at the small of her back. Bell started to move away, but he ran his finger under her jacket, discreetly caressing her spine through the thin chemisette. A river of need flowed through her. Knowing the others were too far away to notice, she couldn’t tear away.
It took half an excruciating hour before the boy could be forced to sit quietly in the saddle. Bell feared her brother would burst into tears of frustration at any minute. She sympathized, but it was like taming a yearling. Kit would be good to no one if he was left unrestrained.
As if possessed of second sight, Quent removed his hand just before the girls trotted back. She missed the caress, damn the man. But her sisters were shouting excitedly over their triumphs and deserved her attention.
Kit saw them riding in without guidance and finally gave in to tears, wailing his heartbroken protests.
Tess immediately dismounted with a wide-eyed look of concern. Bell blocked her path. “He’s fine. He’s just angry because he’s being punished for his earlier behavior.”
“But he’s just a little boy! He so wanted his own pony. Can’t you let him go now?” Tess skirted around Bell, hurrying toward the fence.
Seeing her, Kit cried louder.
Quent stepped in, sweeping the boy off the pony, plopping him on the ground, and marching him toward the gate, quietly scolding.
Kit wept and tried to run back to the pony. Quent lifted him and swung him over the fence, where Tess crouched down to hug him and give everyone black looks.
“Thank you,” Bell whispered to Quent. “You are about to be called all sorts of dreadful names, but I am grateful
for the way you handled him.”
“How grateful?” he asked, lifting a leering eyebrow.
That look caused her to shiver with unwelcome desire. She pinched his arm through his coat sleeve. And Tess launched into her furious tirade about the poor little boy and his pony. Quent took it all in stride, reaching up to help Syd down when she rode over to see what the commotion was about.
“Excellent seat, Lady Sydony. Less pressure on the mare’s mouth next time. The groom keeps apples inside, if you want to take your mount back to be brushed down.” Quent pointed at the open door.
And blessedly, Syd did as told.
The wretched man was not only turning her into a puddle of wax, he was making himself useful, Bell realized. Did he do so on purpose? Of course. Quent never did anything without a purpose.
Fitz swung down. “Want to try Wexford on another pony? It’s hard to test them out on leading ropes.”
“No, I think this one is fine. He has excellent conformation and best of all, patience. I’ll take Kit back to the nursery, if you’ll show the girls what else might suit. I’ll be back shortly to look them over. I do appreciate this, Fitz. I wouldn’t trust their horses to anyone else.”
“Not even me?” Quent asked, falling into step with her as she half-dragged a rebellious Kit toward the house. He stooped down and picked the boy up, placing him on his broad shoulders. “I’m a pretty good judge of horses.”
“But not of women riders,” she retorted. “Or of my sisters. Or Boyles in general. Fitz pays attention to what they want, not what he wants.”
“Which is why he’ll never be a successful businessman,” Quent pointed out. “But he’s happy and he’ll fare middling well, even though he has a couple of mares in there that would command a much higher price than the ones you’re looking at.”
“I saw them,” Bell said, irritated that he kept inflicting his presence on her but relieved she didn’t have to wrestle Kit. “They’re too high strung for riders who haven’t been in a saddle in a while, and far too high strung for the crowds and noises of the park. I respect him more for not showing them to my sisters. Fitz will have clients lining up at his door because of his honesty.”
“As I said, he’ll earn a middling income that way. He’ll get by,” Quent agreed with a shrug. “I need to more than get by. I didn’t have his title or name or acres of land when I started out. A middling income wouldn’t have fed my family.”
“I can’t help it if Edward was a miser!” Bell shouted, finally aggravated beyond all reason over this ancient argument. “It wasn’t as if I recklessly spent his wealth. He wouldn’t even let me have the windows re-glazed. He’s dead, it’s over, you’re rich. You don’t need to prove yourself any longer, and I don’t need to marry you to make your fortune. Why have you decided to harass me now?”
“Because you need me,” he said decisively, with what sounded like surprise. “You’ve never needed me before.”
Bell shut up and glumly faced that unpleasant fact the rest of the way back to the house.
Ten
“I’m not sure Lord Quentin even knows I’m alive,” Tess whispered to Syd as the company gathered in the family parlor prior to the evening meal. She nodded toward the formidable gentleman, who was leaning against the mantel, talking to a much more approachable Mr. Penrose.
“That’s just the English way,” Syd insisted. “They’re very reserved, if you haven’t noticed. Even Bell isn’t the same anymore. I remember her as being quite fun, but she’s more strait-laced than the countess!”
“She’s a marchioness now,” Tess said doubtfully. “I’m sure that means she must be dour and authoritative. She must have much on her mind if her husband’s holdings were large.”
“All the more reason for you to snare Lord Quentin,” Syd insisted. “We’ll be one less burden for her.”
“How does one attach a man who pretends we don’t exist?” Tess asked in puzzlement.
A footman arrived in the doorway, distracting Syd from any inappropriate suggestions. Always eager to learn her new surroundings, Tess watched the countess nod for the footman to approach. He handed over a note on a platter.
“Do they expect a reply, Wrigley?” the countess asked, glancing over the contents and raising her eyebrows.
“I’ve sent the messenger around to the kitchen for a bite to eat in case you wished to send an answer, my lady.”
“Well, tell them of course they’re welcome, if they don’t mind joining our small house party.” The countess waited for the footman to leave before addressing Bell.
“That was from Lady Anne Montfort. Her father’s estate is a short ride from here. She says she’s acquiring more horses and would like to come over for a few days with a friend of hers. She’s never so much as visited us before.”
“Jocelyn mentioned that the duke is entertaining the widow of a distant cousin,” Bell said. “I like Anne, but I haven’t met her guest.”
So many names to learn! Tess didn’t think she’d ever master society. Jocelyn Montague had been the grand lady who had given the political dinner party, but how did a duke fit into the conversation about their visitors? Was this the same old duke that Mr. Montague assisted?
Lord Danecroft entered just then, and Tess noted that Lord Quentin was now listening to the general conversation. She pinched Syd to make her pay attention, then strolled in Lord Quentin’s direction.
“We’re to have company, dear,” the countess said, waving the note at her husband as he came toward her. “Perhaps you’ll need to start buying new stock if we stay this busy.”
“Lady Anne has been useful,” the earl said, glancing at the note. “But I don’t know this Diana, countess of—”
Tess didn’t hear the rest of the name. With her gaze focused on Lord Quentin, she was only aware that he froze like a panicked deer.
***
Bell noticed the same. She’d seldom seen Quent express any emotion other than supreme confidence. Now, he looked as if he wanted to bolt.
The moment was brief. He took a sip of his drink and returned to speaking with Penrose. Fitz’s wobbling old butler arrived to announce dinner. Bell remained seated until Quent came over to offer his hand, frustrating Tess’s apparent attempt to reach him first. Penrose stepped in to escort Tess.
“I thought I knew everyone in society,” Bell whispered. “Who is the countess of Renfrew-Fife? That sounds Scots to me.”
“Widow,” Quent said curtly. “Youngest daughter of the Duke of Graham. No reason to know the family. Like my father, they never leave Scotland.”
“Well, it seems she has left Scotland if she’s visiting Lady Anne. Do you know her? Is she likely to scorn my sisters?” Bell watched his expression as he held out a seat at the table for her. The man knew how to be as impassive as a butler.
“I haven’t seen the lady in a very long time. I cannot say.”
She detected a definite hint of bitterness in his tone. Bell bit her lip and spread her napkin on her lap and let him be. There was history there, she was sure of it, but Quent wasn’t any of her concern.
After dinner, Quent didn’t join the ladies in the parlor, much to her sisters’ disappointment. They had to practice their wiles on poor Penrose, who practically glowed with delight. He was a decent young man, of good family, Bell knew. He just didn’t have a feather to fly with.
Bell excused herself to check on Kit. The boy needed constant attention, it was apparent. Abby’s young siblings were a help, but she thought it best to keep her hand in so that he would be accustomed to her authority when they returned to London. Without other children in the city, he would need amusement. How would she arrange that?
After verifying that he was sharing a room with the other boys, ostensibly settling down to sleep, Bell slipped down a side corridor and outside into the still-warm summer night.
She didn’t know what drew her. She wasn’t a country sort of person any longer. She didn’t know one English weed from another. Fitz’s shrubbe
ry was too overgrown to be called a pleasant garden. She lied to herself for a while and pretended she didn’t want Quent finding her in her chamber again.
She gave up that pretense when she found him standing by a dry fountain. She didn’t turn around and go the other direction.
“It’s hard to drown one’s self in granite,” she reflected aloud, warning him she was present. “Although I suppose one could flip a coin into the cracked basin and wish for a bubbling spring.”
In the shadows of dusk and shrubbery, his expression was hidden. “When I was young, I wanted to race yachts. I thought there could be nothing more splendid than sailing the high seas and seeing exotic sights. What happens to those dreams?”
“I wanted to be recognized for my ability to race horses,” she admitted. “When I disguised myself and rode my father’s stallion, I could beat every man in the county. When it became apparent that I had to win purses to put food on the table, and that men would never appreciate my ability if they knew I was female, I learned the dark side of dreams.”
“Is that why you don’t ride now?” he asked, lifting his head to study her through the darkness.
“Not any more than you don’t race yachts. You still own one, don’t you?” She gracefully dodged the subject.
She really didn’t know why she was out here in the still night air, breathing the summer scent of mown grass, and the sensuous aroma of bergamot toilet water. The blasted man had shaved before dinner and smelled good enough to nibble. For her own well-being, she ought to leave, but she waited for his reply.
“I use my yacht for business and to transport my family from Scotland,” he said stiffly. “Faster and safer than riding the northern road.”
“But that’s not why you’re out here now, pondering youthful dreams. I gather you and Lady Anne’s guest have a history?” Bell generally preferred the subtle approach with this man, trying not to show her curiosity for fear he’d take it as interest. But she’d never seen him so discomposed. He’d helped her today. She wanted to offer what little she could in return.
Formidable Lord Quentin Page 9