“Ancient history,” he said with a shrug. “It’s her present history that concerns me. I believe the lady produced only daughters, and her husband’s estate fell to a younger brother. If she’s applying to old school friends for entrance to society the moment she’s out of mourning, she’s in financial straits. Her father must have had an apoplexy when she left Scotland. He despises England.”
“And this concerns you how?” she asked, fascinated despite herself. Quent seldom told her anything.
“Because of ancient history,” he said with a shrug.
Without warning, he caught her waist with a powerful arm and dragged her up against his hard torso. This time, his kiss wasn’t so polite as the night before. He poured real need into it, a hunger that fired her own banked desires.
Bell clutched his coat and surrendered to the consuming heat, knowing the danger, craving it anyway. His mouth was hot and demanding, as if he’d been saving up all his explosive emotions for this moment.
She’d never truly recognized the passion concealed by his civilized composure. If this passionate man was the real Quentin, he terrified her—and made her crave more of what she’d never had. She parted her lips and allowed him a brief moment of triumph, but the moment her hands started sliding to his shoulder, she used them to shove away.
“No, no, no, I am not going down this road again,” she muttered, backing away. “I need you more as a friend than a lover.”
“One does not preclude the other,” he said irritably, tugging his coat back in place.
“Yes, it does, really,” Bell said with sadness, turning back toward the house. “I can’t take a lover without marriage. It would present the wrong appearance to my sisters, not that I’m inclined to take lovers anyway. And marriage is a different sort of trap. Once you have me where you want me, I’m no longer a challenge. I’ll just become a nag who wants to do things that annoy you. You’ll set up an office in the city. And then you’ll set up a mistress so you don’t have to come home. I’ve watched it happen too often.”
“You are talking to a man who has had his sisters cluttering his house during the Season for two years. If that’s not enough to drive me out, I doubt I’ll be dislodged by you.” Quent took her arm, pressing unnervingly close as they traversed the gravel walkway. “Just let me show you what you’ve been missing by denying yourself for so long. You’re too young and beautiful to become a nun. You’re a widow. Take advantage of that freedom for a bit. I fear my father’s escalating demands about the guardianship will soon generate lawyers, but at least give me a chance to win you over.”
“Such sweet words to turn a girl’s head,” she murmured.
“I didn’t think you wanted flattery.” He drew her to a halt just outside the side door. “You saw that list of eligible females and you know perfectly well you’re the only one who would suit me. Shall I make a list of eligible males so you can decide if another would suit you better?”
“Why can’t you see that I don’t want another man in my life? The ones I had simply made me miserable. I like my life the way it is.” Bell tried not to shout. “Is it so very difficult to understand that men are not indispensable?”
“Once women discover that, civilization as we know it will disintegrate,” he said wryly. “So think of it as more a joining of forces, a rather pleasant joining, if only you’d allow me to demonstrate.”
“I need to go pummel a pillow,” she grumbled, yanking from his grasp. “Go away. Court anyone you like. Just don’t mix me up in it.”
She practically raced up the stairs in her need to escape his persuasive logic.
***
Quent resisted following Bell. He didn’t possess the seductive skills to persuade a woman to do what she didn’t want to do. He wasn’t certain that he wanted to win her in such a manner.
But he was increasingly convinced that Bell was in over her head if she thought tutors and servants would be sufficient to deal with her sudden new family. Her siblings hadn’t been raised with decades of proper training. They thought for themselves and acted on their own and they were Boyles—willing to take dangerous risks.
It must be something in the blood, Quent decided the next day, finding Syd timing Kit’s slide down the banister with a watch she must have stolen from Bell. The ancient rail creaked threateningly as the boy flew past him on the stairs, shouting in glee. Boyles were meant to be devil-may-care soldiers.
At sight of him, Syd fled into the upper story shadows, leaving her brother to Quent’s wrath.
Quent was about to grab Kit by the back of his coat and march him back upstairs when a footman opened the front door and their visitors spilled in. Damnation.
“Go back up and tell Bell the guests have arrived,” he told Kit, capturing him as he tumbled off at the newel post. “And if I ever catch you on the banister again, I’ll glue you to a chair. The rail is old. It breaks. So will you.”
“Bell will stick me with my stupid tutor,” Kit said, pouting.
Quent’s carriage had arrived that morning bearing his luggage and Bell’s servants. He was definitely questioning the efficacy of the boy’s new tutor if he’d let his student escape already.
“Tutor now, pony later,” Quent promised.
“No ropes,” the boy countered.
“Ropes until you quit kicking the animal.” Quent was used to bargaining. Kit didn’t stand a chance.
Kit glared. Quent blocked his escape to the lower floors. Kit gave up and stomped back up. Quent followed him, but Syd was long gone. She definitely needed a finishing school. He only hoped she was warning her sister about the guests because he didn’t intend to search Bell out while her siblings watched.
The tutor emerged on the upper landing just in time to grab Kit and scold him back toward the schoolroom. Taking the back stairs down to the stable, Quent avoided the clatter of servants carrying luggage and preparing rooms.
Mostly, he was avoiding Camilla. Unless she’d changed, she wasn’t here by happenstance. She had a purpose, and Quent was quite confident that impoverished Fitz wasn’t her goal. The lady had expensive tastes. Quent hadn’t maintained his bachelor status all these years without learning a few fast maneuvers.
Penrose and Tess were just leading their mounts from the stable when Quent arrived.
“Lord Quentin,” Tess cried. “Join us, please. The rain has stopped, and I do believe we may even see some sun.”
Quent kept his snort to himself at his aide’s unhappy expression at this invitation. “I promised your brother a ride, sorry. Take a groom with you. Penrose, behave yourself or I’ll rip your good arm from its socket.”
His aide gave a wry salute and waited while Quent told a groom to saddle up and follow the pair. Where the devil was Bell and why wasn’t she keeping an eye on her troublesome siblings?
He glanced toward the carriage spilling its contents on the front lawn and groaned. Of course! Bell would be right in the midst of the new arrivals, pumping Camilla and Lady Anne for information in the guise of aiding her society-shy hostess. If he had any secrets, they wouldn’t be secret for long. Wellington could use a good spy like the lady—and there was the Boyle in Bell. She might no longer ride into battle, but she possessed a formidable mind and instinct for infiltrating the enemy’s defenses, so she might bring him down from within. It was how she had survived and conquered a society that had originally scorned her.
Quent gazed longingly at the stable and wondered how it would look if he just rode back to London without farewells.
Eleven
The earl and countess of Danecroft were not inclined to waste their limited funds on stylish clothing. In their company, Bell had happily accepted the freedom of wearing her more comfortable summer gowns and little jewelry in the interest of staying cool. Her sisters didn’t own a variety of fine evening gowns as yet, so they fit their rural surroundings as well.
Camilla Abernathy, Countess of Renfrew-Fife, apparently had different notions, Bell noted sourly as Abby’s gu
est entered the great hall that evening. Even the duke’s daughter, Lady Anne, had not garbed herself in silk and jewels—although Lady Anne seldom drew notice to herself as her relation apparently did.
No longer burdened by mourning, the countess wore a splendid gold silk gown to complement her red-gold hair, and a topaz-and-diamond parure that glittered on her ears and wrists and accented her ample bosom. Large diamonds gleamed on her fingers.
Only a woman on the prowl glittered that much.
“I’m contemplating a new occupation as jewelry thief,” Fitz murmured irrepressibly in Bell’s ear. “One of those rings would buy me three Thoroughbreds.”
“Learn to tell gems from paste first,” Bell recommended. “If those are real, I’ll help you advance in your new criminal livelihood.”
Fitz chuckled, then strolled over to address their guests. Bell noticed that in the process, he hugged his intimidated wife reassuringly and treated her as if she were a princess more grand than the widowed countess. In his presence, Abby regained her confidence sufficiently to lead her bejeweled company around the hall, introducing the newcomer to anyone she had yet to meet.
They’d been using the smaller family parlor these past nights. Apparently for the benefit of their grandiose visitors, the servants had set up tea and drink trays in the towering medieval great hall with its massive wooden beams, wall-sized fireplace, and echoing spaces. Wyckersham was rather devoid of furniture since Abby had pragmatically used all the pieces that had rotted beyond redemption as firewood. A few good sofas and settles remained scattered about an enormous—much repaired—carpet. Conversation was limited to shouting across the emptiness or running down elusive prey to speak one-on-one.
Standing by the broad stone hearth, Bell sipped her sherry and watched Abby introduce the countess to Quent—or not introduce, as the case seemed to be. Over by the leaded windows, Quent bowed stiffly. Lady Camilla rested her gloved hand on his immaculate coat in a gesture far too familiar for propriety. She stood on her toes and whispered in Quent’s ear, leaving her hostess to flail awkwardly on her own.
“I do not think I like Lady Camilla,” Bell murmured to Tess, who was also observing the scene. “But I would like to know more of how she knows Lord Quentin.”
“He doesn’t seem happy to see her, if that’s any consolation,” Tess said. “I don’t remember the modiste showing us any gowns in quite that style. Is it the fashion?”
The widow’s bodice revealed that after bearing two children, she possessed a pair of well-developed udders, Bell noticed spitefully. She’d have to ask for the name of the lady’s corsetiere. Such ampleness did not hold itself up magically, especially when the silk bodice appeared ready to slip off.
“Is it the fashion to look like a courtesan?” Bell mused. Then remembering her sister needed insights into society, she continued, “No, decidedly not the style, especially for young girls. It’s a design that says I’m available and desperate.”
Tess giggled but replied sensibly. “Men like it, though. If a gown catches their attention, hasn’t it served its purpose?”
Bell thought this an excellent moment to begin teaching her sister what she’d learned over the years. “You’ll see more gowns like that once the Season is in play again. Just notice who is wearing them, and you’ll see what I mean. Men don’t mind the display, but they prefer to do the hunting. Once they’ve sampled what she has to offer, they’ll move on to other ladies more suitable for wives they can trust not to roam.”
“I’m thinking he’s already sampled what she has to offer,” Tess replied. “I don’t think human nature is any different between England and America.”
“You are quite possibly right. They’re of an age. The lady is older than I am. But that’s none of our concern. Let’s help poor Abby. She’s quite out of her depth when it comes to such rudeness.” Bell started across the room, picking up Lady Anne as she did so.
Quent was now wearing his frozen gargoyle expression. Abby glanced helplessly about and smiled in relief at Bell’s approach. Lady Camilla had hooked her hand possessively around Quent’s elbow and was whispering in his ear.
“Where did you find this personage?” Bell whispered to Lady Anne as they crossed the carpet.
“She more or less found us,” Anne said with what sounded like exasperation. “Father wants her brother to vote for some bill and one thing led to another, and here she is. She’s been a decent guest, but I suppose she doesn’t know our ways well.”
“I don’t think ignoring one’s hostess is well done anywhere,” Bell said dryly. She donned a beaming smile as they reached Abby. “I love this hall. Do you decorate it in winter with evergreen branches and a Yule log? You must have us down, if so. London is much too boringly sophisticated on the holidays.”
Without waiting for a reply, Bell turned to Quent. “Fitz and Lady Anne need your opinion about some horse or another.” She gestured dismissively in the direction of the earl, who was pouring himself a drink and speaking with Penrose and Syd.
Lady Anne took her cue and Quent’s free arm. He looked grim. Bell didn’t think he seemed relieved, but at least he wasn’t casting daggers at her.
“If you’ll excuse me, my ladies,” he bowed and walked away, forcing the newcomer to drop her possessive grip or be dragged with him.
“Well, that was rude,” Lady Camilla said brightly, her smile as flashing as her diamonds. And probably as false. Bell couldn’t quite tell. “Quent and I haven’t seen each other in ages. I don’t remember him being quite such a high stickler.”
“Oh, yes,” Bell purred, squeezing Abby’s arm so she unfroze and joined in the joke. “As a tradesman, he must be all that’s proper to hold his place in society. A Scots title is so meaningless in London, and a courtesy one at that . . . well, you know how it is.” She shrugged.
“Lord Quentin is all that’s proper,” Abby agreed faintly, not quite grasping the social pitfalls she straddled.
Bell loved her former protégée for her virtuous inability to think badly of others. Abby deserved rescuing from any cat fight that Bell instigated. “I think Syd is about to consume all the lovely delicacies your cook has prepared to entice us. Why don’t you let me entertain Lady Camilla while you wave your wand and perform the magic that keeps this enormous place running?”
“Cook has heard of the French custom of serving small bits prior to the meal and has been dying to try it. I wonder if I should tell him to fix fewer, so our guests don’t ruin their appetites. Dinner should almost be ready. Lady Camilla, a pleasure to meet you.” Abby bobbed a brief curtsy and hurried away.
“The country sort, I suppose,” Camilla said dismissively of the countess. Apparently assuming Bell’s position in society worthy of her attention, she drawled, “I am so very tired of dowdy and practical. Is the rest of society in Bath this time of year?”
“Bath is quite déclassé these days,” Bell said, donning her most imposing dowager marchioness expression. She waved her fan languidly and studied the magnificent hall with false ennui. “If Prinney is at Brighton, then there might be a few parties there. It’s less than a day’s drive, but I’m quite tired of society for now. Our small family gathering suits me.”
“Quent is part of your family?” the countess asked with suspicion.
“Of course,” Bell said in feigned surprise. “I am a Hoyt, after all,” she added with a dollop of hauteur. “He’s been no end of help to me since Edward died. Really, I am quite astonished that he has never mentioned you. You say you are an old family friend?”
The lady’s brilliant smile developed an edge. “Oh yes, we practically grew up together. Our family estates were close. So were Quent and I at one time. But his family was poor and rural, and my family preferred the city, and we drifted apart, I suppose. You know how it is.”
Yes, Bell feared she did. Poor Quent, if he had fallen victim to this avaricious witch. “He has quite a few extremely handsome brothers. It must have been hard to choose between them back th
en, before they were married.”
“That was long ago,” Lady Camilla said with a dismissive gesture. “Back then, they had no hopes of inheriting the title or estate, except for the brief period after the late marquess lost his first wife. Once he re-married, even that hope was dashed. I assume you’re the one everyone expected to produce the heir to the marquisate.”
Bell heard the shrew’s disdain of her childless state but didn’t react to it. Edward had taken his chances and lost. Her failure had been personally painful, but it was no longer of relevance. What mattered was the implication behind the shrew’s comment. Apparently, once Camilla had realized Quent’s family might no longer be in the line of succession, she had turned elsewhere.
Bell fanned herself and discreetly watched Quent over the top of the boned silk. He had his back to them, but she read the stiffness in his shoulders. “Since Quentin never had a chance of taking the title, then you are saying there was never really anything between the two of you.”
“I didn’t say that,” the lady purred. “He was the Hoyt closest to my age. As I said, we were very young.”
You were young, Bell thought spitefully. Quent would have been some years older—and ready to make a wife of any woman he took to bed, as Camilla seemed to imply. No wonder the man had never married. Once burned, twice shy.
“And now you’re not. Such a shame, really. He’ll need heirs for his fortune,” Bell said sweetly, fanning herself and lying through her teeth. “He is looking at younger women who can give him children. He seems quite taken with my sister.”
Tess had gravitated toward the group discussing horses. Quent chose that moment to glance down at her and say something with a smile. It almost made Bell’s teeth grit, had she not known that was just Quent’s brotherly interest. But the lady next to her swelled with possessive wrath.
“A chit like that won’t interest him. I believe that doddering old man has come to call us for dinner. Let’s join the others.” Lady Camilla sailed off, leaving Bell behind.
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