Quent peeked warily from beneath the hand he was resting his head on. “Bell won’t get sentimental over the pair if I have them spit and roasted?”
“That’s between you and the lady. She may enjoy the thought of seeing you hanged.” Penrose shrugged, obviously enjoying his predicament. “I should think a good magistrate and your father’s name ought to pry the mare loose if the lady has some documentation of ownership, but spitting and roasting may be more satisfying.”
“Courtship is a damned obstacle to accomplishing any business. I should be in Lancashire, investigating that steam engine.” Quent straightened his legs and glared at his boot toes. “Remind me why I’m doing this.”
“Because you’re bored, making money isn’t a challenge any longer, and you want in the lady’s bed,” Penrose recited promptly.
London was full of fair ladies. They all came with strings attached. Bell was the only one worth being tied in knots for, Quent realized glumly, transferring his glare to the gold braid he’d removed from Kit’s depredations.
“I can’t be in two places at once,” Quent concluded. “My instinct says sail to Ireland and thrash the louts and come back with the mare, but my yacht isn’t built for hauling cattle.”
“A twelve or thirteen-year-old horse, or older, isn’t worth the effort,” Penrose agreed. “Stay here and go after the lady and let your minions take care of the spitting and roasting.”
Quent tented his fingers and rested his chin on them. “You’re looking at only the one small problem. The larger one is that Kit has a usurper sitting on his estate, one who apparently doesn’t have his best interests in mind. We need Nick and his ship, and quite possibly whips and chains, to restore authority.”
His aide’s eyes gleamed with interest. “Atherton is back in the country, terrorizing Brighton at the moment. He and his bride are preparing to leave for Amsterdam on some diplomatic mission, but he’s momentarily at loose ends. He’d enjoy threatening a few villains.”
“What better man to send to terrorize a villain than a pirate?” Quent asked in satisfaction. “The heavens smile upon us. Do we have enough information to send him off to retrieve the lady’s pet or do we need anything else?”
“Ask the lady about papers first. Nick is trying to be legal these days. He would prefer proper reclamation of the lady’s property to actual abduction. Otherwise, we have everything else we need. I can go with him, if that helps.”
Quent considered the offer. “Let me think on it. If I’m to pry Kit’s guardianship out of my father’s grasping fingers, I need leverage. This is more interesting than making money.” Oddly, what he felt was anticipation more than dismay at discovering Bell had hidden facets to explore.
“Go find your own chamber,” he told Penrose. “I’d advise looking on this floor and not the next where the tyrant dwells, unless you wish to wake up tied to your bed.”
Penrose rolled his eyes. “And you’re so besotted you haven’t considered tying the brat to his own bed? I might as well hand in my resignation now. Good luck with whatever plot you’re hatching.”
He gathered his traveling desk and valise and departed—no doubt to ascertain where the girls were housed. Quent had no objection to marrying off one of Bell’s sisters to a fine man. It saved the expense of a presentation. Bell might have other ideas—which was a great part of their problem.
Bell would not be the sort of wife who obediently followed his wishes. She’d defied him since the day they’d met. He had to start the foundation of dealing with what could become a life-long battle.
***
Bell sent her maid off for a well-deserved rest, then sat at her vanity and brushed her hair, expectantly watching the door reflected in her mirror.
She wasn’t disappointed. The latch turned, then rattled. Stupid man, thinking she would leave it unlocked. She’d made certain to claim a room with no other entrance, not even a maid’s antechamber. And she had the key.
He scratched discreetly on the panel. She ignored him and braided her hair.
She trusted that Quent wouldn’t shout at her with the girls sleeping just down the corridor. Summerby and Penrose were there, as well, since she’d had the servants find linens for their chambers.
She rolled her eyes at her reflection when he rattled something metal in the ancient lock and the tumblers fell. The same key unlocked all the doors, she assumed. If so, there would be more than one key. Or he’d picked the lock.
“Not invited, Mr. Hoyt,” she admonished when he entered and closed the door behind him.
He leaned against the heavy panel, crossed his dauntingly muscled arms over his shirt, and watched her with admiration. A heavy hank of black hair fell messily over his brow. “If I waited for you to invite me, I’d die an old and lonely man. Or did you wish me to consider Lady Grace for my bed?” He named another of the available spinsters on his list.
He reminded Bell of that huge black Friesian he rode, all muscle and strength and sturdiness. Fortunately, the animal had been gelded—because stallions were damned dangerous.
She rose from the vanity and sauntered toward him, watching his gaze drift from her face downward. She wore only a diaphanous gown—because she was a self-destructive lackwit. “Lady Grace would spend your money on her charities and you would have to share her with Lady Charlotte.”
She’d caught him by surprise with that, she could tell. He really did not pay proper heed to society gossip. Bell caressed his shirt, just barely skimming the heated hardness beneath. That apparently surprised him even more.
He caught his breath, then reached for her. “I suppose that would keep her occupied and out of my hair,” he acknowledged.
She stepped back. “If uninvolvement is what you wish, then I’m not what you want. My life grows ever more complicated. Go home, Quent.”
He crossed his arms again. “I don’t wish to be involved with Lady Grace. You, on the other hand, require firsthand engagement.”
She slid her palm approvingly beneath the open neck of his linen. “Yes, I think I would like that.” She grasped his hands, uncrossed his arms, and placed his fingers on her breasts. “Definitely, hand engaged.”
To Edward’s dismay, she had never been shy or even reserved. Quent, however, didn’t seem to have any objections to her forwardness. Those long fingers she’d admired earlier cupped and caressed and aroused most deliciously.
“Not just once a week,” he murmured, referring to the notorious settlement letter. He leaned over to kiss her cheek. “That is not negotiable.”
His big body drew her as lodestone drew iron, which was why she’d added that clause, hoping to keep some distance between them. She tried to push away, but his lips were tracing swirls of desire down her throat.
“We are not foolish adolescents. We can restrain ourselves,” she protested. “I don’t wish to pretend we have a love match. This is merely lust.”
“Not negotiable,” he repeated, before kissing her to prevent further dispute.
She forgot the argument when he crushed her in those big arms and tantalized her with caresses. She’d never known a man could be so gentle, and so arousing. Her pulse raced. She stood on her toes and returned his kisses, plying them along his freshly-shaven throat, nibbling at his ear, until he leaned against the door for support.
She loved that she could have that effect on this arrogant man. “Separate residences then,” she countered wickedly, shoving his shirt off one shoulder and tweaking his nipples.
“Right. You can have my sisters, your sisters, and Kit. I’ll keep Penrose.” He lifted her from the floor and carried her to the bed. “You get the screaming babes.”
“Tess will marry and take Beebee with her,” she said with regret, refusing to go further than the edge of the bed. She wrapped her legs around his hips and tugged his long shirt from his breeches.
“You’re not too old to have your own. You could already be breeding.” He unfastened the placket of his trousers. “One of the few advantages
of marriage is that I needn’t take care any longer.”
She snorted rudely and rubbed the bulge behind his buttons. “You plow an infertile field. I do not marry for babes. If an heir is your desire, try the Widow Willington. She has a tribe at the age of twenty-five.”
“My family is tribe enough. One old man is not the test of your fertility.” He slid her gown up to her waist and rubbed her where she ached. “But I won’t object to testing it regularly.”
Just the talk of planting a child where there had never been one made her contrary body water. She didn’t want to love again, not horses, not children, and certainly not a man. But one night of lovemaking hadn’t been enough. She wanted what Quent had to offer again. With his buttons undone, he sprang free and eager, and she drew a sharp breath at the powerful sight of his aroused masculinity.
She tightened her legs around his hips and drew him closer, tired of the silly argument.
Quent disobediently dropped to his knees and held her thighs apart with his big hands. And then he lapped her with his tongue.
Bell shrieked. She grabbed his hair and tried to tug him away. He refused. And then she was utterly lost to a tidal wave of pleasure. She fell back against the mattress, weeping and rocking with the tremors he induced with just his tongue.
When she was limp and lost and confused, he stood, parted her thighs further, and rammed his reproductive organ deep inside her.
“Every night,” he murmured, leaning over to kiss her.
Bell was in no condition to argue. In moments, he had her quaking again, milking him with her muscles, causing him to rear like a stallion and roar as he poured his seed into her womb.
Perhaps a marriage bed might be worth considering with a man like Quent in it.
***
Thunder still rolled in the distance when dawn arrived. Quent didn’t let Bell escape his arms until he’d had his way one more time. To his utter amazement and delight, she was everything he’d ever dreamed of and more—a wild mare in heat, a lithe acrobat, a daring lover. The proud dowager marchioness she presented to the world disappeared in bed, thank all that was holy.
“I hadn’t dared imagine your lovemaking could be this good,” he admitted when he lay limp and momentarily sated in the gray light. “I feared you might be frigid and in need of lessons.”
She relaxed against his shoulder, drawing the sheet over them in the early morning coolness. “I know how to be frigid. Don’t test me.”
“You know how to be angry. That isn’t the same. Let’s practice dealing with anger. I’m sending Nick to Ireland to bring back your mare. Do you have any legal papers on it so he can pretend he’s not a pirate?”
She yanked his chest hair and sat up, taking the sheet with her. “I saw them in my father’s box. I did wonder why they were there but hadn’t thought . . .” She swung her legs from the bed. “But you cannot simply take over my life. It’s my mare, my uncle, my problem.”
He hid his grin at her predictable response. “You can cede the mare to me in the marriage settlements. Unfortunately, you cannot cede your uncle.”
Quent sat up, rubbed his stubbly jaw, and grimaced at the lack of pitcher filled with warm water. “I’ll have to send for my carriage and valet if you mean to stay here. We can send Summerby for the papers at the same time.”
Bell stirred the banked coals and added more fuel to raise the flames. Most of the fireplaces here had iron arms to hang kettles over. She swung the iron over the coals to heat the water the maids had carried up last night. “You are growing soft, Hoyt, if you cannot heat your own water.”
Since she was delectably naked, his brain didn’t register a word she’d said. Bell’s waist was slender, but her hips were made for birthing babes and her bosom was ripe for feeding them. He’d never considered adding to his already ample family, but he suddenly had a possessive desire to know he’d planted his seed.
His father could take care of his own damned family. Quent wanted to start his own, to watch Bell swell with his child.
He was growing soft in the head, but not in other parts south. There would be children. Instead of rearing back in panic, he decided that was one more negotiating point in his favor.
Striding across the room to where Bell bent over the fire, he covered her breasts with his palms, and thrust his arousal between her legs from behind. Just to remind her that he wasn’t a gelding, he nipped her shoulder as he lifted her onto him.
She cried out, writhed, and then gave him the ride of his life while the rain unleashed torrents outside.
“I’ll send to have the banns read on Sunday,” he said afterward, carrying her to the bed.
“Send all you like,” she whispered sleepily, curling into the pillow. “I still won’t let you have my money.”
But this time, she didn’t deny him her bed.
Eighteen
The wind and rain lashed and howled at the eaves, but Bell felt only a golden afterglow after Quent returned to his own chambers to dress. Still pleasantly sore from their vigorous lovemaking, Bell washed and strolled downstairs.
In the breakfast room, she discovered the entire household waiting for her— including the nursery set, the tutor, and Aunt Griselda, who never rose before noon.
“Roof’s leaking. We couldn’t leave anyone upstairs,” Tess said in explanation.
“No, naturally not,” Bell said faintly, attempting to adjust to this new routine. Even growing up, she’d grabbed food from the kitchen and ran. Dining en famille had never been part of her daily life.
She could be a mother. Could she put herself through that torment of hope again?
Kit was making sailboats of his toast in his hot chocolate. Beebee had been seated on a short foot stool on top of a broad chair and tied with a towel to the chair back to keep her from toppling. Spoons were beyond the infant’s capability, apparently. She tossed bits of toast and eggs on the table, the floor, her lap . . .
Bell breathed deeply, and her frozen insides melted into warm and happy. She couldn’t wait until orderly, proper Quent came down to see his reaction to chaos, family style. She helped herself to a cup of tea, removed a piece of toast from Beebee’s fine golden curls, and returned a fork to Kit’s hand when he attempted to imitate the toddler and use his fingers for the eggs.
“I apologize for the accommodations,” she told Mr. Thomas, the tutor, and Aunt Griselda, who had insisted that as a mere companion, she ought to be housed on the third floor. “I’ll have the staff find better chambers on the second floor until repairs are made. Perhaps the library might suit for a schoolroom. The beauty of starting a new household is that we can adapt everything to our needs and not adhere to tradition.”
Bell had never thought such anarchy before, but she loved the notion now. Edward would have had a conniption fit if she’d changed one single piece of furniture. Now, she could gut the interior if she wished—Belden wouldn’t know the difference, or care. She helped herself to tea and gazed out the tall windows, smiling even more broadly.
The rain had settled into a fine mist, leaving the grass and trees green and glistening like the hills of home. She was glad of the excuse to leave London and play house, but she wasn’t in the habit of ignoring greater problems. Bell sipped her tea and pondered her next step.
She had no intention of being relegated to the position of ornament again. She would not let Quent take over her family’s affairs.
As if summoned by her thought, he entered, dressed for travel in leather breeches and boots, with his dark stubble freshly shaved. Penrose was with him, but he was wearing country tweed and shoes. Interesting. Bell wondered what they’d planned without her. Not that she was any less guilty of planning without them.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” she said smoothly, slipping into her seat at the head of the table. “What is appropriate yacht attire?” She was already wearing her travel gown.
Quent quirked an eyebrow and filled a plate from the buffet. “It’s too muddy for the horses, but a good
day for a sail. I thought I’d go into town and finish up some business.”
“Similar minds and all that,” Bell said airily. “I seem to have business as well. You won’t mind if I travel with you, will you?”
He narrowed his eyes and set a plate of food down in front of her, as if this were a midnight buffet, and he was her courteous escort. “It’s best if you stay here, out of sight, with the children.”
Bell simply nodded thanks for the plate. She had no intention of eating if she was to go sailing.
“You promised to take us sailing,” Syd reminded him. “I want to go, too.”
Before Quent could object, Tess spoke up. “I think Beebee is coming down with a cold. I’d best stay here with her. But if you’re going into town, perhaps someone could pick up the pelisses we ordered.”
Bell smiled evilly at Quent over her teacup. He looked nonplussed by the various family demands. He was much too accustomed to his bachelor household, and her family wasn’t as easily dismissed as his distant one.
“The water is likely to be a little too choppy for lessons,” he said, filling his own plate and taking a seat at Bell’s right hand—at the opposite end of the table from Kit. “I’ll be traveling swiftly, in any case. We’ll save the lesson for a sunny day.”
Before Syd could offer another objection, Bell intervened. “Mr. Summerby might appreciate sailing with you. We can return his mount later.”
“Actually, he rode mine,” Penrose said, taking a seat at the center of the table, near Syd and Tess. “I rode Quent’s gelding. I think Summerby would far prefer the yacht.”
“Excellent. That’s settled.” Bell raised her teacup, and with a firm stare, dared Quent to object. “We can conduct our business on the journey. I think the girls have sufficient chaperonage and protection here. The only matter remaining is finding someone to repair the roof while we’re gone.”
“I can have that done,” Penrose said without hesitation. “I acted as my family’s steward until they sold the estate. I have a pretty good notion of costs.”
Quent swallowed his coffee black, sat back, and frowned. “I’m leaving you here to act in my place, Penrose. You’re to keep blackguards away from the family.”
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