Formidable Lord Quentin Read Online Free PDF Page A

wished to play it. He nodded, slapped
his tall hat on his head, and proceeded out of the aging edifice that had
probably sat on this narrow medieval street since London last caught fire.
    One did not go up against the unyielding majesty of
centuries of English law without a great deal of ammunition. Bell had wealth on
her side. Quent had his own wealth, his father’s title, the earl’s will, and
his gender. The grimy stone buildings around him had been built on centuries of
law that favored men, titles, and wealth. She would lose.
    He would lose any chance of winning her bed if he fought
her.
    He damned well didn’t want to recommend she marry anyone
else.
    He’d sacrificed his youth for his family. How much more of his
hard-won freedom was he willing to sacrifice for Bell’s relations?
    He feared he was about to learn how a condemned man felt.
    ***
    The modiste had strewn the Aubusson carpet of Bell’s
newly-refurbished upper salon with bolts of silks, muslins, buttons, bows, and
sample books. The delicately curved blue-and-gold sofa Bell had so carefully
chosen last spring was buried under boxes of feathers, lace, and ribbons. The
girls had jigged around excitedly with the bounty until the once-serenely
elegant chamber now resembled an explosion of colorful plumage in an exotic
zoo.
    Bell allowed their delight to assuage her frayed nerves.
She’d heard nothing from Quent or her solicitor. She was about to come apart at
the seams with worry. Perhaps Quent really had gone hunting tutors instead of
interfering where he shouldn’t.
    Even if Quent had behaved himself, Summerby would still be
obligated to notify the marquess in Scotland. That gave her a little time to
prepare, she hoped.
    “Really, Bell?” Tess asked in wonder, stroking an
elaborately woven fine cotton. “This is what you call muslin? Ours is so much
coarser! And ladies wear fabric like this in public? It is almost . . .
unseemly.”
    Since Bell was sitting there in the lightest muslin in her
wardrobe in respect for the August heat, she spread the skirt over her palm to
display it. “One wears petticoats, naturally, but muslin is all the rage. And
Syd really cannot appear in anything else. If innocent young girls may wear
white muslin, then widows certainly can.”
    Tess glanced sadly at her dark skirts. “Shouldn’t we all be
wearing black? It’s only been six months since Father died.”
    Bell frowned. She had mourned the loss of her father a
decade ago, when he’d still been alive but not to her. “It is very hard to
think of him dead,” she admitted. “I have been picturing him happily riding
broader fields. Do you miss him terribly?”
    Both girls looked more uncomfortable than distressed. Tess
finally spoke with a sigh. “We were living in the boarding house that Jeremy’s
parents owned. We did not see Da much these past years since our step-mama
died.”
    There was the earl Belle knew. She might paint pretty
pictures of her handsome, laughing Irish father, but they were just that—the
wishful images of a child who missed her home and family. She was certain he’d
loved his family as best as he was able, but he’d spent more time with his
drinking cronies than with his children. That was what he’d been brought up to
do.
    And judging from their work-roughened hands, her sisters had
paid their own way—as Wexford women were taught to do to survive.
    “I must write and express my gratitude and sympathy to your
husband’s family,” Bell decided, already planning a substantial donation to
them and their church. “I suppose you might wear lavender or gray out of
respect, if you wish, but it’s not wholly necessary. And white is also
perfectly respectable mourning wear, plus absolutely necessary for an ingénue.”
    “If I must wear white, then I want the dotted one,” Syd said
with a defiant tone, holding up the fabric to her face and glaring at it. “With
lavender ribbons all over.”
    “Syd!” Tess scolded. “Ribbons are