kissed her cheek and slipped out.
A tear slid down that same cheek. She had spent ten years
denying her impetuous nature. Could she spend ten more years denying
herself—and all the years left after that?
Nine
Bell scarcely slept all night after the encounter with
Quent. She tossed and turned and . . . burned .
By morning, she was even more irritable than she had been
the night before, but she donned her best smile for the sake of the company and
descended the stairs wearing a riding habit, even if she had no intention of
riding.
She knew the tailored green spencer with the black braiding
flattered her complexion, but her intent was to stay cool in the sleeveless
chemisette beneath while keeping her more delicate muslins from being ruined in
the dust.
It was also her best travel costume. If she must, she could
order her carriage and be gone by afternoon.
Her sisters clattered down in their new boots, delightedly
swinging their long trains and flashing their ankles as they did so. Of course,
their ankles were encased in boots, but Acton Penrose was an appreciative
audience. Bell thought it lovely that serious Tess had been relieved from her
burdens enough to tease him a little.
Bell looked for Quent, but he wasn’t there to escort them
into breakfast. Or to escort them to the stable afterward. She refused to
inquire after him. She didn’t have to. Her sisters did.
“He’s taken his gelding out for a gallop, said the animal
needs a holiday, although I think it’s Quent who needs to let off steam,”
Penrose said, readily offering both arms to escort the girls to the stable,
leaving Bell to rein in Kit. “Fitz has a neighbor with a Thoroughbred, so he’s
probably visiting there.”
Keeping an eye on the next earl of Wexford so he didn’t
break his little neck kept Bell well occupied, so she needn’t become too
involved with Fitz’s beautiful animals. She trusted Fitz to choose suitable
mares for the girls. She concentrated on the ponies for Kit.
“Wanta ride that one!” he cried excitedly as his sisters’
mares were led out. “Want that one!” he shouted even louder when Quent rode in
on his enormous Friesian.
“When you are as large as Lord Quentin, you may have that
one,” Bell told him. “But first, you must learn to handle one your size.” She
pointed out a dappled gray contentedly munching hay in his stall. A groom ran
to fetch a saddle.
Back outside, Kit tried to climb the fence. She held the
back of his coat so he couldn’t go over. She didn’t remember her sisters being
so rambunctious at this age. Of course, they had been taught to mind their
manners. Kit obviously hadn’t. The nanny stepmother must have died when he was
young. Bell mourned a woman she didn’t even know.
“Oh, Lord Quentin, come help us decide!” she heard Tess coo.
Looking tousled and manly and good enough for breakfast, Quent had emerged from
the stable and lingered between the two enclosures that separated the pony from
the larger mounts.
Bell gritted her teeth but didn’t turn around to watch. She
didn’t want to lose her sisters to Quent’s large family, but if it happened, her
sisters needed to be familiar with at least some of the Hoyts. Quent was a safe
start.
Edward had taught her that his pragmatism was far more
effective than her irrational outbursts. She would not yell at her sisters for
being themselves.
Kit had unbuttoned his jacket while her mind wandered.
Before she could react, he slid out of it, leaving Bell clutching empty wool as
he leaped over the top of the fence.
Never let it be said that Boyles were dumb—just insanely
reckless. Kit ran straight toward the unsaddled ponies.
Paralyzed, Bell didn’t know which way to turn. She wasn’t
afraid of harmless ponies, but she hadn’t been near a horse or a child in a
decade. Her mind was a blur of panic.
The groom had gone inside to saddle the pony she’d chosen
for Kit. She couldn’t climb a fence in her damned long skirts. The
A tear slid down that same cheek. She had spent ten years
denying her impetuous nature. Could she spend ten more years denying
herself—and all the years left after that?
Nine
Bell scarcely slept all night after the encounter with
Quent. She tossed and turned and . . . burned .
By morning, she was even more irritable than she had been
the night before, but she donned her best smile for the sake of the company and
descended the stairs wearing a riding habit, even if she had no intention of
riding.
She knew the tailored green spencer with the black braiding
flattered her complexion, but her intent was to stay cool in the sleeveless
chemisette beneath while keeping her more delicate muslins from being ruined in
the dust.
It was also her best travel costume. If she must, she could
order her carriage and be gone by afternoon.
Her sisters clattered down in their new boots, delightedly
swinging their long trains and flashing their ankles as they did so. Of course,
their ankles were encased in boots, but Acton Penrose was an appreciative
audience. Bell thought it lovely that serious Tess had been relieved from her
burdens enough to tease him a little.
Bell looked for Quent, but he wasn’t there to escort them
into breakfast. Or to escort them to the stable afterward. She refused to
inquire after him. She didn’t have to. Her sisters did.
“He’s taken his gelding out for a gallop, said the animal
needs a holiday, although I think it’s Quent who needs to let off steam,”
Penrose said, readily offering both arms to escort the girls to the stable,
leaving Bell to rein in Kit. “Fitz has a neighbor with a Thoroughbred, so he’s
probably visiting there.”
Keeping an eye on the next earl of Wexford so he didn’t
break his little neck kept Bell well occupied, so she needn’t become too
involved with Fitz’s beautiful animals. She trusted Fitz to choose suitable
mares for the girls. She concentrated on the ponies for Kit.
“Wanta ride that one!” he cried excitedly as his sisters’
mares were led out. “Want that one!” he shouted even louder when Quent rode in
on his enormous Friesian.
“When you are as large as Lord Quentin, you may have that
one,” Bell told him. “But first, you must learn to handle one your size.” She
pointed out a dappled gray contentedly munching hay in his stall. A groom ran
to fetch a saddle.
Back outside, Kit tried to climb the fence. She held the
back of his coat so he couldn’t go over. She didn’t remember her sisters being
so rambunctious at this age. Of course, they had been taught to mind their
manners. Kit obviously hadn’t. The nanny stepmother must have died when he was
young. Bell mourned a woman she didn’t even know.
“Oh, Lord Quentin, come help us decide!” she heard Tess coo.
Looking tousled and manly and good enough for breakfast, Quent had emerged from
the stable and lingered between the two enclosures that separated the pony from
the larger mounts.
Bell gritted her teeth but didn’t turn around to watch. She
didn’t want to lose her sisters to Quent’s large family, but if it happened, her
sisters needed to be familiar with at least some of the Hoyts. Quent was a safe
start.
Edward had taught her that his pragmatism was far more
effective than her irrational outbursts. She would not yell at her sisters for
being themselves.
Kit had unbuttoned his jacket while her mind wandered.
Before she could react, he slid out of it, leaving Bell clutching empty wool as
he leaped over the top of the fence.
Never let it be said that Boyles were dumb—just insanely
reckless. Kit ran straight toward the unsaddled ponies.
Paralyzed, Bell didn’t know which way to turn. She wasn’t
afraid of harmless ponies, but she hadn’t been near a horse or a child in a
decade. Her mind was a blur of panic.
The groom had gone inside to saddle the pony she’d chosen
for Kit. She couldn’t climb a fence in her damned long skirts. The
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