Formidable Lord Quentin by Patricia Rice Read Free Book Online Page A

Quent grabbed him by his shirt back
before he could cause harm, then dangled the imp above the floor. More whoops
and shouts ensued but Quent’s arm was longer than the wild Indian’s legs, so he
averted any damage.
    Shaking his head at having his peace marred so
precipitously, Quent marched the brat into the study and looked around. Spying the
seven-foot-tall mahogany breakfront, he lodged the lad on top of it where he
couldn’t leap down. Howling, the boy kicked his boot heels into the delicate
inlaid wood, but that was Bell’s problem.
    Quent turned and glared at the startled, bespectacled young
man sitting in Edward’s sumptuous desk chair—a chair Quent had coveted but not
dared to usurp. Worse yet, the intruder was reading one of the rare
Shakespearean folios from the locked cabinet, folios Quent had longed to peruse
but felt he hadn’t earned the right to ask for.
    “Which one are you?” Quent bellowed as the young man
awkwardly struggled to put the folio together, push back the overlarge chair,
and rise.
    “Uh, Albert Thomas,” the man said. “His lordship’s tutor.”
He glanced up at the boy swinging the wooden mallet as if it were a hatchet and
winced as his lordship whooped, undeterred by his lofty position.
    “I was told you were an experienced tutor,” Quent yelled. He never yelled. He’d developed the patience of seven
saints over the years of dealing with his large family. But he had an explosive
letter in his pocket and the burden of nearly half a dozen lives—that weren’t his family or responsibility—on his
shoulders, and he was eminently Unhappy.
    “I am experienced, sir,” Thomas said, removing his spectacles
and studying the rambunctious earl’s perch worriedly. “But my former student
Lord Heathmont was . . .”
    Quent threw up his hands. “A cripple, right. No savage war
whoops or running amuck for Heathmont. He made it into Oxford and is doing
well, is he?”
    “Yes, sir, milord, uh . . .”
    Quent snatched the mallet from the boy when it became
obvious the tutor wouldn’t. When the half-dressed earl protested, Quent pointed
the mallet at him. “I will leave you up there for the rest of the day if you
don’t quiet down immediately.”
    The six-year-old earl of Wexford pouted his bottom lip,
crossed his arms belligerently, and glared.
    Satisfied, Quent donned his civilized demeanor again and
held out his hand to the tutor. “Hoyt, friend of the family.” He wasn’t in the habit
of using the honorific lord that he’d
acquired with his father’s recent ascension to the marquisate.
    The tutor’s handshake was firm enough. “Lord Quentin, the
gentleman who referred me? It’s an honor, sir.”
    A man needed more than a handshake to deal with a ruffian. Quent
continued, “If you feel you are not capable of dealing with a healthy young
lad, then we’ll give you one week’s notice to find another position.”
    “Uh, yes, sir. Lady Isabell said . . .” He
swallowed hard at Quent’s glare. “Yes, sir. I’m certain I can learn to manage.
Perhaps I should take him to the park more often so he might work off some
energy.”
    “Yes, perhaps you might. Has he been given a valet yet? Or
are the nursemaids still dressing him?”
    “Umm, he just acquired a valet, sir. His wardrobe is not
quite complete, but I’m fairly certain . . .” He glanced at the
boy’s strange attire. “I’m fairly certain he owns breeches.”
    The study door slammed open and a disheveled Bell flew in.
    Quent had never seen the dignified marchioness less than
composed. She always dressed in immaculate, fashionable gowns unmarred by the
city’s filth and held herself with the calm authority and grace of her title.
She never appeared in public unless her shining chestnut tresses were
elaborately coiffed in the latest style.
    The furious termagant propping her fists on her hips and
glaring at the miscreant on the cabinet was not the gracious lady he knew.
    Silken curls had lost their