One Week Until Belle’s Birthday
Belle’s shoulders sagged wearily as the crush of bodies, noise, and heat of her birthday-turned-betrothal party suffocated her. Tonight should have been the happiest night of her life.
Instead, she’d stumbled into hell.
With only one week left until her birthday, there had so far been no salvation for her. The tension inside her coiled tighter with each tick of the clock that brought her closer to midnight and to the moment when she would have to make her announcement. Mr. Bartleby hadn’t found another legal loophole, and there had been no word from the Duke of Trent. Time had run out. Tonight, she would have to announce the name of the man she intended to marry. The man who would save Glenarvon for her.
And that man wasn’t Quinn.
Mrs. Lambert from the village mercantile squeezed her hand. “Annabelle! Happy birthday, my dear.”
Belle cringed inwardly as she returned the well-wishes with a smile she certainly didn’t feel. She wanted to scream! Instead, she kept her smile glued in place, graciously accepted the congratulations of everyone who approached her, and pretended that her heart wasn’t breaking. Both over her impending announcement of who she’d chosen to marry and over Quinton.
She’d spent the past week avoiding being alone with him in order to keep him—and herself—under control. There could be no more stolen kisses or deliciously wanton swims at dawn, because she didn’t dare let herself be tempted by more.
But tonight, Quinton was nowhere to be seen. Not having him at her side to support her through what lay ahead curled a bereft loneliness through her, even in the middle of the crush.
“Congratulations, Miss Greene!” Mr. Bartleby bowed his head to her deferentially, a pleased grin on his face. “My wife and I are so very happy for both you and Sir Harold.”
Her smile faded as dread knotted her belly. Her gaze darted frantically around the room. Where was Quinn?
Instead of finding him, her eyes landed on Robert, who gave her a reassuring smile as she spotted him in the crowd. He wove his way through the room to her and bowed with all the polish of a London gentleman, his shining blue eyes so reminding her of Quinn’s that her heart stuttered.
“Happy birthday,” he offered for the benefit of anyone around them who might have been listening. Then lowered his voice, “Or should I say congratulations on acquiring Glenarvon? You’ll make a wonderful landowner and a good patron for the village.”
Her throat tightened with gratefulness, and she managed to force out a whispered, “Thank you.” It was her first sincere expression of gratitude all night.
Mindful of the crowd around them, he lowered his mouth to her ear. “And my deepest apologies for any problems Quinn and I might have caused you, both this past fortnight and six years ago. We were only trying to protect you,” he explained apologetically as he straightened away from her. “Then and now.”
“I know.” Her insides warmed at his sincerity.
He winked mischievously. “But sometimes we Carlisles can be idiots.”
She laughed. Oh, such grand idiots!
But the Carlisle brothers had surprised her by the men they’d become. Age and their father’s death had sobered them from their outrageously wild ways, even though they still possessed a love for life and took more risks than they should have. Richard Carlisle had been so proud of both of them, giving his children the love and support that a good father should. Sadness crept over her to think that Robert and Quinton were now driven by the urge to prove themselves to their father’s ghost, when Richard Carlisle had always loved them with all of his heart and only wanted the best for them.
“Forgive me?” He took her hand and raised it to his lips.
She smiled through the tears that threatened at her lashes. “Of course.”
He grinned at her, one that looked for all the world like one of Quinton’s…but somehow wasn’t quite the same. Oh, it was charming and brilliant, certainly. But it lacked the earnestness and warmth she’d always found in Quinn’s smiles. A genuine love for life and unabashed exuberance.
Robert’s smile only made her ache more for Quinn.
She glanced nervously past his shoulder, feeling like a goose for once again checking…“Is Quinton with you?”
“I don’t know where he is.” Then he added, his voice tinged with sadness, “Most likely halfway to Liverpool.”
His words jarred into her. A stark reminder that in one week—perhaps even after tonight’s announcement—Quinton would be on his way to America. And away from her. Forever.
Sobering at the sight of her troubled expression that Belle was unable to hide, Robert explained quietly, “He needs a sense of worth in his life, one separate from the family.”
Her chest tightened at that very succinct, dead-on description of his brother. That was exactly the person Quinton had revealed himself to be—a man who wouldn’t settle for anything less than proving his full value to the world.
“He hasn’t had much chance to do that,” Robert added, “and it grates at him. He thinks he’ll be able to succeed in South Carolina.”
Belle was certain of it. Since his arrival, he’d helped greatly with the estate, more so than she’d thought possible given the devil-may-care attitude of his younger days. He’d demonstrated a natural talent for estate management, and his charming personality was perfect for interacting with the tenants and workers. He’d be a grand success.
But she wouldn’t be there with him to see it.
She forced a smile for Robert, hoping to hide the sorrow gnawing at her chest. “What do you think of his plans?”
“I think he’s better off staying right here,” he said seriously.
She nodded, sighing out the truth, “He belongs in England. He’ll miss his family too much.” A faint smile touched her lips. “As well as London and all the trouble he gets into there.”
A knowing gleam flickered in Robert’s eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”
He moved away to let the next person approach to congratulate her, and Belle stared after him, bewildered.
Not what he’d meant? If not England, then…
“Oh,” she whispered, the sudden realization dawning on her. Robert’s subtle comment sent a quiet warmth twisting through her, a tiny tendril of hope—
No.
Taking a deep breath, she quashed whatever reckless optimism had just flamed inside her. No good would come of dreaming of what could never be, and she could never admit the truth aloud. That she wanted nothing more than to keep him right there at Glenarvon. With her.
As if fate had heard her thoughts, the crowd parted. Only for a fleeting moment, but long enough to catch a flash of golden blond beneath the blaze of the chandeliers on the far side of the room—
Quinton.
Dressed impeccably, he wore a superfine black jacket and blue brocade waistcoat that further accentuated the rich gold color of his hair and the wide breadth of his shoulders. Muscular thighs stretched beneath white trousers that matched the snow-white of his cravat that boldly contrasted the midnight-blue of his eyes. He held a glass of whisky in one hand as he listened to the group around him, with his other hand tucked into the small of his back and his feet wide. Quiet confidence exuded from him—the perfect stance of a gentleman who knew exactly who he was and what he wanted.
Her body reflexively tightened at the sight of him. Sweet heavens…so handsomely formal in attire, so comfortably casual in stance. Of course, he stood with a group of women, but truly, where else would Quinn be but surrounded by ladies, their attentions riveted to him? Just as hers was. He smiled that beaming grin of his and made them all feel the full effect of his charm, as if each of them were the most beautiful woman in the room.
The scoundrel she’d known had grown into so much more, and she no longer saw him as an impish rogue but as the capable man he’d become. As the true partner and friend with whom she could share her life.
Somehow, when she wasn’t looking, Quinton had found his way into her heart. Now, when she closed her eyes at night and dreamed of a husband, it was his charming smile she saw. The quiet evenings before the fire she longed to have were with him. The children she imagined had his same grin and sparkling blue eyes, his same golden-blond hair. And it was Quinn she fantasized about welcoming into her bed, the only man she ever wanted to give herself to.
In mid-laugh, Quinn glanced up and caught her watching from across the room. An electric jolt swept over her as his eyes darkened on her, a predatory look pulsing with so much possessiveness and desire that she trembled. He held her captive beneath his gaze for a mere half dozen heartbeats, but in that moment, he set her heart somersaulting. It was as if a silken ribbon joined them, one that tangled through her and made her a part of him, and him a part of her. She couldn’t remember what it was like not to have that connection to his strength and warmth. As she drew in a deep, shaking breath and felt the rush of emotion slice through her, she knew then, without a doubt…
She loved him.
Then the crowd closed back in, and he was gone.
* * *
Quinn stepped out onto the terrace and drew in a deep breath of the cool night air to steady himself. Good God. Even standing across the ballroom from Annabelle tonight had been too close for comfort.
Rubbing his hand at the knot of tension now permanently lodged at the back of his neck, he moved into the dark shadows near the balustrade and turned back toward the house. Keeping his distance, he could see her through the French doors, watching her as she smiled at the guests. Over the past week, it had become harder and harder to keep himself from her. And tonight was torture. Seeing how beautiful she looked in her soft satin and lace as she outshined even the flickering candles in the chandeliers, knowing how much she needed him and how much more with each minute that brought them closer to midnight, remembering how sweet her kisses and how soft her touch—
Christ. He blew out a frustrated breath. If he wasn’t careful and somehow ended up alone with her tonight, he wasn’t certain he could stop himself from kissing her again. Or touching her. And if he did that, he wasn’t certain he could stop himself from doing everything he could to save her. Including offering marriage.
Robert joined him at the balustrade. He followed Quinn’s gaze through the French doors and commented quietly to keep from being overheard, “The Bluebell’s quite a beauty.”
More than beautiful. Tonight, she simply glowed. “Yes, she is.”
“And you’re a damned fool.”
Quinn’s eyes narrowed, his hands tightening into fists. He hadn’t expected to pummel his brother this evening, but he was just frustrated enough to do exactly that. And enjoy it immensely. “Leave this alone.”
Robert slid him a sideways glance. “Have you left Belle alone?” When Quinn didn’t answer, he added, “Didn’t think so.”
Quinn turned on him. “It doesn’t concern you.”
“You’re my brother, and I like Belle. So of course it concerns me.” He withdrew a cheroot from his jacket’s inside breast pocket and bit off the tip, then spat it away. His shoulders dropped with concerned sympathy. “What are you still doing here, Quinton?” He lit the cigar on a nearby lamp. “You should have been on a ship to America three weeks ago.”
Damnably good question, which only tightened the knot at his nape. “I was trying to find a way to help Annabelle.”
Robert puffed at the cheroot, the tip glowing red in the shadows. “Do you have feelings for her?”
“Of course.” He forced a casual tone into his voice to hide his confusion over what feelings, exactly, he did hold for her. Because they were growing more mystifying with each day he spent in her company, until he now didn’t want to think about departing for America and leaving her behind. “She’s an old friend.”
“Well, then, you’re not just a damned fool.” Robert fixed him with a hard look as he clamped the cigar between his teeth. “You’re also a damnably bad liar.”
Now that was overstepping. “Robert, I’m warning you—”
“You two are a lot of things, but you’re not friends.” Robert’s gaze turned somber. “At least not anymore. Are you, Quinn?”
His shoulders sagged under the weight of his brother’s concern and his own confusion about Belle. “No,” he admitted quietly, “we’re not.”
“Are you going to offer for her tonight, then?”
Through the doors, he saw Belle laugh at something one of the guests said. But even from this far away, he could see that her laughter was forced, and his chest tightened for the unseen distress she surely suffered tonight. “A scoundrel like me? I’m not the domesticating type.”
“Are you certain about that?” Robert leaned back against the stone railing and thoughtfully studied the glowing end of his cigar. “She’s an heiress in want of a husband, and you’re a man in want of an estate. Seems like a perfect match to me.”
“I’m a man whose future lies in America,” he corrected. But that declaration sounded thin, even to his own ears. The same niggling unease that had struck him recently whenever he thought of resettling in America came back tonight with full force.
Robert flicked a bit of ash from the end of his cheroot and gestured at the house and gardens around them. “Why not remain right here?”
“I can’t stay in England, you know that.” Here he would be seen first as the duke’s brother, second as a Carlisle, and never as the man he wanted to be—someone who succeeded on his own merits. In England, he knew people would always suspect that his success came from his brother’s connections or his family’s wealth, rather than his own hard work and intellect.
Although he had to admit to himself that traveling to America was now starting to feel more like an obligation and less like his dream.
“You’re only ten miles from Scotland,” Robert argued, “as far away from London as you can get and still be in England. Any further away, and you’d be wearing a kilt. Sebastian’s influence is growing, but even Trent’s shadow can’t follow you all the way up here.”
He grudgingly admitted, “Perhaps.”
In the few weeks he’d been in the borderlands, he’d come to realize that a different breed of men lived here. Tough and hardworking ones like Angus Burns who had been weathered by the northern winters into understanding the hard truth—that a man’s worth came from his abilities, not his given lot in life. If anyplace in England provided an opportunity to prove himself, it was here.
Yet he’d promised his father America. “But I’ve got land waiting for me there.”
Robert said around the cigar as he clamped it between his teeth, “You’ve got land waiting right here.”
He shook his head. “I want a place where I can make a difference, under my own work and management.”
“You can manage this place yourself and put into motion all those plans Belle has for the village and improving the estate. And you fit in well here. You won’t be able to say the same about America.” He gestured with his cheroot, indicating the house and the estate, even the unseen mountains in the distance. “Look around you, Quinton. Everything you want is right here.” He added, “And a beautiful woman to share it with.”
“Not everything.” The estate would always be Belle’s, not his. No matter what the law said about matrimonial property, this place would always belong to her, its heart and soul belonging to her alone. True, he wanted to be like his father, a man who would never lord rights and privileges over his wife and home. But Quinn also knew it would grate to know that he’d come into marriage as an unequal partner.
As for Annabelle…a man didn’t give himself to a woman like her and walk away with his heart intact.
He turned away from the French doors. “Asa Jeffers needs me. I promised Father I would take care of him and his wife.” He wouldn’t walk away from that, even if the thought of leaving Belle grew harder to accept with each new day. “America was the path Father wanted for me.”
“Yes. Because he knew how much it chafed at you to be the third son. Because he knew you’d need a way to prove yourself, away from the family’s influence and the title. Because he knew that life in the military or the church would never satisfy you, that you wanted to work for a living.” Robert put his hand on Quinton’s shoulder, adding quietly, “Because he wanted you to be happy.”
Guilt once more gnawed at Quinn’s gut. Around them, the din of the party hummed low, and the soft night air gave an appreciated respite from the stifling heat and too-sweet odor of beeswax candles wafting through the overcrowded ballroom. All the guests waited expectantly for Belle to make her announcement and end their suspense.
All except him.
“Father thought America would give you that chance at happiness, so he arranged it,” Robert said soberly. “But Jeffers doesn’t need you. He doesn’t have any sons, but he has successful sons-in-law who could take over the farm, or who would welcome him and his wife into their homes if they didn’t want to work the land. He doesn’t need you. You need him. That’s why Father wanted you to go to Charleston. He understood that part of your nature better than you did.”
Struck by the concern in Robert’s voice, Quinn slowly raised his eyes and met his gaze.
“You need to be needed, Quinton,” Robert continued quietly. “Always have. All the schemes we planned out as boys, all the trouble we got into…you always had to be at the center of it. Every contest and bet you carried out was because someone else needed you to do them—whether to win money or just to have a good time. Father knew that about you. He wanted you to have the chance to prove yourself on your own merits, but he also knew that you’d only be happy starting a new life if you had someone who depended upon you, who needed your help.”
His brother fell silent for a moment to study the glowing tip of his cigar, the same way Father always did when they smoked cigars in the dining room after the ladies had gone through. Quinton’s chest panged hollowly at the memory.
“That’s why you excelled at overseeing the properties when you took over as estate agent when Sebastian inherited,” Robert continued quietly. “Because you were needed there. No one else could have done it, and you thrived at it. That’s also why you were the one who spent so much time caring for Mother after Father died, because she needed you.”
Quinn looked away, his eyes stinging. He gritted his teeth against the pain he still carried for his mother’s grief. Always would.
“And you’re still here, in some godforsaken sheep pasture in the borderlands, because Belle needs you.”
With a skipping beat of his heart, Quinn snapped his gaze up to his brother’s. Could Robert be correct?
“You don’t have to go to America now. You’ve got everything you need right here to make yourself happy. You just have to accept it.” He leveled a sympathetic look at Quinn. “Father wanted you to be happy, no matter where you ended up.” He paused. “Does Belle make you happy?”
Quinton drew in a jerking breath and admitted, “Yes.” That was the God’s truth. He’d not been happier than during the past three weeks with Belle. “Very much.”
“Then stay right here, where you belong.”
A lead weight settled on his chest. The temptation Robert was dangling in front of him was a bittersweet one.
But he couldn’t take it.
“I’m going to America as planned,” he repeated, although this time the declaration left him wanting a good stiff drink.
Robert remained silent for a long while, then he drawled quietly, “And I’m leaving for London.” He flicked the ash from his cigar. “Tomorrow morning.”
Quinn stiffened at the news. He was parting from his brother far earlier than expected. “I thought you’d be riding all the way to Liverpool to see me off.”
And with that, the very real possibility that Quinn might not see his brother again for years. If ever. After all, most people who crossed the Atlantic made one-way voyages.
Truly, he had no idea when he would be able to return. His mother could very well have passed away before then, given her age, which was why he was privately glad that Sebastian married Miranda when he did, to soften the blow of Quinn’s leaving by giving her a new daughter to fuss over. God only knew when he’d see Josie and his nephew and niece again, or how many more children she and Chesney would have while he was gone. Seb and Miranda would be plagued by children; he was certain of it from the way those two stared at each other. And Robert would make good on his business ventures and become a wealthy trade merchant—he was already well on his way, in fact.
When Quinn did come back to visit in five years or so, there would be so many Carlisles running around Blackwood Hall and Chestnut Hill that he’d never be able to keep track of them all. And missing each of them terribly when he had to leave again.
Robert looked down as he rubbed the ash into the stone terrace with the toe of his boot. “I thought I was going there, too. But a business matter has come up. I received a message this afternoon. Those trade investments I made in India have finally paid off. The ship docked at Greenwich three days ago, and I want to be in London when the goods are auctioned.” He paused to inhale a deep, shaking breath. “This is it, Quinn. The opportunity I’ve been waiting for. One which might very well turn into a partnership with a large trading company.”
Might…Concern nagged at him. “Does Sebastian know what you’re planning?”
Robert froze for just a beat, but Quinn caught it. They were brothers; of course he noticed everything about him. Hadn’t he wanted nothing more when he was a boy than to be just like Robert, looking up to his older brother the way boys now idolized Gentleman Jackson or Wellington?
“No, and I don’t want him to. Not yet. If plans develop as I hope, then I’ll be able to launch a successful life for myself, just like you. Only in a civilized country.” Robert shot him one last warning look to mind his own business. “I’ll tell him soon, but I’ll tell him—not you.”
Although Robert’s assurances eased Quinn’s suspicions, it didn’t erase them. Still, he knew from experience—and several bloodied noses—not to meddle in his brothers’ affairs. Besides, he had his own troubles to deal with…one particularly stubborn, inexplicably alluring, honey-eyed trouble, to be exact.
“Speaking of Sebastian,” Robert commented as he reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a note. “This arrived for you a few minutes ago from Blackwood Hall.”
His heart lurched into a booming beat as he accepted it. The answer to his proposal to buy Glenarvon. Just in the nick of time, too.
Quinn mumbled his thanks and somehow kept from ripping it open right then. Belle’s last best hope lay inside that note.
“I’m leaving first thing in the morning,” Robert told him. An amused grin spread across his face. “After tonight, our interviewing services won’t be necessary anymore, which Aunt Agatha must surely thank God for.” Then his smile faded, and he tapped his shoulder against Quinn’s. “If you’re going to America, you should leave with me.”
“I want to stay a bit longer, to make certain everything is settled well for Belle.” He’d made a promise to protect her, and he meant to see that through.
“She won’t need your help with that.”
Quinn shook his head. “Contacts and property deeds can be complicated. She’ll need someone to—”
“Quinton.” His older brother fixed him with a steely look. “After tonight, she won’t need you anymore.”
Robert’s words came like a punch to his gut.
Quinn turned his back to Robert, to lean over the balustrade and stare out into the dark garden, until he could regain his breath. He knew tonight was coming, knew she’d decided to take a husband…But down deep, he hadn’t truly been prepared for riding away and leaving her behind.
But what other choice did he have?
Robert asked bluntly, “Do you love her?”
Quinn sucked in a deep, steadying breath to quell the riotous confusion of emotions that had swirled through him since the evening he arrived and saw Belle again, and admitted, “I don’t know.”
With a disappointed shake of his head, Robert stubbed out his cigar on the balustrade, then tossed it away into the dark garden beyond. “Well, you’d better figure it out soon. Because in less than two hours Belle’s going to pledge her life to a man.” He pushed himself away from the railing and walked toward the French doors, sliding a parting glance backward at his brother. “I’d hoped it would be you.”
The doors closed after him, muffling the noise of the party beyond to a low drone.
Quinn squeezed his eyes shut. Damnation. What Robert wanted of him—didn’t his brother realize the impossibility of what he was asking? He had an agreement with Asa Jeffers and his wife, to let them remain on the land where they’d made their home for decades. And he’d promised his father, the very last promise he’d made to him in the days leading up to the accident that claimed his life. How was he expected to break it? And for what reason—a woman? What would Father say to that?
He deserved an opportunity to prove himself, damn it! He’d worked hard and earned this chance for a new life, away from England and all the difficulties that came with being a duke’s son. And a Carlisle. Life would be much easier in America, where no one cared about titles or would say that his success was only due to family connections. Staying here would be more difficult, where everyone doubted him, where failure was expected and success to be credited not to his merits but to his family.
He caught his breath as that realization hit him. Did he really want a life of easy? That’s what America would be, compared to England.
A worse thought chilled him—was an easy future what his father had in mind when he encouraged Quinn to leave England? For Christ’s sake, even finding the land to purchase had been done for him, neatly arranged by his father and handed to him like a gift.
If that was what a life in America meant, could Robert be right? Was he better off staying here?
Except that staying here meant having to marry Annabelle. Could he ever let Belle into his heart, or allow himself to enter hers? Because love ended. Always. That was the last lesson his parents’ marriage had taught him, one he’d learned the hard way.
Love…the one thing he promised himself he’d never do.
But he could help her with Glenarvon.
He tore open the message and froze as he scanned Sebastian’s scrawled writing. Then he crushed the note in his hand and threw it to the ground as he turned on his heel to stalk back inside.
* * *
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Ferguson called out, his head held high and his chest puffed out beneath the garish-colored waistcoat he wore as tonight’s Master of Ceremonies.
Annabelle smiled. She adored him and all the other servants at Glenarvon, and a fresh stab of guilt jarred through her as she thought about what might happen to them in only one short week. Those who weren’t old enough to be pensioned would be moved to other Ainsley properties, and several of them would be making the move to the dower house in London. And her right along with them if she didn’t accept Sir Harold’s offer.
The engagement was expected, of course. All the guests had assumed she would choose him, and Harold, himself, hovered nearby all night. As if the announcement had already been made and the marriage was now fated. All the guests were happy for her.
But she was utterly miserable. Despite all her resolve to avoid a marriage of convenience, one which held no love and might end up as awful as her parents’ marriage, that was exactly where she’d found herself. The irony was bitter.
Ferguson tapped his staff against the marble floor and announced proudly, “The first waltz of the evening!”
The orchestra struck up the opening flourishes, and each note jarred into her. She’d been so busy greeting guests and thanking them for their kind felicitations that she hadn’t realized the dancing had started.
A hand closed over her elbow from behind.
Her heart leapt into her throat. Quinton! With a bright smile, she turned—
“Sir Harold.” Her breath caught in a painful inhalation at the sight of him, her chest hollow with disappointment. But her fake smile never wavered, not even as her heart plummeted to the floor.
“The waltz is beginning.” With a smile, he gestured toward the dance floor with a sweep of his arm, as confident as everyone else in the room that she would choose him at midnight. Without a better suitor in sight, he had good reason to assume so. “Shall we?”
“Of course,” she whispered.
He led her forward. They moved into position, and the sweeping first bars of the dance sounded through the room. Belle took a deep breath as he stepped her into the waltz, struck by the realization that she’d never danced with him before and didn’t know what to expect.
What she found was boredom.
Oh, Harold was a good dancer, knowing his steps and turning through them with precision. But the waltz reminded her of sitting through the music recital of someone who didn’t want to play—technically precise but utterly lacking in engagement. And passion. At least, thankfully, he didn’t try to hold a conversation with her, so she didn’t have to fake interest as well as a smile. She didn’t think she could have endured it.
So they danced on, turning around the floor…stilted, uncomfortable, silent. A horrible, sinking feeling in her stomach told her that their marriage would be no different. Stilted. Uncomfortable. Horribly silent.
Harold came to a sudden halt in the middle of the dance floor.
She gasped in surprise, stopping quickly to keep from crashing into him. The other couples scattered around them as they continued on in their steps, yet all craning curious necks to see what was happening. Including Belle, who rose up on tiptoes to peer over his shoulder to see—
Quinton.
He grinned at her. “May I cut in?”
Her eyes widened. She’d never seen a couple interrupted like this before—oh, it simply wasn’t done! Yet there he was, a shining contradiction of gold and black, with the audacity to interrupt. And her heart soared.
“Go away, Carlisle,” Harold muttered threateningly, yet he smiled at Quinn as if they were old friends for the benefit of the curious eyes watching them. “I’m waltzing with my fiancée.”
“I haven’t agreed to that yet,” Belle reminded him as she shrank away.
“But you will.” He might have let Quinn stop them in their steps, with no other choice unless they wanted to trample over the top of him. But Harold wasn’t giving her up, his left hand holding fast to hers, his right resting possessively at the small of her back. “It will be midnight soon, and you’ll have to make an announcement if you want to keep your home.” He added, smiling down at her, “I’m the best choice, and you know it.”
He was right. She swallowed hard to keep down the nausea roiling in her stomach at the thought of being married to him. Oh, she was going to cast up her accounts right there in the ballroom!
“Then even more reason to let me dance with her.” Quinn’s charming grin only brightened as he slapped Harold good-naturedly on the shoulder, although Belle suspected that what he truly wanted to do was punch him. “If you’ll have her for the rest of your life, then the least you can do is let me have her tonight. For one last dance with an old friend.”
If. Belle’s chest squeezed so hard that she winced. Even now Quinton still held out hope that she’d refuse Sir Harold. But he might as well have been whistling in the wind for all the difference it would make.
“You don’t get her, Carlisle,” Harold half hissed. To anyone watching, the two men were simply having a convivial conversation, but tension seethed palpably between them. “Not tonight, not ever.”
Quinn’s eyes flashed dark and territorial, and her breath caught in her throat. That was the same look he’d worn six years ago in the St James garden, right before he pummeled Burton Williams. Were the two of them bold enough to come to blows right here on the dance floor?
She felt Harold’s hand draw into a clenched fist against her back. Good Lord—apparently, they were exactly that bold!
“Please don’t cause trouble, both of you,” she chastened, then turned to Harold. “Besides, you don’t like to dance anyway. Quinn is doing you a favor by waltzing with me.”
Quinn eyed her knowingly, the corner of his grin twisting up wryly at that.
“Fine. Finish the damned waltz, Carlisle.” Quick anger pulsed visibly through Sir Harold, although Belle wondered which he was more furious about—losing the waltz or losing it to Quinton. He released her and bowed stiffly over her hand, a wicked smile touching his lips as he kissed her fingers. “After all, we’ll have every night for the rest of our lives to dance together.”
Appalled at his innuendo, Belle snatched her hand away. Harold turned on his heels and tried not to stomp away, the current loser in the strange rivalry that had sprung up between the two men.
“Shall we?” Quinton held open his arms.
Belle stared at him uncertainly. She should have refused to change partners, should even now walk away. Being cut direct in the middle of the dance floor was the least he deserved for nearly fighting over her again, for potentially ruining her life once more by driving away her last best hope for keeping Glenarvon.
But she couldn’t bring herself to leave, and the siren song of being held in his arms proved impossible to resist, even for half a waltz.
She stepped into position, and he twirled her lightly into the waltz. They danced together fluidly, as artlessly as if she were born to be in his arms and follow his lead. Smooth, graceful…magical.
She stared up into his eyes as he turned her effortlessly about the floor. He held her closer than he should have, brushing an almost imperceptible caress of his hand against her lower back, but she was helpless to make him stop.
Her awareness of his solid body only heightened with each turn and brush of her skirts around his legs. The familiar ache he’d always been able to stir inside her blossomed with an electric tingling that spilled through her, all the way out to the tips of her fingers as he held her hand in his. She breathed deep his rich, masculine scent of tobacco and port, and her head spun as they danced together, all of him engulfing her senses until she trembled.
Aware of the attention of the crowd on them, aching with the frustration of his nearness, and unable to bear the heat of his hungry stare another moment—“Quinton,” she breathlessly whispered in a plea for mercy.
“I’ll ask one last time, Belle.” He squeezed her fingers as they rested lightly in his and sent a shiver racing up her arm, to land heavily in her breasts. “Don’t get married. Aunt Agatha will take care of you. She’ll always give you a safe home, if not here then in London.”
Her shoulders sagged. She was so very weary of fighting this battle. “It’s too late.” Emotionally drained, she shook her head sadly. “We’re standing in the middle of the engagement party.”
“Your birthday party,” he corrected firmly. “The announcement hasn’t yet been made. You can still change your mind.”
“I can’t.” With only one week until the will’s deadline, there was no more time to delay. The announcement had to be made tonight in order to have time to negotiate the marriage contract and plan the wedding. Tonight was simply a foregone conclusion of what everyone already knew was inevitable. Everyone except Quinn, apparently. “There isn’t time.”
“Don’t do this, Belle. Don’t shackle yourself to a man who—”
“Quinton, stop!” She squeezed her eyes closed for only a moment, but even then, she saw his handsome face, the concern for her in his eyes. Which only made the sharp pain inside her chest flame more fiercely. Because his concern wasn’t enough to save her from a marriage she didn’t want and her home from being taken away, not enough to save her heart from him. The only man she wanted to marry. The man she loved. “Please…there’s no help for it now.”
“The hell there’s not,” he growled.
“Let it go, Quinton,” she breathed, unable to find her voice for fear of sobbing. The burning desolation in her chest was scalding. “Let me go.”
The orchestra sounded the last flourish and ended the waltz. Regretfully, she shifted out of his arms and mechanically sank into a curtsy. Then she turned and walked away, blinking back the blurring in her eyes but keeping the false smile firmly in place.
He took her elbow as he fell into step beside her to escort her from the floor. She trembled at his touch. Daring to take a surreptitious glance at him, she caught her breath at the hard determination in his expression, his jaw clamped tight and his eyes staring straight ahead as if he couldn’t bear to look at her.
“I’m not giving up, Belle,” he promised in a low, intense voice.
She forced her smile to widen even as her heart broke. It was almost midnight. “Perhaps you should.”
He hesitated, then said quietly, “I’ve heard from Sebastian.”
She tripped. His grip tightened on her arm and caught her, keeping her upright, even as she turned and stared at him, stunned. New hope blossomed in the barren desert that her heart had become tonight.
“That’s why I was late for the waltz,” he informed her stiffly. “His reply came right before the dance started.”
She held her breath, waiting on pins and needles. “And?”
“He’s willing to help purchase Glenarvon.”
Relief cascaded through her, her knees going weak. She would have surely fallen to the floor if not for Quinn’s strong hand on her arm, still supporting her.
“Oh, thank God,” she breathed, unable to speak louder through the turbulent rush of emotions pouring through her. At the last possible moment, an answer to her prayers…But why wasn’t Quinn happy for her? Why did he look so angry? She stopped, dread rising inside her. “Quinton?”
“He’s willing to put up half the money,” he muttered, his jaw working so fiercely that the muscles danced in his neck. “Ten thousand pounds.”
“Half?” she repeated, desperately praying she’d misheard. It might have been a single pound from the difference that much would make. Her heart shattered where she stood, and she pressed her fist to her chest to keep from screaming. “Then he hasn’t saved me at all.”
“He wants me to put up the rest,” he added, once more taking her arm and leading her on as whispers began to rise around them.
She shook her head, her eyes blurring so much that she could barely see the floor in front of her. “You can’t.”
“I have enough money,” he bit out.
“You need that money for America,” she whispered. The weight sinking back onto her slender shoulders was crushing, and she had no idea how she kept from falling to the floor beneath it.
He repeated firmly, “I have enough money, Annabelle. You won’t have to marry.”
“No, I won’t let you.” If her heart hadn’t already broken, his offer would have made it sing. Instead, grief blackened her insides. “Your dream is America, and I want that for you.”
“Damnation, Belle—”
“No!” she choked out. “And please, don’t mention it again.” Dear God, she couldn’t have borne it! To come so close, only to have all hope dashed once more…Any more would end her.
They arrived back to Lady Ainsley, and their argument fell silent. Yet she could tell from the glint in his eyes that this discussion was far from over.
But once midnight came and she made her announcement, it would no longer matter.
“Are you all right, dear?” Lady Ainsley frowned with concern and gave her hand a motherly squeeze.
Belle nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“Quinton.” Lady Ainsley narrowed her gaze on him. Instead of recrimination, though, Belle thought she heard a touch of pleased admiration in the viscountess’s voice as she scolded, “Do you often go about stealing waltzes?”
“It wasn’t much of a theft,” he joked, but Belle could tell that his heart wasn’t in it. After all, she knew his teasing ways better than anyone. “After all, I brought her back.”
When what Belle wanted was to run away together. What was left of her heart burned like brimstone in her hollow chest.
“Imp,” Lady Ainsley chastised him for forcing his way into the waltz…or was it for bringing her back? Belle couldn’t be certain of anything as the grief of losing him threatened to engulf her. Then the viscountess turned to Belle, and her features softened. “You’ll need to make the announcement soon. Will you be able to do it?”
“Yes,” she whispered, wishing she could have been more resolved. Instead, dread seeped through her. She felt cold and feverish in turns, and she would have cast up her accounts right there if she hadn’t already been so upset that she hadn’t been able to eat anything all evening. With each heartbeat, every inch of her seemed to be screaming out for her to say no, to flee…to save herself.
Hell. She’d been cast into hell. And there was no way out.
“Whom will you choose?” Lady Ainsley asked quietly, her eyes drifting to Quinn.
Now that the moment was finally arriving, Belle still couldn’t bring herself to put voice to it, as if speaking it made it real. But what choice did she have? Lose the only real home she’d ever had, or…“I’ll marry Sir Harold,” she breathed out, “if I must.”
Through the watery tears she no longer bothered to hide, Belle saw Quinn stiffen, then silently turn and walk away. He left the ballroom, slipping out through the open terrace doors into the dark gardens.
Then the crowd swarmed in to offer more good wishes and congratulations, separating her from Lady Ainsley, smothering her. The noise rose and swirled through her head, somehow both numbing and sickening at the same time. She felt as if she were falling away, with no one to stop her fall…
No one but Quinn. Just as he’d been trying to do since he arrived.
The truth slammed into her like lightning, so fiercely that it ripped her breath away, and a soft cry fell from her lips—
She could never pledge her life to a man she didn’t love. Not even to save Glenarvon.
She’d been wrong, so very wrong! How foolish had she been to think she could find happiness by marrying only for her inheritance? How would she not cringe whenever her husband touched her? Or stop the relentless tears if he never came to understand how much her home meant to her, even after she’d sacrificed her life, heart, and soul for it? How could the home she loved not become a prison in the face of all that?
Certainly, ladies married for fortune and property all the time, without a care toward love. But she wasn’t one of those ladies. Not in men’s work clothes, with her books and evening swims. Never had been, and never would be.
In that heartbeat of clarity, she realized what she wanted, what she had to do—
God help her. She chose Quinton.
With her frantic heart pounding so hard that the rush of blood in her ears was deafening, she pushed through the crowd and ran outside into the night after him.
* * *
Quinn bit out a savage curse as he stalked to the far end of the walled garden to lose himself in the shadows. But even all the way out here, he could still hear the party, muffled and distant, yet loud enough to plague him.
Damnation. He ran a shaking hand through his hair.
Belle was going to marry Bletchley. And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to stop it, unless he wanted to storm back inside and embarrass her in front of everyone. With that, he would ruin both her engagement and any chance she had of remaining in her home. Besides, the minute he opened his mouth, everyone in the room would think the same thing—that he wanted Belle for himself.
What he wanted was for Belle to be happy so he could travel on to America and not feel guilty that she’d entered into a loveless marriage. That was all. It wasn’t as if he were in love with her himself.
In love with Belle? Laughable! She was the Bluebell, for Christ’s sake! He didn’t love her. He wouldn’t let himself love her, just as he wouldn’t let himself love any woman.
But that resolution was becoming harder to keep.
He heaved out a frustrated breath. A bluestocking with the heart of an angel, she had him wanting to protect her with a determination he’d never felt before.
Yet he’d failed to do just that, and in one hour, she’d be at Bletchley’s side, announcing her wedding plans.
With a curse, he slammed his palm against the stone wall.
“Quinton.”
The soft voice swirled through him, prickling the little hairs at his nape. He froze, except for the fierce pounding of his heart.
Appearing out of the darkness like a ghost, Belle came toward him through the shadows. Her hair shined dark, the sage-green dress she wore tonight showing white in the faint light of the sliver of the crescent moon lying low behind the distant mountains. Silent and ethereal…like a figure from a dream.
As she stepped slowly toward him, he held his breath, fearing she was nothing more than a wishful illusion.
“Belle,” he whispered. He drew a deep, tremulous breath. The sweet scent of heather surrounded her. “What are you—”
She placed her fingers to his lips. “Hush.”
Then she rose up on tiptoes and touched her lips to his in a featherlight kiss that left him speechless. He was too entranced by her magical spell to put into words the emotions and desires pulsating through him.
When she lowered herself away, he pursued, his mouth lowering to capture her lips and his eyes closing against the painful sweetness of her. Soft, delicate…enchanting. He whispered her name and lifted his hands to cup her face and hold her still as he deepened the kiss, as he sought to fill up his senses with her.
But with a soft laugh, she slipped away. Taking his hand as she broke the kiss and lacing her fingers through his, she led him into the darkness beyond the garden walls.
He followed, a willing captive. In the dim moonlight, surrounded by midnight shadows, she guided him across the lawn and down the path through the trees like a sprite from a fairy tale. Whenever he tried to take her into his arms, she danced ahead just out of reach and taunted him with the soft, seductive sound of her laughter.
The path emptied into the clearing surrounding the old castle ruins. When they reached the outer wall with its tumbled stones, she stopped and leaned into him, letting his mouth possess hers and his arms encircle her. With a soft moan, she parted her lips, and he swept his tongue between them, to taste the sweetness inside.
Then she was gone from his arms again, the seductive sprite slipping away deeper into the ruins.
He chased after her. His arms ached to hold her, his body throbbed to enjoy hers. This time, he didn’t want to stop with a kiss and a touch. He wanted to possess her. He wanted all of her, every aggravating, independent, brilliant, beautiful bit of her.
He found her at the heart of the ruins, standing in the castle’s keep and softly panting, breathless with anticipation. Even in the shadows he could see her body trembling and her bright eyes shining with nervous excitement as he moved toward her.
“You can’t leave your own party,” he drawled, his voice hoarse with desire. He wanted her—Sweet Lucifer, he wanted her more than he’d wanted any woman in his life! But he wanted her coming freely to him because she wanted him. And no other reason. “You need to get back before you’re missed.”
“I don’t care!” She laughed, and the lilting softness fell through him like a warm summer rain. She held out her hand to him, and he stepped forward to take it, letting her draw him to her. “I don’t want to think about the will, or marriage, or the estate…” Her breath tickled warm and sweet against his cheek as she leaned against him and brushed her lips tantalizingly along his jaw. “And I don’t want to be at the party a moment more.”
Even as his heart raced with desire, he took her arms and set her away. He had to make certain—“What do you want, Annabelle?”
“You.”
His cock stiffened instantly at the breathless whisper, spoken so softly that he barely heard it. He stared down at her delicate face in the shadows, fearing that she truly was nothing more than a fantasy after all.
“When you took the waltz, you said you wanted one last dance.” She stepped forward, bringing her body against his, her arms entwining around his neck. “But I want more than that.” Her fingers played in his hair, and each innocent caress sent a jolt of aching need shivering through him. “I’m yours for the night…if you want me.”