Belle sat on the window seat in her bedroom, her forehead resting against the cool glass, and stared into the dark night, unable to see anything beyond the pane. Although, in truth, she wasn’t really looking. Her thoughts were too preoccupied, churning and spinning until she didn’t know what to think. Or feel.
The solitude of her room hadn’t given her the peace she’d sought, especially as Lady Ainsley had come by twice to check on her and then sent her maid to bring up a cup of warm milk to help her sleep. Sleep? A bubble of laughter spilled from her lips. How ludicrous that notion was! She’d never be able to sleep tonight. Not knowing that Lord Ainsley was her real father and that Glenarvon was now hers and could never be taken away.
And certainly not with thoughts of Quinn revolving through her mind, so foolishly replaying every moment that he’d spent making love to her.
No. Not making love.
She squeezed her eyes shut at the searing pain that gripped her when she thought of that special melding of bodies and souls. She might have made love to him, but what he felt for her wasn’t anything near love.
To have him finally propose to her, only to have to reject him—oh, it had been torture! But she knew the hell that a marriage without love could be, and she would never put herself into that position. No matter Quinn’s honorable intentions, or how much she longed to be his wife.
A knock sounded softly at the door, and she rolled her tear-blurred eyes. What now? Why wouldn’t everyone just leave her alone so she could be miserable in peace?
But the knock came again. Dreading that it was another visit from Lady Ainsley, or more warm milk she didn’t have the stomach to drink, she opened her door.
And gasped. “Quinton.”
He leaned on his shoulder against the doorjamb and smiled down at her. For a moment she couldn’t believe he wasn’t a figment from her imagination, but she knew he had to be real. Because only the real Quinton could stir such confusion and yearning inside her, a riot of it leaving her not knowing whether to throw herself into his arms or throttle him. And for a moment not caring which as long as her hands were on him.
“Invite me inside,” he murmured softly. His deep voice twined down her spine and blossomed goose bumps on her bare arms.
Taking a deep breath, she held her ground and prayed he couldn’t see how he made her tremble. “That wouldn’t be proper.”
He trailed a searing look down her front that told her exactly how little he cared for proper. That look cascaded memories through her of every breath-stealing kiss he’d ever given her, every delicious touch, and she shivered beneath his audacity.
As if he knew what confused desires he flamed inside her, he quirked the corner of his mouth higher with amusement. “Can’t a man visit his fiancée?”
“I’m not your fiancée.” She forced a playful tone, despite the hollow ache in her chest. “Haven’t you heard? I’m an heiress now. You don’t have to marry me to save Glenarvon.”
Breathing deeply to steady herself, she longed to touch him, to brush her fingers through his mussed hair that even now had a golden lock lying rakishly over his forehead. But she wasn’t naïve enough to think that it would stop with such an innocent touch and tucked her traitorous hands behind her back.
His eyes captured hers as he murmured, “What if I want to marry you anyway?”
Her breath caught painfully, her throat and nose stinging with emotion. She whispered breathlessly, “You don’t.”
“But I do. Let me in, and I’ll prove it.” He purred those words so wolfishly that a flush of heat rose in her cheeks, and his eyes sparkled at the reaction he drew from her. “Besides, I want to give you your birthday gift.”
A bittersweet knot tightened in her chest that he cared enough about her to bring her a gift, to come to her bedchamber tonight…yet not enough to love her. “Someone might see you here.”
He lifted a brow in challenge. “Then invite me inside so they don’t.”
Biting her lip, she hesitated. She should turn him away, make him leave—and with that, to possibly lose her last chance ever to be alone with him, to be held safe and secure in his arms.
“Please, Belle.” He told her honestly, “I’d very much like to come in and talk.”
“Talk?” she asked dubiously.
“Perhaps more.” His half grin blossomed into a wicked smile. “But we’ll never know if you don’t let me in.”
A voice inside her head screamed in warning, but even that wasn’t enough to tamp down the ache of desire she felt for him. Unable to deny herself the happiness of being with him, she stepped back to let him slip inside her room. She silently closed the door behind him, then paused to draw a deep breath before she turned the lock.
Quinn set the satchel he carried down on her reading chair and faced her. His sultry gaze swept languidly over her, from unruly locks to bare toes and back again, and everywhere he looked, heat prickled beneath her skin. The now familiar ache began to rise inside her, and her breath turned shallow and jerky. Her body knew now what he was capable of doing to hers, and she longed for those wonderful sensations again. Just as she knew that only Quinton would ever be able to make her feel such pleasure, such freedom and joy.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she protested weakly, unable to keep the aching tremor from her voice.
“You’re beautiful.” His eyes gleamed in the firelight.
Trying to ignore that, she sucked in a deep breath to steady herself. “We shouldn’t be alone like this.”
“Very beautiful.”
Exasperated, she sagged her shoulders at his attempt to charm away her frustrations. “Quinton—”
He stepped slowly to her, then took her chin and tipped her face up to tenderly kiss her lips.
Belle closed her eyes, overcome by the nearness of him, his masculinity filling her senses.
She shifted closer. The heat of his hard body against her soft one made her tingle everywhere they touched, and his lips kissed hers so thoroughly that already she craved more. That secret space between her legs throbbed for him, with a need only he could satisfy. Why Quinton Carlisle, of all men, created this desperate longing inside her, she simply couldn’t fathom. But he did just that.
He didn’t love her, but he did desire her. And tonight, their only night together, that would have to be enough.
His mouth left hers to dance light kisses along her jaw to her ear, then down to the bare stretch of flesh where her neck curved into her shoulder. He ran his hand over the scooped neck of her night rail, stealing a caress of his fingers across the top swells of her breasts.
“You truly are beautiful tonight, Annabelle,” he murmured.
That was a lie if ever she heard one. Her cheeks flushed at being caught wearing this old nightgown, which covered her in a formless tent of white cotton from wrists to ankles. “I am not, not in this frumpy old thing.” And certainly not with a red nose and eyes from crying.
“I think,” he murmured as his fingers untied the bow at her neckline and let the gown fall open around her shoulders, “that you look delectable.”
With a soft laugh at his flattery, she snaked her arms around his neck. “I’m not delectable.” Her fingers played flirtatiously in his hair at his nape, and excited anticipation grew inside her. Feeling feminine and light, with a nod toward silliness, she teased, “Puddings are delectable, not women.” Feigning insult, she arched a scolding brow. “Am I a cake, then?”
“Of the most delicious kind,” he murmured. He placed a delicate but possessive kiss in the valley between her breasts, and she shivered at the promise behind it.
“Of strawberries and cream?” She arched against him, inviting his mouth on her body. A wanton part of her wanted to tease him to the brink of losing control, to make him crave her intimacy as much as she did his. “All pink and luscious, sweet to the taste…”
He groaned at the image her words conveyed as his hands roamed freely over her body now, stroking the unseen curves beneath the billowing cotton. “You’re killing me, Belle.”
She laughed wickedly. “And so much buttery icing,” she panted out as his hands squeezed her bottom through the cotton, “just waiting to be licked—”
His mouth captured hers, stopping her in mid-temptation and turning the teasing description on her lips into a low moan. She met the hungry passion of his kiss with her own, fisting his silky hair in her hands as the ache pulsed relentlessly between her legs.
“I want to taste every tempting inch of you, Belle,” he murmured against her mouth, not pausing in his kisses. “I want to devour you.”
He grabbed the sleeves of her night rail and yanked, expertly pulling the cotton down over her body in a single tug and letting it fall to the floor around her bare feet.
Belle gasped. She was naked! Completely and utterly bare as she stood in front of him. Her cheeks blushed scarlet.
He stepped back to gaze at her, and she felt the heat of his stare as it seared over each of her breasts, then down her belly to the curls between her legs. His face darkened with raw desire. Suddenly, there was no more charm or teasing in him. He wore a look that told her he would keep his promise—to devour her.
And God help her, she wanted just that.
She huskily murmured her consent, “Yes, Quinton.”
He scooped her into his arms and carried her across the room, then placed her on the bed. When he pulled away to quickly shuck off his shirt and trousers, Belle stared shamelessly. This was the first time she’d seen him without the cover of clothing, and the sight of him was a sweet intoxication. Her eyes swept over the hard muscles of his chest and the ridges of his abdomen, following the faint dusting of golden hair down his chest, over his belly, and brazenly lower to his manhood, which was already hard and thick with his need for her.
She lost her breath.
He was simply magnificent, all golden in the firelight, with long, sinewy muscles in his arms and legs, and blue eyes staring at her so intensely that she shivered. At the warmth of his fingers touching her ankle and trailing along her bare leg to the curve of her hip, a helpless whimper of desire escaped her. What a wanton woman she was to lie here like this, draped naked over the bed while she let him run his hands over her, touching and exploring her body as he desired.
But if this was being wanton, then she welcomed it. Because she would never be embarrassed at the pleasures Quinn brought her.
He knelt beside the bed and placed his hands on her thighs. “Annabelle…please…”
Knowing what he wanted, she spread her legs to welcome this new intimacy between them. She wasn’t ashamed of opening herself to him, not when she heard him murmur how beautiful she was, and not even when she felt the heat of his strong lips as he placed a tender, delicate kiss right there. This was Quinn, and she loved him—hadn’t she always?
Soft and gentle, his lips caressed against her in slow kisses that didn’t flame the ache inside her so much as soothe and relax, and with a contented sigh, she reached her hand down to stroke her fingers through his hair. How could one man be both so passionate that he’d torn cries of desire from her earlier and yet now so gentle that he sent a calming warmth radiating through her?
But each delicate kiss grew stronger, his mouth more insistent against her. When he licked deep—
“Quinton!” she gasped, squirming beneath his mouth.
“Shh.” He stroked his hands along her inner thighs to still her, as if petting a kitten. Each breathy word pulsed hot against her wet folds. “You are so delicious, Belle…Let me have this taste of you.”
She took a deep breath, then exhaled in a long sigh. Closing her eyes, she gave over to the decadent sensation of his mouth against her, to the wonderfully wicked licks of his tongue delving deep into her, to the soft sounds of his lips enjoying her most secret place. The fluttering ache inside her began to blossom again, throbbing so shamelessly right there against his mouth that she was certain he could feel the pulsation of her need against his lips and taste her readiness for him on his tongue.
“Quinn.” His name was a plaintive whimper as all of her began to quiver.
“I know, darling.” He placed one last, lingering kiss at the hot heart of her, then slowly slid up her body, his mouth leaving a wet trail of kisses all the way up to her throat.
With his large body now covering hers, he reached a hand between her thighs and gently parted her with his fingers. As if understanding the inexplicable new need inside her, one that was far more than just a physical ache for release, he slowly slid his manhood inside her, pushing gently forward until his hips were seated against hers.
“Slowly this time,” he murmured against her temple as his body began to stroke tenderly inside hers. “I want to savor you.”
His hard chest rubbed against her breasts as he slid up and down over her with each gentle plunge and tantalizing retreat. None of the urgent thrusts of before, none of that desperate need to possess her—this was tenderness and affection. Never had she felt this feminine and powerful before in her life, this transcendent. And it was all because of Quinn.
If any doubts remained inside her that she loved him, this moment vanquished them all.
Murmuring her name, he continued his rocking caresses inside her. She clung to him as he swirled his hips slowly against her before retreating, rubbing tantalizingly against her sex and pulsing a soft ache deep within her. Every stroke inside her branded her as his, and she tossed back her head with joy as her body welcomed the intensity of him, filling her completely. She arched herself beneath him and rocked against his hips to bring him as deep as possible inside her. She would have let him crawl beneath her skin, if he could have, and inundate her soul with his essence.
Her hands clutched at his shoulders as the first flames shot through her, and the throbbing ache inside her fanned out to the ends of her fingers and toes. For one desperate moment, she fought against her release, knowing tonight would be the last time she would ever be with him and wanting to make it last as long as she could. But restraint was impossible, and she broke.
Her release came not as a wave of hot pleasure but a gentle, warm lapping at her toes that crept up her body until it engulfed her. He brought her to climax this time not with a cry of passion but a blissful sigh of love.
“Annabelle,” he whispered as he rested his forehead against her bare shoulder and released himself inside her.
At that new sensation, her body shivered with a second, even more intense pleasure. He hadn’t used that clever little sheath this time to separate them, and he had been right—making love was far nicer this way, with no barriers at all between them.
Only then did she realize that she was whispering his name over and over. But she couldn’t stop herself. She knew she would never again feel as perfect and complete as she did when Quinn was holding her in his arms.
* * *
Quinton leaned over to place a kiss in the middle of Belle’s bare back as she lounged on her belly across her bed, all sex-rumpled and relaxed. His lips curled against her warm skin, and he couldn’t resist the urge to chuckle, so happy was he to have Annabelle with him like this.
He hadn’t meant to take her like that, certainly not without using the last of the condoms he still had in his possession. But the surprising little bluestocking had aroused him to the point where all that mattered was being inside her. It was a risk he shouldn’t have taken, but he simply couldn’t help himself. Especially since he fully intended to marry her.
There was no doubt inside him about that now. He belonged right here with Annabelle. If any hesitations had still been lingering inside him, this second intimacy dashed them all. He’d been right about her from the beginning—a man didn’t give himself to her and then walk away.
She turned her head to gaze up at him, with her cheek resting on her folded arms and her caramel hair tumbling around her shoulders. A contented smile played at her lips.
His chest tightened as he stared down at her. Sweet Lucifer, he could certainly get used to nights like this. And once they were married, there would be no reason not to.
He traced a fingertip over her mouth, drawing her smile. When she closed her lips around his finger and sucked suggestively, the sensation pulsed all the way down to the tip of his cock. He groaned softly.
“Keep doing that,” he warned as he pulled his hand away, “and I’ll have you on your back again.”
Her eyes sparkled mischievously. “Is that supposed to be a warning or an enticement?”
“Wanton,” he scolded. Yet he grinned at her, unable to resist her infectious happiness tonight. She had every right to be happy. Glenarvon was now secure, and she knew that the viscount had loved her as a true daughter.
The only issue left unresolved was marriage.
She didn’t need to marry at all now, but he fully intended to marry her. The new conditions of her inheritance made not one whit of difference to him. They belonged together; tonight proved that, and she needed him, now more than ever. Being recognized as Ainsley’s illegitimate daughter wouldn’t be easy. Neither would running the estate. He could help her with both, while she helped him become the man he wanted to be. Successful, hardworking, devoted to his family and the village…the kind of man who would make his father proud.
But he had to convince her of that. And if it took repeatedly making love to her to do it, then he was most definitely willing to sacrifice himself to the flames.
“You know,” she commented in a throaty voice as she sat up to bring herself into his arms, unwittingly giving him a perfect view of her full breasts and the sweet curls between her thighs, “if I had known that being naked with you would be so much fun, I think I might have stripped you bare right there beneath St James’s roses six years ago.”
He laughed and nuzzled his face against her shoulder, not wanting to dampen her amusement by telling her that many couples had done just that beneath that same bower, if rumors could be trusted. Of course, that gossip was also entwined with apocryphal stories about leather and bayonets, so he wasn’t certain what to believe. Except that if she had tried, he certainly would have let her.
With a soft growl, he leaned over and kissed her, teasing fresh arousal inside her until he felt her shiver. He smiled against her lips. The fire he so loved to flame inside her now belonged solely to him, and he planned on never letting it go.
He cupped her face in his hands. Her eyes were closed, her lips red and wet from his kisses, and never had she looked more alluring. She tilted her face toward him in invitation to be kissed again, and it took all his strength to keep himself from doing just that. And more.
“Would you like your birthday present now?” he asked, his fingertips stroking her cheek. If he didn’t distract both of them, and quickly, he’d be hard and between her thighs again before she could whisper his name. While the thought was deliciously tempting, he also knew how sore she would be in the morning. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her, in any way.
Her eyes fluttered open, and she looked up at him, puzzled. “My…what?”
He laughed and kissed the tip of her nose. “Did you think that bedding you was your gift?”
“Of course not.” Then she confided in a breathy whisper, staring at him seductively through lowered lashes, “But it was the best present I’ve ever been given.”
Hiding his pleased grin, he lowered his mouth to place an openmouthed kiss against her shoulder. Her comment stirred more pride inside him than he deserved. Still, he liked it. Immensely.
Before he got caught up in her again, he slipped away and crossed the room to his satchel. He pulled out a blue velvet pouch tied with a gold-tasseled cord. He handed her the bag, then reclined across the bed beside her on his elbow.
“Go on.” He leaned over to kiss her bare thigh as she stared down at the weighty velvet sack in her hand. “Open it.”
Belle slid him a suspicious glance as she carefully untied the gold cord, opened the cinched pouch—
She gasped. Her eyes grew wide as she slowly withdrew the four-foot-long rope of white Persian pearls, long enough to loop around her neck and down her front thrice. His great-grandmother’s pearls.
His mother gave them to him when he said good-bye to her a month ago at Chestnut Hill, wanting him to have this heirloom to remind him of who he was and the importance of family, even when he was half a world away. He’d sent all his other belongings ahead to Liverpool in a wagonload of trunks, but these he’d kept with him. At the time, he’d done it only to keep them from being stolen. But now he knew. As if Fate had been guiding him.
They belonged with Belle.
“Oh, Quinton,” she breathed, awestruck. “This is…this is…”
He grinned at her. Even when stunned, she was beautiful. “Do you like them?”
Struck speechless, she only nodded as she draped the rope of pearls across her palm and down her forearm, luminescent white lying luxuriously against her pale skin. Her bright eyes glistened as she stared at them, her lashes wet with tears.
His chest pinched. Good Lord, he hadn’t expected her to cry.
“Mother always said that a lady should be given pearls,” he explained softly.
She arched a dubious brow but couldn’t drag her gaze away from the strand as she let it spill through her fingers and across her palms. She whispered hoarsely, “To the lady who refuses to marry you?”
“Mother wasn’t specific,” he replied, deadpan, despite the sharp pang in his gut.
She might have refused before, but he planned on changing that. Starting now. He sat up and kissed her, so delicately and tenderly that he drew a soft sigh from her lips.
“You deserve them, Annabelle,” he whispered between gentle nips to her bottom lip. “And many, many more gifts just like them to come.”
Her shoulders sagging, she shook her head and shifted back, breaking the kiss. A sad expression darkened her face. “They’re too much,” she whispered. “I cannot accept them.”
“Of course you can.” He sat up and took the rope from her hands to loop it over her neck, then again to double it down her front. He wanted there to be no mistake that the pearls now belonged to her. And she belonged with him. “And you will.”
“No, Quinton.” She blinked hard with a determined shake of her head and choked out, “Truly, I cannot accept them—I won’t. You need the money for America.”
“Then you can accept them, because I didn’t buy them,” he explained quietly. They were beautiful around her neck, seeming to glow as they rested against her bare skin. “They’re a family heirloom.”
Remorse darkened her face. “Then even more reason to—”
“And they’re staying right in the Carlisle family.” She caught her breath at that firm declaration of his intention to marry her, staring at him with wide eyes glistening with tears. Dear God, he hoped those were tears of happiness. “They’re yours for now, Annabelle,” he pressed on quietly with full resolve. “But someday, you’ll pass them along to our son to give to the woman he marries.”
Our son. He wasn’t prepared for the electric jolt that pierced him when he uttered the words, but he meant every one. Theirs would be a proper marriage.
“You’re going to America,” she breathed out, not moving except for the trembling of her lips.
“I’m staying right here,” he told her, and meant it. Dear God, how could he even contemplate leaving her now? “My future is right here in the borderlands. With you.”
Tonight had opened his eyes. He could make his success here, where proving himself would be difficult and complicated, and become a better man for it. The borderlands certainly weren’t the soil-rich lands that he had wanted as the foundation for his future, yet the offer he’d made tonight to Bartleby for Kinnybroch would put him well on the way. And make for equal partners in his marriage with Annabelle. The new combined estate would be theirs, a grand property to oversee together, where they would launch their lives and raise their family. Where he could prove himself away from Trent’s shadow and make his father proud of him, just as he’d wanted. And where he was needed.
“I don’t want you to give up your dream for America,” she protested breathlessly. “I know how important that is to you, and I would never ask that of you.”
“You didn’t. I came to that decision on my own,” he assured her. “With a little help from Robert. You need me, Annabelle.” He leaned over her and lowered her down onto her back on the mattress with a deep and hungry kiss. “Haven’t you realized that yet?”
“Quinton.” His name was a heartbreaking ache for mercy, but he had no intention of giving her quarter. Not until she stood next to him in a church and pledged her life to him.
“I’m staying with you.” He sucked gently at her bottom lip, then groaned at how sweet she tasted, that delicious flavor of the northern wilds, of heather and mountains and sky…“And I want you to have these pearls, something as special and precious as you are. Besides,” he murmured, placing a kiss on the side of her neck where the two strands crossed, “they’re beautiful on you.”
Exquisite, in fact. The first loop of pearls draped down across her bare breasts, flirting tantalizingly at her dusky nipples, while the second fell down farther to graze her belly. Warm arousal stirred inside him at the erotic sight.
“You will keep them,” he insisted as his lips went to her throat to suck at the pearls resting on her delicate skin. “And you will wear them on the day we’re married. Understand?”
She shook her head. “I can’t—”
“Annabelle.” Her name was a warning that he would brook no argument about this. Because his next course of action would have been to tie her up with them to make her see reason…although, he considered as he rubbed the smooth pearls back and forth across her nipples and watched shamelessly as they hardened beneath the soft friction, tying her up might not be such a bad idea after all.
“I can’t accept them, Quinton,” she rasped out chokingly. “And I won’t marry you.”
“You will,” he argued softly. Marriage was the right future for both of them, making both their dreams come true. More—she needed him, and he certainly needed her.
“No, I won’t.”
“Why not?” he cajoled softly as his mouth followed the rope down to her breasts, to lave at her nipples with his tongue. Whatever her reason, he would prove it wrong—
“Because I love you,” she whispered, and the anguished sound sliced through him like a saber.
* * *
Belle held her breath as Quinn froze, his mouth stilling against her, and waited for him to reply. Her heart pounded brutally as it ticked off each silent second, and each passing moment only made her more miserable than she’d ever been before in her life. Because she knew the harsh truth.
For all his pretty words and charming smiles, for all his insistence that she marry him, he did not love her.
When she could bear his silence no longer, she slid out from beneath him and off the bed. Thankfully, he let her go, but the heat of his puzzled stare fixed on her as she snatched up her discarded night rail and pulled it over her head. Her shaking fingers tangled the ribbon at her neckline into a knotted mess.
She squeezed her eyes shut against the stunned expression on his handsome face and pressed her hand against her chest, where her foolish heart continued to pound away. Didn’t the silly thing know it was broken? The irony burned inside her. Three weeks ago she was desperate to marry him; now she couldn’t bear the thought of being the wife he didn’t love.
Pulling in a deep breath, she forced down the hollow pain smoldering inside her chest. “Do you know why I followed you into the darkness tonight during the party? Because I’d already made my decision to not marry. Tonight was to be the one and only time I would ever make love to a man,” she said softly. The raw sincerity came easier than she’d imagined, but it didn’t stop her heart from bleeding. “And I wanted it to be with you.”
He stared at her, stunned at her confession. “Belle, I—”
“It was wonderful, Quinton. You were wonderful. But I never expected you to marry me because of it. Not then, not now.” She squeezed her eyes shut, unable to bear seeing his shocked expression. “In the end, you were right about me. I couldn’t bring myself to marry someone who didn’t love me.” Shaking her head, she forced a smile, but it only deepened her sorrow. She choked out—“And I still can’t.”
Years of marriage to him, living with him and loving him, even bearing his children— Dear God. A different kind of hell than the one her mother suffered in her marriage, but still agony. To dedicate her life and heart to a man who did not love her in return, to be so close to his love that she could feel it and taste it, but never have it…how would she ever survive?
He rolled off the bed and stalked toward her. “We need each other, Annabelle. As estate partners, as friends, as lovers…I want all of that with you. You’re beautiful and intelligent, and you make me feel alive. How could I not want you for my wife?”
A soft sob tore through her. Damn him for saying such wonderful things! And damn him for putting his arms around her, for drawing her close against him…Oh, he wasn’t helping, not at all! Because for all his sweet words and tender touches, there was no admission of love. And she knew in her heart that there never would be.
“Quinton—” Her throat tightened as he caressed his lips across her shoulder, her eyes closing tightly against the unbearable tenderness of his kiss.
“I care about you, Annabelle. And I want to make you happy.” He kissed her gently and murmured against her lips, “We need each other, and that’s enough. What more could love do but cause problems?”
“Allow for a true partnership, for one,” she whispered. Something her parents never had.
“We would have that.” He took a deep breath and confessed, “I spoke to Bartleby about it tonight. I’m taking the money I saved for America and purchasing more land for us. For us, Belle. Property we’ll own and manage together.”
What should have made her heart soar only made it tear more deeply. “And inside the house where we live?” she murmured, unable to find her voice beneath her sorrow. No matter how much the hopefulness of his words warmed her chest, owning property together would only be part of their lives. “Would we be partners there, too? When we disagree—and we will disagree, Quinton, it’s our nature—without love to get us through the bad times…” She shook her head and whispered, “Our marriage becomes nothing but a prison.”
“No, it won’t.” The determination inside him was strong, but it didn’t bring her comfort. “We were friends first before we ever considered anything more, and we’ll stay friends after we marry.”
“I saw what my parents had for a marriage.” She blinked rapidly as his handsome face blurred unrecognizably beneath her hot tears. “They didn’t have love, which meant they didn’t have respect for each other. But they had resentment, bitterness, anger…so much anger!”
“I’m not Marcus Greene,” he countered fiercely. “I would never lay a hand on you or treat you the way he treated your mother.”
“I know that,” she whispered achingly. “But I also know that the damage you could do to me could be so much worse, just because I love you. You wouldn’t have to do anything except not return my love, and the pain would be unbearable.” She shook her head, the anguish already burning inside her so hotly that she shuddered. “I couldn’t bear that kind of marriage with you.”
“You think love would make it better?” His arms tightened around her, as if he were afraid she’d leave him right then. “Love can make things worse, Annabelle. Look at my parents—when my father died, my mother was devastated. Her entire life was ripped out from under her. It took her weeks to crawl out of bed, and every breath she took filled her with such grief, such desolation, that it nearly killed her, too.”
“Quinton,” she whispered, struck by the raw emotion in him. His jaw tightened as the grief of the memories mixed with his frustration, until it seeped inside her, as palpable as falling rain.
“And your real parents, Belle…what did love do for them?” He shook his head. “In my experience, love causes nothing but destruction and heartache. Why would you want that?”
Slowly, she stepped back, just out of his grasp, should he attempt once more to reach for her. Because she wasn’t certain she had the strength to push him away if he did.
“You’re wrong, Quinton,” she said softly. “Without love there’s nothing.” She ached with a sorrow for him so intense that she couldn’t stop trembling, with so much grief that each breath burned in her chest. The breathless whisper fell from her lips. “Those hours of grief and pain can never add up to all the years of happiness and love.”
“Annabelle.” Her name was a plea as he closed the distance between them and pulled her into his arms. Squeezing his eyes shut, he rested his forehead against hers.
A sob choked from her, and despite herself, her arms went around his shoulders, to press herself close. One final time. “Can’t you…” she breathed out, so softly that she could barely hear her own voice over her pounding heartbeat, “can’t you find a way to…” She couldn’t stop the hot tears from spilling down her cheeks. “Do you think…someday…”
“I don’t know,” he murmured, so softly that it was barely a sound at all.
But she heard it, and it ripped all the way down to her soul. Every breath emerged as a blinding pain, and every pounding beat of her heart was agony.
“I care about you, Annabelle, and I want to spend the rest of my life protecting you and laughing with you, holding you close every night.” All of him shook as he dragged in a jerking breath. “Needing and caring, friendship and respect…we have all that,” he rasped out, each word a tickling warmth against her lips. “Let that be enough.”
But it would never be enough. Not without his love.
Her heart began to crack, like a thousand fingers splintering through glass. She felt each one slice through her, a thousand tiny cuts, each one more painful than the last.
He tipped up her face, to make her look at him, but she closed her eyes, unable to bear it. “Marry me, Annabelle,” he urged her one last time.
“No,” she breathed, and her heart shattered completely.