Blast it!
Pain shot through her foot as Annabelle stubbed her toe against one of the chairs in the dark hallway. Grabbing at the throbbing toe with her hand and hopping on one foot, she muttered a string of curses beneath her breath, all of them aimed at Quinton Carlisle. Only he could cause this much trouble when he wasn’t even in the room.
She blew out a heavy sigh and hurried on.
The house was silent around her, except for the faint tolling of the long case clock on the first-floor landing as it struck midnight, and without so much as a slant of moonlight to guide her, it was also dark enough that she could barely see. But she knew her way blind through the house—well, she reconsidered as her toe throbbed, perhaps not quite blind. Yet she loved every inch of this two-hundred-year-old perpetually drafty house, with its worn carpets and faded draperies, its solid furniture, and most likely a family of mice inhabiting every wall.
This was the place where she felt most at peace in the world, where she felt safe and loved. The place that made her heart full. Home. She couldn’t imagine ever living anywhere else.
Perhaps now she wouldn’t have to.
Wrapped in a white shawl over her cotton nightdress, she made her way through the dark house, too afraid that someone might see if she lit a candle and wonder what she was doing prowling around like a thief in the night. But Lady Ainsley had been snoring as loud as a mill saw when Belle passed her room, and the rest of the house was just as dark, with all the servants gone to sleep.
So far, though, there was no sign of Quinton. She hoped that he’d be enough of a gentleman to meet her. Failing that, then enough of a mercenary to discover if Lady Ainsley had intended any funds for him at all. She’d welcome either reason as long as he heard her out.
He had absolutely infuriated her earlier. What on earth had he been thinking? All those sly innuendos…and right in front of Lady Ainsley, no less. Belle had no choice but to feign a headache and flee before she did something she would regret. Or before she had to admit to herself that Quinn could still tie her belly in knots. Which only made her angry at herself that he could still affect her, even after everything he’d put her through.
Heavens, how desperate she’d become to be willing to put up with that scoundrel! But there was no legal way out of the inheritance clause. She and Lady Ainsley had thoroughly exhausted that route with the family’s solicitor after the viscount passed away. It was marriage or nothing, and if she wanted assurances that the man she married wouldn’t steal Glenarvon away from her or treat her unkindly, then Quinton Carlisle was now her last hope.
She reached the library and slipped inside, only to find the room dark and empty. But she wasn’t yet ready to give up. Two things she knew for certain about Quinn were that, one, he never missed a midnight meeting with a woman, and two, he was always late. To everything.
So she crossed to the reading table and lit a candle, prepared to wait. Taking the curled handle of the little brass holder, she was drawn to the tall shelves of books. She lifted the candle to read the titles embossed on the leather and cloth spines, and as she moved the light across the rows of books, she trailed her fingertips over each one, unable to keep herself from touching them.
She loved books. Oh, how could anyone not? The way they smelled of pulp and rainy afternoons, the soft scratch of the paper beneath her fingertip as she turned the pages, all the wonderful knowledge and adventures held within their covers just waiting to be discovered—she loved everything about them. But most of all, she loved the way they had always brought her comfort. Given the choice between sneaking off to read a book, where she could let her imagination run wild and believe anything was possible, and being forced to be polite even as people cut her directly to her face, well, she’d gladly choose a book any day.
Wondering if she should take one back to her room with her, knowing that trying for sleep tonight would be a lost cause, she paused with her fingertip on the spine of Don Quixote. One of her absolute favorites. After all, didn’t she know firsthand the futility of tilting at windmills, yet still feeling compelled beyond reason to try anyway?
Her body tingled with sudden awareness, feeling him before she saw him as Quinn stepped up behind her from out of the shadows. She swallowed. Hard. Thank goodness he’d come. She would have felt a wave of relief if not for the nervous somersaulting of her stomach.
He lowered his head over her shoulder, his mouth close to her ear. “You know, Annabelle,” he murmured. The warmth of his breath tickling across her cheek sent a cascading heat swirling through her. “With your hair down like this, in that white nightdress, you look…”
She held her breath, foolishly hoping for an affectionate compliment—
“…more like a ghost than a Bluebell.”
She rolled her eyes in exasperation. The man was impossible!
But aggravatingly, she also knew exactly how much she needed him. And what a terrible wound to her pride that was. That the only person who could save her now was him—oh, fate must surely be having a good laugh at her expense!
She faced him and caught her breath. He stood close. Uncomfortably close. So close that if she simply leaned forward, she could bring the front of her body against his hard chest. Her heart—the traitorous, silly thing—began to race. He wore only boots, breeches, and a shirt scandalously untucked around his hips. For a moment, he reminded her of a rumpled highwayman who lived outside the proprieties of society, and not at all a gentleman.
Heavens, she’d been reading too many books to confuse Quinton Carlisle with a dashing villain! Yet despite herself, her eyes trailed lingeringly up his roguish state of undress, over the open collar of the shirt, which exposed the bare skin of his neck and just enough of his chest for her to note the outline of the hard muscles beneath.
Perhaps not a villain, she conceded. But certainly dashing, drat him. Oh, why couldn’t he be hideously featured with the charm of an old boot? Marriage to him would be so much easier if he were repugnant.
As her gaze finally rose from his chest to meet his blue eyes, she remembered to breathe. “Quinton.”
“Annabelle.” He gave her that same lazy grin that always sent butterflies fluttering in her belly. Even knowing what a rascal he was, she couldn’t help being attracted to him. Somewhere down deep she wanted to believe that he was more than just the devil who antagonized her to no end, that he would repent his past ways and treat her differently going forward.
Was she a fool to hope for that? Or would he be the same scoundrel he was before? He certainly hadn’t been affected by that encounter in the St James garden, while she’d nearly melted into a puddle at his feet.
His lips tugged into a faint smile, as if recognizing the confusion warring inside her. He took the candle from her hand to place it on the shelf behind her. But instead of stepping back, he kept his hand resting on the shelf, effectively holding her trapped between his large body and the bookcase.
His shadow-darkened eyes flicked to the book she’d been touching when he found her. Even in the dim candlelight, she saw amusement dance in their depths.
“You like Cervantes,” he commented, keeping his voice low to match the quiet of the sleeping house around them.
She caught his scent, a delicious masculine combination of tobacco and port. Nervousness pinched inside her. “I like windmills.”
He laughed softly, his eyes shining.
Embarrassment washed through her. I like windmills? Oh, what an inane thing to say! None of his sophisticated London ladies would have ever uttered something so ridiculous. No, they would have known the exact right turn of phrase to capture his attention and prove their urbanity, to persuade him into doing their bidding—
“I like windmills, too,” he confessed, his voice a deep purr that tickled down her spine and left her breasts feeling strangely heavy. “Well, I like Cervantes, at least.”
She blinked, surprised. “You’ve read Quixote?”
His lips twitched, although she couldn’t say whether with amusement or pique. “I studied at Oxford, you know. I’m not a complete dullard.”
“I’ve heard about what you and your brothers did at Oxford,” she challenged with a dubious quirk of her brow, “and I don’t think any of it involved books.”
He gave another soft laugh. Well, at least he found her amusing, although Belle wasn’t certain that was a compliment.
“There are lots of ways to gain a life’s education,” he informed her, his sapphire eyes sparkling in the candlelight. “Not all of them are found in a lecture hall.”
“You’re probably correct,” she admitted grudgingly, loath to admit that Quinton Carlisle might be right about anything. Overseeing Castle Glenarvon since the viscount’s death had proven a wealth of hands-on knowledge for her that couldn’t be learned from books, although she was certain that wasn’t the kind of life lesson Quinn had in mind. Not this scoundrel.
The corners of his lips curled higher, surprised that she would agree with him. Then he shook his head. “I can’t believe it’s been six years. At first, I thought you hadn’t changed, but now…” he murmured as he stared intently into her face, a touch of incredulity lacing through his voice, “I see it’s more than I realized.”
Her pulse quickened. Well, he’d certainly changed. Quinton had matured into a more solemn man than he’d been before, despite his perpetual teasing of her. The candlelight accentuated his strong cheekbones and the smooth panes of his face, even with the faint stubble of a midnight beard darkening his skin, and his hair appeared even thicker and silkier in the faint glow. So soft and inviting that her fingertips itched to touch it.
But Quixote and his windmills—and Quinn himself—had taught her that appearances were often deceiving. Especially charmingly rakish ones.
“You look much more like your father now,” she commented, nervously licking her suddenly dry lips but only serving to draw his attention to her mouth. Which made her even more nervous, so nervous that she couldn’t stop the trembling of her fingertips as they wrapped into the skirt of her night rail. “But you’re still a troublemaker.”
A faint smile played at his mouth. “And you’re still a bluestocking,” he countered. Unintentionally simmering a slow heat low in her belly, he reached up to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. “Still retreating to the sanctuary of your library.”
“Because books are usually more pleasant than most people,” she answered, swallowing hard when he trailed his fingers down the side of her neck. She forced out, not at all as firmly as she’d hoped beneath his soft touch, “And more trustworthy.”
Ignoring that jab, he slid his hand lower to let his fingers play at the edge of her shawl. “Yet there are things that people can do that books can’t.” His fingers tugged gently at the shawl and pulled it down her shoulder to reveal the scooped neck of the nightdress beneath. His gaze flicked to the small patch of revealed skin at the base of her throat, then back to her eyes. “All kinds of interesting things.”
She should stop him, swat his hand away, shove him back—but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Just as she couldn’t hold back the hot shiver that swept through her or the gooseflesh that formed on her skin. His touch was proving to be as equally intoxicating now as that night six years ago.
“Then I have no interest in learning them,” she countered, although from the way her blood hummed, her body was very interested.
Madness—that after what he’d done to her, she could ever want to be in his arms again. Yet she desired just that, although that could never happen. Kissing him once had ruined her reputation. Kissing him again might destroy her entire future.
She thrust her chin into the air. “I know of your reputation.”
“Thank you,” he half purred.
His finger hooked beneath the wide shoulder strap of her sleeveless nightgown and slid it slowly down her arm. But this time, with a stretch of bare shoulder revealed to his eyes, he didn’t bother feigning propriety by looking away and instead flamed a prickling heat beneath her skin everywhere he gazed.
She pulled in a deep breath to steady herself. Oh, why did she always go light-headed when she was alone with him? “That was not meant as a compliment.”
“Wasn’t it?” His mouth crooked into a lazy grin. His fingertip traced smoothly over her shoulder, drawing aimless yet tantalizing designs on her skin. From the odd mix of soothing caresses and searing strokes he gave her, Belle was certain he was branding her body with each small touch. “Then how exactly did you mean it?”
He fogged her brain and made thinking difficult. At that moment, through the confusion his nearness churned inside her, all she knew was the feel of his fingers tugging once more at the shawl to reveal even more of her to his eyes. And she let him, enjoying the nearness of him. It was like eating too many sweets, knowing that it wasn’t good for her but desiring the pleasure anyway.
She forced out in a hoarse whisper from suddenly thick lips, “That you’re a rake.”
He smiled down at her. “Thank you.”
“Stop saying that. That is not flattery.” She gave him her best affronted governess stare, when what she actually wanted to do was take a single step forward and place herself in his arms, to experience once more the delicious strength of him she remembered. She couldn’t help herself. Despite knowing what a scoundrel he was, she was still drawn to him. Even against her better judgment.
He shrugged, his eyes gleaming mischievously.
She saw in that unguarded sparkle the same glint he wore whenever he teased her, and she knew— Oh, that devil! He knew exactly what he was doing by murmuring to her like this, playing with her shawl and night rail…flirting with her until she was ready to blush. Or scream in aggravation. The rascal was enjoying putting her off-balance!
Not knowing he’d been caught, he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a deep rumble as he added, “If you’re interested in learning more about men than you can discover from your books, I’d be happy to teach you.”
Keeping her annoyance in check, she flashed him a saccharine smile. “Ah, I see…fiction.” To throw an even larger bucket of cold water over him, she forced herself to drop her gaze down his front and linger at his groin, then remarked regretfully with a sympathetic shake of her head, “And a very short story at that.”
At her cut, his lips tightened for only a heartbeat before returning to the same charming grin as before. “Epic, I assure you,” he drawled.
Her patience snapped. She slapped at his shoulder with her open palm. “Quinton James Carlisle!” She scowled, no longer able to hide her aggravation. “Why do you always insist on goading me?”
With a deep chuckle, he gave her a crooked grin and leaned down, as if sharing a secret. “Because you always make it so much fun.”
She gave a frustrated sound somewhere between a growl and a cry. “Be serious for once, will you?” How could he find such pleasure in tormenting her at a time like this? She heaved an exasperated breath and ground out in grudging admission, “I need your help.”
He froze. The amused smile that had been on his face vanished. The teasing rogue she remembered from years before disappeared, replaced by the serious man he’d become.
“What’s wrong, Annabelle?” Concern underpinned his masculine timbre. “What can I do?”
She exhaled a long sigh of relief at finally being able to broach her plan with him. But she needed more courage to get through the rest of this conversation. “There’s a bottle of Bowmore hidden behind the Bibles.” She nodded toward the shelves on the other side of the room. “Fetch it, will you?”
“Behind the Bibles?” he repeated, dumbfounded.
“It’s where Lady Ainsley keeps her best scotch,” she explained, fighting back an affectionate smile for the viscountess. “She’s a staunch believer that religion should always be followed by a stiff drink.”
With a deep chuckle, knowing his aunt well, he turned away to do as she asked.
“Bring me a glass, too, please,” she called out as she sank onto the settee. This was a conversation best conducted sitting down. In case one of them fainted.
He threw her a surprised glance over his shoulder. “The Bluebell drinks scotch?”
“Good single malt she does,” she clarified, a bit peeved. Did he think her so dull and boring as all that? “Why are you surprised?”
“Because whisky—even good single malt scotch,” he corrected as he reached behind the row of Bibles and found the bottle hidden there, “is not a drink usually taken by ladies.”
“In the borderlands, most ladies prefer scotch.” Including Lady Ainsley. The scotch distillers, who had known the viscountess for years, always made a point of stopping at the estate on their way south to let her sample their finest stock. And she wasn’t alone in her penchant for good drink. Here in the northern wilds, scotch whisky was mother’s milk. “You’ve spent too much time in London with those frilly petticoats of the ton.”
“Perhaps I have,” he mumbled thoughtfully as he picked up a glass from behind the nearby hymnals and carried it and the bottle back to her. He splashed the golden liquid into the tumbler and held it out to her.
“Thank you.” She gratefully swallowed down the small amount of scotch as he sat on the settee next to her and kicked his long legs out in front of him. Whatever edge to her nervousness that the whisky had dulled was immediately sharpened again by his closeness. But she couldn’t very well demand he move away, not with what she was about to ask of him.
“Now, tell me what’s wrong.” He slid her a sideways glance, one whose hard expression told her that he would brook no dissembling. “What kind of trouble are you in that Aunt Agatha brought me here under false pretenses?”
Annabelle winced inwardly at that reminder that Lady Ainsley had lied in order to help her. “She had to, because you wouldn’t have come if you knew the truth.”
His mouth pulled down. “What truth is that exactly?”
She held out the empty tumbler and gestured for him to refill it. And this time, no small splash, either. He complied and poured a generous two fingers’ worth.
She was conscious of his sapphire eyes training on her as she drank a long sip. When she lowered the glass, he took it from her hand to drink after her.
“I’m in a terrible situation,” she whispered, pressing her fingers to her whisky-wet lips. “And I need help getting out of it.”
He arched a brow. “Doesn’t seem so terrible to me. You’re on the verge of gaining an estate.”
And an unwanted husband. She inhaled deeply. “I’m very grateful to Lord and Lady Ainsley,” she began, a bit haltingly as she tried to stumble her way through her explanation. “They raised me as if I were their own daughter.”
“I know.” He finished the remaining scotch in a single swallow. “Aunt Agatha adores you.”
Belle nodded glumly, her shoulders sagging. “And I love her. Which is the problem.”
He frowned. “How so?”
“She wants the best possible future for me. So did Lord Ainsley.”
“Which was why they put you into the will.”
Another nod, impossibly even glummer than the last. “When Lord Ainsley died and the inheritances were settled, the title and all its entailed properties went to his late brother’s son. Lady Ainsley received her dower, and his three daughters from his first marriage received equal portions of what was left. Except for Glenarvon.” She couldn’t stop her voice from trembling with grief for the late viscount, and with the gratitude she still felt every time she realized that he cared for her enough to include her in his will. “Which was saved for me.”
“Very generous of him,” he commented sincerely. “I’ve never heard of another peer leaving an estate to someone who wasn’t a blood relative.”
Belle knew how special she must have been to the viscount, and certainly he meant the world to her. She blinked back the stinging in her eyes. “He loved me like a true father. Far more than my own father ever did.”
He frowned. “Then why not give you the property outright, rather than risk you losing it?”
She looked down at her hands as she held them in her lap, idly twisting her fingers. “He wanted to protect me.”
The glass lowered slowly from his lips, and he stared at her, his eyes dark with concern. “From what?”
“My father,” she answered quietly. Feeling him tense beside her, she took back the glass of whisky. “If I inherited without that clause, then my male guardian would have the right to control my property, as if it were his.” She stared down into the empty glass. “So if my father were ever to return, if he asserted himself back into my life…”
Her voice trailed off. Speak of the devil. She didn’t dare put her thoughts into words, for fear that the devil would appear.
“Which is why the property is only granted to me upon marriage,” she continued, “when my husband becomes the man legally responsible for me.” She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, but it emerged far shakier than she intended. “That way, my father could never get his hands on Glenarvon.”
“That was clever of Uncle Charles,” Quinn commented. He knowingly quirked a brow. “Except…”
“Except that now I’m about to turn twenty-five without a husband in sight?” A grim smile pulled at her lips. The irony was biting. “I suspect Lord Ainsley thought twenty-five would be a good age to end the trust. After all, both of his wives hadn’t yet turned twenty when he married them, and all three of his daughters were wedded by the time they reached their majority. He thought I’d do the same when he originally wrote the stipulation into his will, although by the time I’d turned twenty-one and had no serious suitors, he’d begun to rethink it.” A knot of grief choked her throat. “But he died before he could make the change.”
Self-consciously, she darted her hand up to swipe at her eyes.
Quinn silently reached for the bottle to refill her glass, as if he knew how much distress remembering that dark time caused her. But of course he would. He’d recently lost his own father.
With a trembling hand that jiggled the golden liquid in the glass, she raised it to her lips and took a small swallow, more to give herself time to recover than for the taste of the stuff.
“So now I have four weeks to marry, or I lose my home,” she whispered. Four very short weeks. “And not a proper suitor in sight.”
“A beautiful woman whose dowry is an entire estate?” he murmured, shaking his head. “I’m surprised you don’t have men bivouacking in the rear garden for their chance at you.”
She couldn’t help but smile at that ludicrous image. “Actually, only a handful of people know that I’ll inherit Glenarvon.” She protectively drew her knees up to her chest and drew the shawl tighter around her shoulders. “But now, we have no choice but to reveal it.”
He shook his head. “You’re setting yourself up for capture by a fortune hunter.”
“Which is why you’re here.” The relentless frustration of her desperate situation sank over her once more. “To make certain that doesn’t happen.”
He gave a short laugh at the absurdity of that. “By sorting out the rotten apples?”
“Among other things,” she replied carefully, studying him from the corner of her eye.
He took back the glass. “And if you don’t marry?”
“Then the Church gains the estate,” she whispered, so softly she feared for a moment that he might not be able to hear her. But his continued expression of concern told her that he heard every word. “Lady Ainsley and I would move into the dower house in London until she passes away, then most likely I would be placed into a cottage somewhere on one of the Ainsley properties, if the current viscount feels charitable. If not…” When her words started to choke in her throat, she cut herself off with a wave of her hand, but the tears were dangerously close to falling.
His eyes softened with concern. “Have you tried speaking with the solicitor, to find a legal way out of this?”
“Yes, and the stipulation cannot be altered.” She sucked in a painful breath at the grief that clawed at her chest at being forced into a marriage she didn’t want to prevent being torn away from the home she loved. Quinton had become her only salvation. “I have to marry in order to inherit.”
“This Sir Harold whom Aunt Agatha mentioned—he’s offered for you?” A casual question, certainly one he had a right to ask. Yet Belle thought she heard a deeper edge to it. When she nodded, Quinn said, “Then he’s solved your marriage problem.”
Oh, Sir Harold was the farthest thing from a solution! Surely, Quinn thought he was helping, but being reminded of that marriage offer only squeezed her heart tighter with desperation. “I don’t want to marry him.”
He frowned into the glass. “Why not?”
“I don’t love him,” she admitted quietly, fearing that he would think her a sentimental ninny for saying so. “And he doesn’t love me.”
He stared at her for a long moment, as if she were some kind of new creature in the Tower menagerie that he simply couldn’t fathom. “Most husbands and wives don’t love each other.”
Hearing the cold truth from him didn’t ease the dread weighing heavy in her chest. Or the fear that she’d end up trapped like her mother. “I don’t want to be one of those women.”
He gave a faint shake of his head. “You might not have a choice.”
How well she knew that! “At the very least I want a husband who will treat me like an equal partner.” One who would never put her at the mercy of his whims, who would never shout at her or raise a hand to her. Who wouldn’t attempt to take Glenarvon away from her or interfere with how she wanted to run it.
He frowned. “That doesn’t sound like this Sir Harold of yours.”
“He isn’t mine.” And God help her, if she were lucky, he never would be.
“Better set your sights on another husband, then,” he advised, swirling the scotch in the glass. “And quickly.”
“I have,” she replied soberly.
“Oh?” He raised the glass to his lips. “Who?”
“You.”
* * *
Quinn choked on the scotch.
Coughing to catch his breath, he stared at her incredulously. She seemed like a perfectly normal woman, sitting there calmly, her big honey-hazel eyes watching him guilelessly. And yet…
Wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, he sputtered, “Are you mad?”
She sighed patiently. “If you would just hear me out—”
“We cannot marry!”
Her calm appearance only worked to send his galloping heart into a furious tattoo, and he resisted the urge to leap to his feet and run. Which was what he usually did whenever any woman discussed marriage in front of him. And this one had the spine to actually propose.
“Not only do we irritate the blazes out of each other, but I’m on my way to America—immediately.” He raised his arm and gestured in what he hoped was a westerly direction, too stunned to be certain. “I have land waiting for me. If I don’t leave, and soon, I’ll lose it.”
“I won’t keep you here longer than absolutely necessary, I promise,” she assured him. She leaned slightly toward him, a fresh intensity glowing in her. “But this can help both of us,” she cajoled, a soft desperation coloring her voice, “giving me the estate under my own control and sending you off with more money at your disposal.”
His mouth fell open. Good God…“You’re serious.”
She gave a sober nod. “Very.”
Unable to sit still any longer, he shot to his feet and stood there awkwardly, running a shaking hand through his hair. Half of him wanted to flee and the other half was shamelessly curious about her scheme. After all, he’d come here in the first place for money. But marriage…Sweet Lord. Just pondering it made his blood run cold with panic and his palms turn clammy.
She uncurled her legs from beneath her and sat forward on the edge of the settee, then paused to bite her bottom lip, as if deciding whether to press on. “Besides,” she ventured cautiously, “I’m only in this situation because of you.”
He gaped at her. “How is this my fault?”
“Because of that fight with Burton Williams,” she answered quietly.
His eyes narrowed sharply as they slid over her. She was skating on thin ice if she thought she could guilt him into marriage. More resourceful women had tried, and it had gotten them nowhere. Just as it would with her…despite the odd pang of unexpected remorse pinching his gut.
Damnation, he had caused problems for her that night. But not enough to wed her because of it. “It was ill-conceived, I’ll admit—”
“Immature,” she corrected.
That stung more than he wanted to admit. “Misguided,” he clarified, crossing his arms over his chest. “But Williams was insulting you.”
The truth was that the bastard had done a helluva lot more to her than that. In the weeks following that ball, Williams had branded her a poplolly. He’d made certain that all his cronies at Boodle’s had a good laugh over finding Quinn with Lady Ainsley’s companion, all ripped and rumpled—along with several other more salacious adjectives as the story passed through the ton.
“I’m an impoverished lady’s companion whose father is a convict,” she said quietly. “Do you think that was the first time I’d ever been insulted by someone like Burton Williams?”
He blew out a hard sigh as the pang of remorse blossomed into full-out guilt. She’d never have been accepted by society, no matter how much his aunt and uncle wanted that for her. But that night certainly hadn’t helped.
“I need your help,” she pressed delicately. “You owe me, Quinton.”
She was wrong about that. He certainly didn’t owe her this. “I am not marrying you, Annabelle. That night was nothing more than an accident, and you bloody well know it.”
“And several kisses, don’t forget,” she whispered.
No, he hadn’t forgotten. How could he? It had been a surprisingly passionate encounter that left him craving more, even as unpracticed and innocent as she’d been. All these years later, and after dozens of other women who did far more with him than simply kiss, that night with Annabelle was still embossed upon his mind. His senses tingled even now at simply remembering it.
But marriage…
“For God’s sake, Belle,” he ground out in exasperation. “What you’re proposing—”
“Yes,” she replied urgently, “exactly that! I am proposing.” She gave him a bright smile, but he could easily see the nervousness behind it, so much nervousness that she trembled. “Marry me, Quinton, and in exchange, I’ll pay you a portion of the annual estate profits. That way, we both win. I get to keep Glenarvon, and you get additional funds for your new life in America.”
A proposal. Good heavens, she truly meant it. “Marriage,” he stammered out. Even though he was certain she’d said it, he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe— “To you?”
“A business arrangement,” she clarified. “As you said, the quality marry for money and land all the time. Why should this be any different? Only on a much smaller scale.”
“I’m not quality,” he protested. When her lips curled in amusement at his self-deprecating slip, he rolled his eyes with a grimace. “You know what I mean.”
“You are, Quinn,” she assured him, although he was certain that bit of flattery was meant to sway him toward marriage. But it would take a helluva lot more than a compliment or two to get him to leg-shackle himself. Especially to someone like Annabelle. She was the kind of woman a man could fall in love with. And if he wasn’t careful, he’d find himself permanently ensconced in some barren sheep pasture in the borderlands. “Why do you think all those women in London throw themselves at you?”
Despite pointedly arching a brow, he wisely kept his silence. This was not the time to explain to her the darker pleasures of society entertainment.
“Will you do it, then?” she pressed. “Will you marry me and help me out of this mess?”
“And right into another.” He shook his head, flabbergasted that he was having this conversation. “You said yourself that you don’t want to marry without love. You and I are most definitely not in love.”
“I no longer have a choice. I have to marry. But if I cannot marry for love, then marriage to you is perfect,” she rationalized, “because emotions will never get in the way, and you’ll let me run Glenarvon as I want.”
“Because I’ll be on the far side of the ocean!” he nearly shouted in exasperation.
A slow smile pulled at her lips, reminding him of the cat that got into the cream. “As I said, perfect.”
He blew out a harsh breath. “Belle, for God’s sake—”
“At the very least I should be able to marry a man I know won’t hurt me,” she interrupted. Her smile faded beneath the brutal honesty of that comment, which sliced straight through his chest like a knife. “And I know you well enough to know that you’d never harm me on purpose.”
His shoulders slumped beneath the weight of fresh guilt, and he sank back down onto the settee. “Good Lord, you are mad.”
“Yet there is a method to it,” she answered, her eyes gleaming as she paraphrased Shakespeare and proved again that she was the same bluestocking he’d always known.
He nearly laughed at the irony. While she loved attending the theatre, he loved getting ladies alone in private theatre boxes.
The two of them were oil and water.
And yet, a dependable allowance from Glenarvon would certainly make life easier for him, he couldn’t deny that. Helping her secure the estate for herself would also more than repay her for that night six years ago.
But marriage…Good God.
“If you agree,” she urged, doing her best to sway him, “we still have time to read the bans and won’t need the special license.”
He sent her a sideways glance. “We’re less than ten miles from Scotland, Belle,” he reminded her. “We don’t even need that.”
“There!” She gestured emphatically with her hands as if her lunacy made sense. “See how convenient this is? Almost like fate.”
He rolled his eyes. “Or a phony invitation to a scheming plot.”
“That, too.” She reached for the bottle of scotch and refilled the empty glass he still held in his hand, although he’d lost his taste for the stuff. “Once we’re married, we’ll travel to Newcastle. I know a trustworthy banker there who can set up financial arrangements for you to receive an allowance in America.” She put the bottle down and leaned back against the settee. “It won’t be much at first, I’ll admit, but I have plans for the estate which should increase our profits nicely within the next few years.”
He grimaced, not knowing whether to be tempted at her offer or terrified to within an inch of his life. “You’ve got this all figured out, haven’t you?”
“Desperate times,” she answered solemnly, repeating his aunt’s words to him, “desperate measures.”
She slowly removed the glass of scotch from his hand. He watched as she took a sip, noticing the soft undulation of her elegant throat and the glistening of her wet lips after, and he felt that swallow sink all the way through him.
He was in serious trouble.
Of all the woman he’d known in his life, none of them had ever been more dangerous than Annabelle Greene as she sat there in her white cotton night rail with its ribbon bow and dipped her finger into the scotch, then raised it to her lips and sucked off the droplets clinging to her fingertip. With an outward appearance so innocent-looking that he felt the urge even now to pull her into his arms to protect her, while beneath lurked a siren who had him wanting to pull her into his arms to satisfy a far darker urge, she was a trap just waiting to be sprung. Add to that the financial boon which could be his—
Dangerous? Good Lord, the woman was downright deadly.
Unable to resist touching her, he reached out to caress her hair, which cascaded in a riot of caramel-colored curls around her shoulders. “If I agree to this plan of yours—and I’m not saying that I will—” A silky lock curled around his finger. “Do I get to leave as soon as the honeymoon is over?”
A soft sigh escaped her, her shoulders sagging as visible relief surged through her that he was agreeing to help. Or at least not running away. “That’s exactly what I want, too.”
He fought back a smile of pleased surprise, not expecting her to be so bold—and wonderfully direct—about the marriage bed. Perhaps he’d wrongly underestimated the Bluebell. Perhaps a hellcat lurked behind those blue stockings of hers. “Is that part of your proposal, too, then?”
She nodded earnestly. “If you’d like it to be.”
“I think I’d like that a great deal,” he murmured, not believing his good fortune. His eyes dropped to the top swells of her breasts, just showing above the scooped neckline, the bow nestled in the valley between. Lucky bow. But he’d never bedded an innocent before—how much did Belle know about the pleasures of wedding nights? “You’re prepared for marriage, then?” He paused before adding, to make certain she understood, “For a proper marriage?”
“Of course I’m ready.” She looked up from the scotch, and her lips tightened with ire. “I’ve been running the estate myself for years.”
He chuckled softly. Bluestocking. “That’s not what I meant.”
She puzzled. “Then what did you—”
He grabbed her by the front of her shawl and tugged her to him, catching her off guard as his mouth found hers, to take the kiss he’d been craving for years.
Her mouth was warm, deliciously soft, and oh so inviting. She tasted intoxicatingly of the north…the spicy tang of scotch, the floral of heather, the boldness of the wilderness. The tip of his tongue traced along the seam between her lips in hopes of coaxing her into opening for him so he could taste all of her.
She trembled but didn’t pull away. When he nibbled at the corner of her mouth, she acquiesced with a soft sigh and parted her lips. It was all the invitation he needed. He greedily swept his tongue inside and relished the sweetness he found there.
He’d kissed more women than he could remember, but none were as sweet as Annabelle. That was what he remembered from that night beneath the rose bower. More than the way she’d arched herself against him, more than how her hands had tangled in his lapels to draw herself closer, even more than the fumbling of hands reaching wherever they could touch…he remembered how delectably sweet she tasted. Like chocolate, wine, and woman. Even now that same rich, luscious flavor pulled straight through him and made him ache for more.
God help him, he wanted to devour her.
His lips slid away from hers to nibble along her jaw and down her neck. When he flicked the tip of his tongue against her racing pulse in the hollow at the base of her throat, she whimpered, and the soft sound shivered through him. Unable to stop himself, he traced his fingertip along the scooped neckline of her night rail to the bow and pulled the ribbon loose, letting the thin cotton billow open. His mouth followed after, to slide over that smooth stretch of flesh between her collarbone and the start of the valley between her breasts. He groaned. Sweet Lucifer, even her skin tasted sweet.
“Quinton,” she breathed plaintively against his hair as he dipped his head to place a single kiss on the top swell of her left breast. Just inches below his lips, he could see the outline of her dusky nipple straining against the white cotton.
He captured her breast against his palm through the thin night rail and teased at the nipple with his thumb. Even as he felt the bud harden beneath the caress of his fingers and her resulting shudder, he contemplated pulling the night rail lower to reveal a single, luscious breast to his eyes, to his mouth—
Cold wetness poured over his head.
“What the hell!” He scrambled to his feet and wiped his hand through his scotch-soaked hair as rivulets trailed down his face.
“There will be none of that,” she warned, putting up her hand to half scold, half fend him away, her other hand still firmly gripped around the now empty glass. But her tremulous voice lacked conviction. She was as equally aroused by that kiss as he was. He could see it in the way she trembled and in the parting of her wet lips, but the frustrating bluestocking wouldn’t let herself give over to it. “No wedding night, no marriage intimacies of any kind,” she explained. “Our marriage would be purely a business arrangement, nothing else.” She shot him a determined glance, and from the way she struggled to catch her panting breath, he wondered which one of them she was trying to convince. “Nothing else.”
Gritting his teeth tightly in equal parts humiliation at her rejection and frustration from the brief taste he’d had of her, he wiped his hand over his face and flung away the drops of scotch. “Fine,” he bit out. The liquid ran down his neck, and he grimaced as he added beneath his breath, “I doubt I’d survive anyway if this is how you’d welcome your husband.”
“Be reasonable.” Her chin jutted into the air with irritation. “With you on the other side of the world and me here, if we consummated, what would happen if we…if we…” She turned away to set the glass down. Her hand shook.
“Got with child?” he ground out irritably as he swiped at the cold trickle dripping beneath his collar. Damnable woman. “There are ways to avoid that.”
She gave him an odd look. “I was going to say develop feelings for each other,” she confessed softly, “although I’m certain there are ways of avoiding that, too.”
An invisible fist squeezed his chest. That was exactly what he feared, as well. Because if a man latched himself to a woman like Annabelle, how would he keep the little hellcat from getting beneath his skin? Or into his heart? Would even an ocean’s distance be far enough?
When his eyes solemnly found hers, she quickly covered any vulnerability by forcing a haughty sniff. “Regardless, the risk of complications doesn’t seem worth a night of what Lady Ainsley assures me is not very enjoyable for the bride anyway.”
He would have laughed at that, if he wasn’t soaked through to the skin and reeking like a gin palace. “Aunt Agatha is wrong,” he assured her, only to face her dubiousness when she silently raised an eyebrow in reply.
But he would get nowhere attempting to win an argument over how much she would enjoy being intimate with him, not with his reputation and her intellect to fight against. So Quinn wisely kept his silence.
He stared down at her, her lips reddened from his kisses and her night rail rumpled at her neckline, revealing more flesh than she realized. With her hands now folded primly in her lap, she looked every inch like a virginal seductress. One he very much still craved, despite the glass of scotch over his head, which was nearly as good in tamping down his arousal as a bucket of cold water.
But damnation, she was right, and he knew it. He maintained a healthy respect for the complications that could arise from sharing a bed, yet disappointment still panged hollowly in his gut. Over not possessing the Bluebell, of all women.
Sweet Lucifer, the world had gone mad.
“Will you do it, then?” Leaning forward on the settee, her fingers gripping the edge of the cushion, she looked up at him hopefully. “Will you marry me?”
His gut tightened at her modest proposal, the ramifications of which were anything but simple.
“I need to think about it,” he deflected, unwilling to answer while the heather scent of her still lingered on his body where he’d held her against him. While the thought of additional funds still tempted him.
“All right.” Her slender shoulders eased down. “I’ll give you time to decide.”
“Thank you,” he muttered, not nearly as relieved and hopeful as she was.
She rose to her feet and tied the ribbon bow securely at her neckline. His chest ached with disappointment. When he’d untied it, the sensation had been like unwrapping the most wonderful present he’d ever been given. Only to have it stolen away.
“But I’ll need your answer soon.” Her eyes darkened with a flicker of sadness. “If you say no, I’ll have to find another solution. And quickly.”
He swiped away the last of the scotch still clinging to the back of his neck and grimaced. “I would say that we should seal our agreement with a kiss,” he joked grimly, “but you’d likely bash me over the head with the bottle for suggesting such a thing.”
“I would never do that,” she assured him as she slipped past him and glided from the room, pausing only to take the copy of Don Quixote from the shelf and tuck it beneath her arm. She added with an unrepentant smile, “It would be a waste of perfectly good scotch.”
As she disappeared into the dark hallway, he caught a parting glimpse of her in the moonlight slanting in through the tall windows and illuminating the nightgown hanging loose around her. Her breasts and hips were silhouetted dark beneath the white cotton as if she wore nothing at all as her hair tumbled in silky waves down her back, nearly reaching her round bottom. His cock jumped eagerly at the rash thought of following her back to her bedroom, to convince her that marriage rights could be enjoyable for the bride, too. Very enjoyable.
And if he did that, the next thing to come crashing down over his head would be the Quixote. Along with all of his future plans for America and his promise to his father. Because he knew one thing for certain about the Bluebell. A man didn’t give himself to a woman like her and then leave.
“Damned woman,” he muttered and drank straight from the bottle.