Damn damn damn damn damn!
Quinn stomped into the house and nearly growled at a footman when the man offered to take his coat and hat. “Where’s the nearest whisky?”
The young man pointed toward the drawing room, not blinking an eye that the long case clock on the stairway landing hadn’t yet struck ten. “Behind the potted palm, sir. Shall I fetch you a glass?”
“No.” He blew out a frustrated breath and ran his hand through his hair. “I’ll get it myself.”
The footman nodded and wisely retreated. And Quinn charged toward the drawing room and the promised whisky.
What on earth had he been thinking to kiss Annabelle like that? Along with so much more he had no business doing with her at all. Something to remember her by? He laughed bitterly. Well, he certainly had that. Although remembering her wasn’t what he wanted to do to her now. The infuriating bluestocking had gotten into his head and under his skin, and what he wanted to do was dribble scotch over her ripe body and lick away every tempting drop, teach her all kinds of pleasures not found in her blasted books—
He threw open the drawing room doors and froze.
Lady Ainsley looked up from the settee, a cup of tea lifted halfway to her lips, while in the chair across from her lounged a man dressed in a tweed hunting costume. The man’s eyes flicked disinterestedly in his direction, and he climbed slowly to his feet only when Aunt Agatha rose to hers.
“Quinton.” A smile brightened her face. “Come join us for tea.”
He fought to keep from rolling his eyes. Tea. Wonderful. When all he wanted to do was put as many miles between himself and Glenarvon as possible, before he did something he would regret. With the Bluebell. Good Lord.
But Aunt Agatha’s request couldn’t be ignored. With a welcoming smile he certainly didn’t feel—and casting a longing glance toward the potted palm in the corner—he sauntered forward.
Agatha proffered her cheek to him, and Quinn nearly blinked at the unexpected display of affection. What had gotten into her?
But he did as expected and kissed her cheek. “Aunt Agatha, you look well-rested this morning.”
Her sharp eyes swept over him. “And you look absolutely fierce.”
“It’s the weather,” he deflected. “Too damp and cold for a good walk.” But apparently not for other things.
The flicker in her eyes made him wonder whether she believed that bit of dissembling. But if she didn’t, at least she didn’t press. Instead, she waved a hand at the man with her. “Quinton, I want to introduce to you Sir Harold Bletchley, our good neighbor to the east.”
And the man who wanted to marry Belle.
Quinn tensed, his eyes narrowing. Bletchley looked perfectly harmless enough, he supposed, although the man was at least fifteen years Belle’s senior, with thinning hair and the start of a paunch around his middle. And an arrogance that reeked.
For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine Belle being happily married to this man. Or kissing him as passionately as she’d just kissed him.
“Sir Harold.” Quinn gave a stiff nod.
His aunt continued the introductions. “Sir Harold, this is Lord Quinton Carlisle, my great-nephew, come to Glenarvon to visit with us on his way to America.”
“Carlisle.” Bletchley didn’t bother to nod, nor erase the bored expression on his face.
From the tea service and the way Bletchley and Aunt Agatha had been in polite conversation when he entered, Quinn suspected that Bletchley was here to pay a social call, although from his appearance, he’d given it little forethought. The mud on his boots showed that he’d been outside in the damp and found it acceptable to muck about the countryside before calling, as did the smirk on his face that Quinn had let the northern weather get the best of him.
Quinn disliked the man, instantly put off by his egotism. And by his early arrival. Dear God, did everyone in the north country wake with the bloody chickens?
“Were you wanting to speak with me?” Agatha inquired of Quinn, straight back to her no-nonsense self, now that pleasantries were over.
Clearly, this wasn’t the best time to admit that he’d been looking for a bottle of scotch to dull his frustrations over scandalously touching the companion who was like a daughter to her. So he offered instead, “I’ve decided to leave today for the coast and wanted to say my good-byes.”
An unexpected panic flashed over her wrinkled face. “But—but you’re staying to help Belle. I insist!”
Quinn grimly shook his head, unwilling to divulge anything more about his sudden decision to leave. “I need to get on to America, if that’s all right with you, my lady.”
She stared at him silently for a long moment, as if she simply couldn’t fathom him. Then she smiled tightly. “Of course,” she assured him, the lie obvious. “Then your timing is impeccable, that you should be here to meet Belle’s suitor.”
Bletchley’s thin lips curled with mock humility. “Now, viscountess, you know she hasn’t yet formally accepted my suit.”
Agatha waved her hand dismissingly. “Of course she will. And may I say how thrilled we are that you’ve declared your intentions? Aren’t we, Quinton?”
He quirked a brow and drawled, “Ecstatic.”
If Agatha heard the sarcasm in his answer, she made no reaction, her smile only widening on Bletchley. “Of course, Sir Harold first offered for her two years ago. But I didn’t think she was ready for marriage then, especially given what she’d gone through in her only London season.”
Quinn rolled his eyes. Would none of the women here let him forget that night? He bit back the offer to fetch Robert from bed so they could have his brother’s help in roasting him on a spit in revenge. “How fortunate you persisted,” he mumbled, drawing a surprised glance from his aunt.
Bletchley smiled lazily, as if marrying Belle were his birthright. “As I’ve learned, hunting requires patience. All good things take time.”
“Indeed, they do!” Agatha interjected before Quinn could say something entirely ungentlemanly about his so-called hunting of Belle. “And speaking of time, Sir Harold’s family has been in the area for over five generations.”
Quinn couldn’t help himself. “Legally?”
“Pardon?” Bletchley frowned.
“Sir Harold inherited Kinnybroch nearly twenty years ago,” his aunt hurried on, ignoring that small exchange, “which his family has owned since his great-grandfather received the estate for his bravery at Culloden.” She slid Quinn a deliberate glance. “Isn’t it wonderful that Annabelle might have the chance to marry into a family with such a distinguished history?”
“Wonderful,” he repeated stiffly. He didn’t give a damn about family histories when what mattered was Belle’s happiness.
“Lord Quinton is the third son of the late Duke of Trent,” she continued, turning to Bletchley. Then sadly shook her head. “You know the lot of younger sons. So he is leaving for America to start a life for himself there.”
Quinn stared at her, dumbfounded. Did Aunt Agatha realize the unintended insult she’d just leveled against him?
But of course she did. The question now was why she’d done it.
“Yes,” Quinn forced out, his smile never wavering as he pretended her comment didn’t sting, “in the Carolinas. I plan on buying land there.”
“Tobacco?” Sir Harold asked, amusement touching his lips that Quinn hoped to be what most English gentlemen considered nothing more than a glorified farmer.
“Rice and indigo, actually.” He’d been working the numbers for the past four years and knew the best use of his money was to invest in those two crops. And not just in the profit from growing them but also in their storage, shipment, and trade, which was why he was fortunate that the land was so close to Charleston. With the help of Asa Jeffers, he could be both landowner and businessman. His father would be proud of the man he planned to become.
“You’ll have slaves, then.” Bletchley’s words emerged as an arrogant sneer.
Hell no. Yet Quinn only shrugged. “No more so than any English landowner whose indebted tenants can never be free of the manor.”
A strangled sound escaped from Aunt Agatha’s throat.
But Bletchley only laughed. “Then you’ll do well in America, with the rest of the colonists who detest us Englishmen. I only hope you don’t find yourself being detested as well.”
Oh, he was certain of that. Yet he grinned broadly, just to irritate Bletchley. “I’ll take my chances.”
A soft knock sounded at the door. “Excuse me, my lady.” Ferguson stepped into the room. “But Cook would like a word with you. She says it is an urgent matter with the ovens, ma’am.”
She hesitated with a glance between the two men, as if wary to leave them alone together, then sighed, realizing she had no choice unless she wanted to risk burning the house down. “If you gentlemen will excuse me.”
She scurried out with Ferguson on her heels. An awkward silence fell over the room.
Quinn’s eyes narrowed as he sized up Bletchley. So this was Belle’s leading prospect for marriage.
No wonder she preferred to remain unmarried.
But Aunt Agatha had said she wanted Quinn’s help to keep Belle safe from unsatisfactory suitors. Well, then, no time like the present to start.
He leveled his gaze hard on Bletchley. “You expect to marry Annabelle.”
“Yes.”
“What are you plans, then?” He folded his arms over his chest.
Bletchley smiled at that. “So you’re her guard dog now?”
Knowing not to rise to the bait, Quinn said nothing as Bletchley went to the tea tray on the table and poured himself a fresh cup.
“Oh, you can be confident that I have lots of plans,” Bletchley assured him. “The first thing we do is knock down the existing fences to enlarge the pastures and merge the flocks. Then, with the extra money on Glenarvon’s books, we’ll buy a herd of Highland cattle to graze on the slopes to the north.” Bletchley gestured with this teacup between sips. “Close up the shearing and dairy barns on Glenarvon and double the size of the ones at Kinnybroch, renegotiate all the tenant leases and grazing rights.” He glanced disdainfully around the room. “And let out this tired place, if I can find anyone daft enough to take it.”
Quinn noticed that he never mentioned Belle. Not once. His intentions were purely mercenary. Just as Belle feared. “And the villagers?”
Bletchley blinked, surprised at that question. “What about them?”
“What plans do you have to help them?”
“Help the villagers?” Bletchley laughed as if it were the most absurd thing he’d ever heard, nearly spilling his tea.
Good God, this man was a completely wrong match for Belle. In every way.
“My concern is the estate.” Bletchley reached for a biscuit from the tray. “Especially once it’s folded into Kinnybroch. I’ll have twice as much land then and considerable funds. Managing all that will keep me too busy to worry about the villagers. They can tend to themselves.”
Dread prickled at the back of his neck. “Glenarvon will belong to Annabelle. She wants to run it herself.”
Popping the biscuit into his mouth, Bletchley waved away his concern. “Once we marry,” he explained between munches, “she’ll come to see how much better it is to let her husband worry about such things. You know how women are. She’ll be thrilled to spend her time enjoying trips to the dressmaker and planning parties, rather than fretting over the account books and getting her hands dirty in the fields. Besides,” he continued with a smug grin, “we’ll need an heir. She’ll be increasing soon enough, and then all her attention will be on our child, where it belongs.”
A quick stab of emotion pierced low in Quinn’s belly at the thought of Belle with child. Of the hot fire in her tempered by the soft glow of motherhood. The sensation hit him so swiftly, so fiercely, that he nearly shuddered with it before he found his control.
Desperately needing that drink now, he crossed the room to the potted palm and from its fronds retrieved the hidden whisky he’d originally come into the room to find. With no glass at the ready, he poured himself a teacup.
“Annabelle’s a smart woman,” he commented. Downright brilliant, in fact. He corked the bottle and slid it into his rear waistband beneath his coat, then leaned back against the wall and studied Bletchley over the rim of his cup. Far too brilliant for you. “She’s already running this place well, and she’ll be able to handle both motherhood and the estate’s management.”
“Well, I’m certain she’ll be too busy to manage once she has another child.” Bletchley chuckled. “Or six.”
Quinn glared at him. Over my dead body.
Bletchley smiled blithely. “We’ll be certain to send you news in America when each of our children is born.”
Quinn’s hand tightened around the teacup until he thought he might shatter it in his palm as he fought back the urge to punch him. Bletchley cared only about the property and talked of marrying her as if he were acquiring a brood mare. Arrogant, pompous, misogynistic—
A movement at the corner of his eye captured his attention.
Through the tall window, he caught a glimpse of Belle returning from the fields, the collar of her coat turned up against the drizzle of the cold morning and her hair once more tucked beneath her tweed cap. Silhouetted against the gray clouds hanging low across the sky and the blue mountains in the distance, she looked for all the world as if she’d materialized right there from the mists. A fairy born of glens and mountains. A creature as wild and independent as the land around her.
Quinton knew then that he wouldn’t allow anyone to take Glenarvon away from her.
Aunt Agatha swept into the room, nearly breathless in her hurry to return. Her eyes darted between the two men as if checking for wounds. “Disaster averted,” she panted out. “The house won’t…burn down…before dinner.”
Bletchley smiled dutifully at her labored quip. But Quinn only continued to glare coldly at the man over the rim of his teacup as he took a calming swallow of whisky.
Fanning herself as she regained her breath, Aunt Agatha sank gratefully onto the settee. “I’m so glad you two had the chance to talk.” She poured more tea into her cup and added a dollop of honey. “It would have been a shame if Quinton had left before you had the opportunity to meet him, Sir Harold. Now knowing that Annabelle and Castle Glenarvon will be in your safe hands, Quinton can happily sail for America.”
Like hell I will. Belle would be safer with Lucifer himself.
“Actually,” Quinn announced as he pushed himself away from the wall and stepped forward as casually as if commenting upon the weather, “there’s been a change of plans.”
“Oh?” His aunt froze, the honey dipper poised in her hand accidentally filling her cup.
“I’ve decided to stay on as you asked, Aunt Agatha.” He looked squarely at Bletchley, whose face hardened as he slowly realized what Quinn intended. “To help you with Belle’s suitors.”
“Wonderful!” Agatha distractedly stirred her tea with the dipper as a beaming smile spread across her face. “I mean, it would be wonderful if Belle agrees.”
“Oh, I think she will.” Quinn watched her raise the cup to her lips. When she made a face at the overly sweet tea, he sent her his most charming smile, although he planned on ruining her scheme to marry off Belle as thoroughly as he’d just ruined her tea. Then he turned toward Bletchley with feigned innocence. “Can’t be too careful, you understand.” He flashed a crocodile grin. “Seems there’s a new fortune hunter dropping by every day.”
“Of course,” Agatha interjected quickly, as if fearing the two men might yet come to blows, “this is all about doing what’s best for Belle.”
Bletchley clenched his jaw and dutifully agreed, “Of course.”
An awkward tension settled over the room. Bletchley glared at Quinn like a lion defending his territory.
Quinn grinned back confidently.
And Aunt Agatha had no idea where to look. Setting her tea aside, she cleared her throat and made a desperate attempt to change the direction of conversation. “I hope you two had a good chat about hunting and fishing while I was gone.”
Bletchley scoffed. “I wish we’d discussed something as entertaining as hunting, but focused on business instead, I’m afraid.”
“And Belle, don’t forget,” Quinn reminded him, just for spite. “Or is she nothing more than business to you?”
Bletchley narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps, Carlisle, you should rethink your plans—”
“Sir Harold is a keen marksman and avid hunter,” Agatha cut in with forced enthusiasm. “Aren’t you, Sir Harold?” When her question failed to draw his attention—and his ire—away from Quinn, she added skillfully, “He keeps one of the best hunting packs in the north.”
That arrow hit its target, and Bletchley turned toward her, a pompous smile softening his face. “One of my proudest achievements, I’ll admit. Just a few years ago, I had the pleasure of arranging a hunt for Wellington. Said it was one of the best he’d ever experienced.” He flicked his fingers at a piece of imaginary lint on his sleeve. “In fact, I just purchased a new bitch from the Duke of Devonshire. Fine blood lines, that one. She’ll whelp a good pup or two to improve the pack.”
Quinn couldn’t help himself— “Or six.”
The glare Bletchley shot him was murderous.
“And you, Quinton?” Agatha interposed smoothly. “Do you enjoy the sport of hunting?”
He set down his empty cup on the tea table. “It doesn’t seem like much of a sport to me unless the animals are also armed.”
Agatha pursed her lips tightly, although whether to suppress laughter or a scolding he couldn’t have said.
“Hunting takes skill,” Bletchley defended peevishly. “Perhaps your lack of ability prevents you from appreciating it.”
Quinn shrugged away the insult. “How much skill can it take to shoot a slow bird flushed out of a bush by a beater while a gamesman stands next to you to reload your gun?”
Bletchley turned red. He sputtered, “Now see here, Carlisle—”
A lilting laugh drifted from the doorway, musical in its softness. Quinn caught his breath at the sound that fell through him as gently as a warm summer rain.
Annabelle. He turned toward her, and his gut pinched at the sight of her. Even all wet and dirty from working in the fields, her hair coming loose from beneath her tweed cap, and a streak of dirt marring her cheek, she looked beautiful.
As she stepped into the room, she smiled a greeting to Aunt Agatha, then sent Quinn a puzzled glance at finding him here instead of upstairs packing.
“Sir Harold.” She nodded to Bletchley. But her greeting was reserved, and instead of extending her hand to him, she immediately scooped up a cup and saucer from the tea tray so that her hands were full and she wouldn’t have to touch him by presenting her hand.
Brilliant woman, Quinn noted with admiration. Too brilliant to be unhappily shackled to a fortune-hunting boor like Bletchley for the rest of her life.
“My apologies for interrupting,” she commented. But a wholly unapologetic smile played at her lips. “So you were having a discussion about the merits of arming prey?”
Instead of going to Bletchley, Belle retreated a step away from the tea table to position herself beside Quinn, as if seeking protection at his side. The small movement sent an unexpected possessiveness sweeping through him.
“In my opinion,” she teased as she raised her cup, “it would surely make fox hunting more challenging, although I’m not certain how it would work with larger game. However would deer pull the triggers without their hooves getting in the way?”
Bletchley stared at her as if insulted by her musings, and Aunt Agatha as if she’d lost her mind. Quinn grinned broadly.
She tilted her head, feigning deep thought. “Although I suppose we could arm them with bows and arrows.” Then she added brightly, as if the solution were suddenly obvious, “They could draw the bowstring through the cleft in their hooves!”
Agatha choked on her tea. “Annabelle!”
She laughed at herself, drawing another smile from Quinn and something else…something deeper and more intense than he’d experienced even when he’d been kissing her. He couldn’t put a name to it. But whatever it was, he liked it. A great deal.
“My apologies,” she offered. “I was only joking. I didn’t mean to offend.”
But Quinn saw the unrepentant gleam in her eyes. Oh, she’d meant to do exactly that.
Mollified by her pretense of an apology, Bletchley nodded at Quinn. “You have excellent timing, Miss Greene. Carlisle and I were just finishing a discussion about future plans for Glenarvon.” His eyes swept over her, and he frowned with displeasure. “I see you’ve been working in the fields again.”
“Yes.” She smiled, ignoring his silent criticism of her appearance. “After all, the cheapest worker on any estate is always the owner, because he’s—”
“Already taken his share,” Quinn finished.
She glanced at him in surprise that he could finish her thoughts, her pink lips parting softly. He held her gaze for a heartbeat in silent connection, and an inexplicable warmth blossomed inside his chest.
He thought he saw Agatha’s lips twitch, but his aunt had raised her teacup to take a sip too quickly for him to be certain. “What were you doing, exactly?” she asked.
Belle shrugged dismissingly. “There was a problem with the floodgate.”
A worried frown creased Aunt Agatha’s brow, and she lowered her cup from her mouth. “More vandalism?”
“Nothing to worry about,” she dissembled with a forced smile. “Mr. Burns and the men had it all fixed this morning. The sheep will be back in their proper pastures by the end of the week.”
Belle’s explanation mollified Aunt Agatha, but Quinn saw a glint in Bletchley’s eyes. The man scoffed, “More proof that a woman has no business running an estate.”
Belle stiffened at that. But Bletchley didn’t notice. Or if he did, the obtuse man foolishly decided to ignore it.
Quinn said nothing, gladly letting the arrogant fop dig his own grave.
Bletchley continued, “I expect that mischief will stop soon, once you accept my suit and whoever is doing it realizes that a man is properly looking after the property.”
“Oh.” Her face fell. The amusement that had been there only moments before vanished, and she looked away.
“Have you decided on your answer, Miss Greene?” Bletchley pressed, with all the romantic finesse of a dead donkey. “I daresay, time is running out. Will I be allowed to formally court you?”
“Well, I…that is…” Belle stammered. Her gaze darted nervously to Quinton. In her eyes, he saw a warring desperation and sadness that tied his gut into a knot.
Agatha rose from the settee. “Sir Harold, perhaps you should discuss this privately with Lord Quinton. In lieu of a male relative, my nephew will be serving as Belle’s—”
“We’ve been neighbors for years, with no secrets between us.” Bletchley waved away the viscountess’s concerns. “I know the predicament you’re facing, Miss Greene, and there’s no need to stand on formality with me.” He smiled confidently at Belle. “Except that I would like to hear your acknowledgment that I have your favor.”
When Belle hesitated, Aunt Agatha murmured, “Quinton?”
“Annabelle knows what’s best for her,” he answered quietly. “She doesn’t need me to make up her mind.” And, knowing how stubborn she was, to most likely do exactly what he told her not to.
Quinn’s eyes fixed on Belle, even as hers were pinned to her cup of tea, not daring to glance in his direction. Holding his breath, he waited for her to refuse Bletchley’s suit. In the silence, his heartbeat thundered in his ears—
“Yes,” she breathed, so softly that no sound crossed her lips.
But Quinn heard, and her answer reverberated through his chest with the force of cannon fire.
Lady Ainsley blinked, as if she hadn’t heard properly. As if just as surprised as Quinn that Belle hadn’t refused. “Pardon?”
“I said yes.” Belle raised her chin and stared across the room at Bletchley as she grudgingly accepted his offer with all the emotion of buying flour from the miller. “I will allow you to court me, Sir Harold.”
“Good,” Bletchley commented so gleefully that Quinn expected him to rub his hands together. “Then tomorrow after church I’d be pleased to take you on a drive through the countryside.”
Belle nodded, saying nothing, but she couldn’t hide the grim sadness on her face. Or the sense of defeat that radiated from her.
Aunt Agatha smiled tightly at Bletchley. “Come, Sir Harold.” She took his arm and led him toward the door. “I’ll show you out.”
As the dowager led Bletchley from the room, she glanced back at Quinn, giving him a look he couldn’t comprehend in his stunned bewilderment over Belle’s answer. Although what he sensed from his aunt was disappointment. In him.
Quinn crossed his arms and stared at Belle, who hadn’t moved an inch. To agree to go through with this nonsense—with Bletchley! He was furious at her, and the little hellcat knew it, too. Which was why she refused to look at him.
But it wasn’t just anger, it was also betrayal. Not for himself, of course. It would be ludicrous to say so, as much as to say he was jealous of Bletchley. He had no rights to her, no feelings for her besides friendship.
No—she’d betrayed herself. Surrendering so easily to a life with a man like Sir Harold was a betrayal to the strong woman he thought she’d become.
“Oh no, you don’t,” he ground out as he stalked toward her. “You are not going through with this.”
* * *
“Quinn, please understand,” Belle protested, retreating across the room from him. He was furious, with more anger than she’d ever seen in him. So much that it shook her to her core. Even the hand she futilely held up to keep him at bay trembled.
But he was relentless in his pursuit, stepping her backward until he’d trapped her in the corner.
“Why, Annabelle?” he demanded. “Are you that desperate that you’d consider shackling yourself to that pompous arse?” His jaw tightened so hard that the muscles in his neck jumped. He held his hands against the wall at her shoulders to prevent her from running away. “Do you want to marry him?”
She shuddered at the thought. “Of course I don’t!”
“Then why—”
“Because I don’t have a choice! I have to marry.” She shoved at his shoulder, but the aggravating mountain of a man refused to budge. “And you said no to my proposal, remember?”
“Do not blame me for this,” he countered, his sapphire eyes flashing like lightning at midnight. “You didn’t have to agree to his suit.”
“What other option do I have?” Frustration trembled in her voice.
“To not marry,” he shot back. “And certainly not to consider marrying Bletchley.”
He didn’t understand what Glenarvon meant to her, or he’d never ask this of her. “He might be my only solution.”
He shook his head with bewilderment, as if he simply couldn’t fathom her. “You can make your home anywhere. You shouldn’t have to marry a man like Bletchley simply because you’re too damned stubborn to live anywhere else!”
At the unwitting callousness of his words, something snapped deep inside her, and she felt it shudder through her soul. Her hands drew into fists as anguish and frustration overwhelmed her.
“What do you know about home?” she forced out the cutting question, her resentment of his interference surging to the surface and barely controlled. “You—who grew up in the same house, sleeping in the same bed every night, surrounded by family who loved you. Where the worst that happened to you was being denied pudding at dinner because you’d played a prank on one of the footmen or didn’t finish your studies.” His handsome face blurred beneath the furious tears stinging in her eyes, but she couldn’t relent. “Did your father ever lay a hand on you or your brothers and sister? Or your mother?”
Shocked understanding began to darken his face. He whispered hoarsely, “Belle, what you—”
“While you were in your nursery, watched over by your nanny, I was being woken in the middle of the night to flee in the darkness because my father had gambled and drunk away the rent money. Again. I remember nights sleeping in doorways and in abandoned buildings, going without food for days, clothes worn to rags…hearing rats gnawing in the walls, picking out maggots from the flour so we could make bread, feeling the lice—”
She choked as the memories came rushing back so intensely that they strangled the words in her throat, so fiercely that she could once more feel the lice crawling on her skin and itching in her hair. She shuddered and squeezed her eyes closed, as much to shut out the look of shock on his face as the horrible memories of that dark time.
“We never stayed anyplace more than a few months—fleeing creditors and people my father had cheated. When he had a job and was sober, we were fine. And then something would happen to make him drink again, to gamble, to steal. To hit my mother.” She inhaled sharply. “And me.”
She felt fury rise in him, his large body stiffening with it. “Why didn’t your mother leave him?” he whispered. “Take you and go?”
She shook her head, not daring to open her eyes and see his pity. “Go where?” She stifled back a bitter laugh. “We had no relatives or friends who could help us, and what constable would ever arrest a husband for beating his wife?”
With her eyes closed, she couldn’t see him, but she felt him. He stood perfectly still, close but not touching.
“It was always like that,” she whispered. Now that the words were pouring out, she couldn’t stop them. “Always moving, never enough to eat…Except once, when I turned eight. That year for my birthday there was cake. Mama gave me a new coat and shoes, and there was a doll in a frilly pink dress.” She couldn’t help smiling through the tears at the memory. “She was so clean and bright, with ribbons and lace, and real blond hair. I’d never seen anything as pretty as that doll. I sat on the floor of the dirty shed where we were living and did nothing all day but brush her hair, for hours and hours…” She sucked in a jerking breath. “When my father came home, he took all my presents and sold them. Including that doll.”
“Belle.” He cupped her face in his hands. She felt his long fingers trembling against her cheeks.
She opened her eyes and stared up at him. “But that was also the birthday when I met Lord Ainsley for the first time. He’d heard that Mama was living in the area, and since she used to work for him, he stopped by to visit. I had no idea then that meeting him would be my real gift, because two years later, when my father was in prison for theft and my mother died of fever, Lord Ainsley came for me and brought me here, where finally I was safe and warm, where there was always enough food and beds and—” She choked back a sob. Pained pierced her with each secret she revealed, but she couldn’t stop. Not until he understood. “I thought I’d arrived in heaven.”
A tear slid down her cheek. She clenched her teeth, furious at herself for being unable to stop it.
“So don’t talk to me of home and what that means when you’ve always had one. Or how I should simply walk away from mine.” Her hand swiped angrily at her cheek to wipe the tear away. “Because you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He stared at her silently, his eyes dark and his body tense. After that outburst and brutal chastisement, she expected him to simply turn around and walk away, to leave her to her own mess.
But he didn’t retreat, remaining close enough that she could feel the heat of him down her front, could smell that delicious scent of port and tobacco she’d already come to associate with him. And oh, the strength of him! It seeped from every inch of him, this man who had never backed down from a fight in his life.
She tried to push him away again, but frustratingly, he still wouldn’t move. Instead, the aggravating devil had the spine to step even closer, to wrap his arms around her and pull her against him.
Her chest burned with desolation, and she gave a wretched cry. As she tried to wrench herself away, he held tight, and worse—the more she struggled, the tighter he held her, until she had no choice but to wrap her arms around his waist, no choice but to bury her face against his hard chest as the sobs tore from her.
“Shh, Belle,” he whispered soothingly, his lips brushing against her temple. “You won’t have to leave here, and you won’t have to marry if you don’t want to. We’ll find another way for you to keep Glenarvon. I promise you. I’m not leaving here until we do.”
“How?” she mumbled against his chest, foolishly clinging to the faint pulse of hope he stirred inside her.
“I don’t know, but we will,” he declared resolutely, shifting back only far enough to tilt her face up until she had to look at him. The steely determination in his eyes took her breath away. “I will find a way.”
She nodded, unable to find her voice. She wanted to believe him, wanted to trust that the answer was that simple…Quinton Carlisle wished it, and fate made it happen.
But she knew better. She’d never been friends with fate.