When the Scoundrel Sins Page 2

  That was the unbearable situation she found herself in. Just as she knew that it was all the fault of love.

  Sensing her distress, the dowager added quietly, “We only wanted the best for you, my dear.”

  “I know.” Belle squeezed her arm affectionately and turned away before Lady Ainsley could see the hint of tears in her eyes.

  Lady Ainsley and her late husband were fond of Belle and always had been, ever since she came to live with them when she was ten. Her mother had died of fever, and her father, who had never been a part of her life except to cause misery, had been sentenced to prison two years earlier. She’d had no relatives to take her in.

  Because her mother had once worked for the viscount, Lady Ainsley wanted to help by raising her to be her companion, since the viscountess had no children of her own. So they welcomed her into their lives and treated her as well as they would have their own daughter. Truly, as well as Lord Ainsley’s three daughters from his first marriage, with a wonderful education, all the dresses and accessories she wanted, and a safe and stable home. They also wanted her to be well-protected for the rest of her life. So Lord Ainsley had willed Castle Glenarvon to her, held in trust by the new viscount—but only if she married by the time she turned twenty-five. Then, the property would have been overseen by her husband and untouchable by her thief of a father.

  But the road to hell was paved with good intentions, and by trying to protect her, they’d inadvertently harmed her. Because her twenty-fifth birthday was now only a month away, with no husband in sight.

  “We have a plan, and it will work,” Lady Ainsley reminded her, referring to the series of teas and parties they’d planned on hosting. All of the area’s most eligible gentlemen would be invited, to give Belle a chance to meet them and decide if any might do for a husband. A rushed season in miniature.

  Of course, the time had finally come to also reveal that Castle Glenarvon formed her dowry. With the viscountess’s permission, Belle had always kept that secret, except from a few trusted persons who held a vested interest in the property…the estate foreman, the family solicitor, and Sir Harold Bletchley, who owned the neighboring estate. She’d feared being inundated by fortune hunters who wanted the land more than they wanted her and terrified that she’d end up in a marriage like her mother’s. One in which her husband’s lack of love for her would turn the union into a nightmare.

  But now, with a looming deadline and a dearth of suitors, she had no choice but to reveal her dowry. And no choice but to consider a marriage of convenience.

  “There is always Sir Harold,” Lady Ainsley tossed out offhandedly. “He would make a fine husband.”

  Belle stiffened, certain Sir Harold would make a fine husband. Just not for her. Not if she wanted to enjoy any conversations with her husband other than those about hunting and hounds.

  Oh, Sir Harold wasn’t a villain by any stretch. But neither was he the kind of man she suspected would make her happy. One who saw his wife as a true partner in marriage, one equal to the task of running the estate and deserving of his respect.

  Lady Ainsley ticked off his qualifications as if she were reading an entry in Debrett’s. “He has his own property and a goodly amount of wealth, the respect of the aristocracy, a fine family history.…By all accounts, he would be quite an advantageous match for you. You should reconsider his offer.”

  Belle fought back the urge to cry. Lady Ainsley was being helpful, in her own way. And she wasn’t wrong. A young lady with Belle’s pedigree—or rather, lack of one—would never have been able to marry a gentleman any other way except by bringing an estate as her dowry. But Belle had never cared about social rank or her place in society, except to please Lord and Lady Ainsley. Whether society spurned her for the rest of her life or welcomed her with open arms, she couldn’t have cared less. She’d turned her back on them six years ago when they’d all turned their backs on her. The only thing that mattered to her now was that she be allowed to keep living right here in the home she loved, surrounded by the people she cared about.

  She just hadn’t planned on being forced into a marriage she didn’t want in order to do it.

  “I do not believe that he and I are well-suited,” she countered before Lady Ainsley considered her silence to be an acquiescence. “I believe I should look elsewhere.”

  “As long as you keep looking,” Lady Ainsley warned with all the worry and affection of a true mother. “I fear you’ve grown opposed to marriage.”

  “I’m not against marriage,” Belle defended herself. “It’s a perfectly fine institution.” But neither had she ever been one of those young ladies who eagerly sought it out, who spent all their waking hours preening and plotting to snare the best husband, one of high rank and large fortune. “But I want a marriage based upon respect, friendship, shared interests…love.” Then she added softly, certain the dowager could hear the admiration in her voice for the two people who had become a second set of parents to her, “The kind of marriage you and Lord Ainsley shared.”

  Marrying for love was a quaint notion, to be sure, one that certainly flew in the face of modern convention, when affection was the last consideration for a marriage match among ladies of the ton. Yet Belle had seen firsthand with her own mother what could happen to a wife who had trapped herself with a man who cared nothing for the true partnership a marriage should be.

  Belle wasn’t brilliant at math, but she could certainly count to nine months and knew that her untimely arrival had forced her parents into marriage. There was no love between them, and Marcus Greene thought he had the right to control his wife, if not by direct orders and insults than by his fists. He’d never provided a sound roof over their heads or adequate coin with which to buy bread and cloth—often none at all—preferring instead to spend his nights drinking and his days drifting from job to job, unable to keep one for longer than a few weeks. His wife and child had been dragged along in his wake, without means of escape. The drunkenness became worse, the beatings fierce and frequent, the debts higher…until he was arrested for theft and sent to prison. His gaol sentence had been his family’s path to freedom.

  But while her mother’s situation exemplified the misery that a marriage could be, Belle had also witnessed the true partnership that Lord and Lady Ainsley had shared. Oh, they certainly fought. Angry words had been exchanged, once with the viscountess refusing to leave her boudoir for a week until Lord Ainsley apologized. But the viscount would never have cursed her or raised his fists in anger. They both dearly loved the other, and that love made all the difference.

  It all came down to love, Belle was certain.

  Or to the lack of it.

  Given all she’d witnessed, if faced with the choice of marrying a man who did not love her or remaining unmarried, Belle would have gladly become a spinster.

  But she could never utter that last aloud for fear it would break the dowager’s heart. And in her current situation, with her home hanging in the balance, it seemed she no longer had a choice.

  “I want a good marriage for you, too,” Lady Ainsley agreed. “Which is why I sent for Quinton Carlisle.”

  Belle tripped.

  Stumbling to regain her balance, she turned to stare at the viscountess, her eyes wide as saucers and her mouth open. She struggled to find her voice in her shock, finally squeaking out, “Why?”

  Lady Ainsley kept her gaze straight ahead. “To assist in your search for a husband, of course.”

  Belle gaped at her, stunned. That rascal, to help her find a suitable husband? What did he know about husband hunting, except for how to avoid the marriage shackles for himself? Good Lord. It was a measure of how desperate they’d become that Lady Ainsley felt compelled to invite that devil here.

  Oblivious to Belle’s deep breaths to regain her composure, the viscountess led her forward through the garden. “I tucked in a note to him when I wrote to his mother last month, to congratulate Elizabeth on finally marrying off one of her sons without scandal. Rather,�
� Lady Ainsley corrected, “with little scandal. Trent married the niece of one of his tenant farmers, after all. I am certain tongues were wagging all the way to Cornwall over that.”

  Belle hadn’t seen that note, or she certainly would have burned it. Which was most likely why the viscountess hadn’t told her about it until now.

  Dread pinched her stomach at the thought of seeing him again. “But why Quinton?”

  “Because we need his help.” The dowager turned to gaze across the glen in the distance. “If anyone can sort suitable husbands from the undesirables, it will be my great-nephew.”

  Ha! The only help Quinton would give would be to cause problems. Just as he’d always done for her.

  In the past, whenever they’d met on those rare occasions when Annabelle accompanied Lord and Lady Ainsley to London, that scoundrel had taunted her mercilessly. Like one of those boys in the schoolyard who enjoyed pulling a girl’s braid just to capture the attention of her ire. Over the years, the torment only grew, and it seemed that the more aggravated she became, the more he enjoyed it.

  Until her London season, when he’d finally gone too far.

  “You know what happened between us, my lady,” she whispered, struck by how painful that memory was, even now. The very last person Belle needed interfering in her life was the man who was responsible for driving the final nail into her reputation’s coffin.

  “Yes.” Lady Ainsley’s lips pressed into a tight line. “Which is another reason I asked him here. This is his last opportunity to apologize to you.”

  Not likely. The Carlisle brothers never apologized for the havoc they wrought, and she doubted Quinton had changed so much in the past six years that he’d become remorseful.

  Besides, she didn’t want an apology. Forced contrition on Quinn’s part wouldn’t begin to make up for the trouble he’d unleashed upon her life. Thanks to that ill-fated night in St James’s garden, she had no proper suitors. She’d been clinging to the edge of society by her fingernails as it was, and every soiree she’d attended that season only reinforced how different she was from the ladies who were born into the upper class. Although the viscount and viscountess adored her, there was no changing who she and her father were—the companion and the convict.

  Before that night, gentlemen had paid her little attention. But after, she might as well have been invisible.

  Which had been fine with her then. But now time was running out, and she’d have to choose from among a gaggle of men who wanted her only for her inheritance. Worse was her lingering fear over Glenarvon. To be forced into a marriage without love was bad enough…what would she do if she accidentally picked a man who refused to let her run the estate? Glenarvon would become joint property, with her husband having ultimate say over it. A good husband would let her run it as she saw fit, but there was no guarantee that the man she married wouldn’t turn out to be exactly like her father—a liar, gambler, thief, abuser…with no way to be certain of his true character until it was too late.

  Lady Ainsley continued, “And with the potential for fortune hunters to come crawling out of the woodwork as soon as they learn of your dowry, we will need a man’s strong presence to keep them all in line.”

  “Did you tell him the real reason for the invitation?” A niggling guilt that they were ambushing Quinton pricked at her. Or rather, that Lady Ainsley had ambushed her with her outrageous plan to bring that rogue here.

  The viscountess feigned insult at the gentle accusation. “He is leaving for America, and I desire to see my great-nephew one last time before he goes. I am an old woman, and I might not live to see his return visit.”

  Belle arched a brow. She’d grown to know and love Lady Ainsley as much as her own mother, and that was clearly a skilled dodge if ever she’d heard one.

  So no, Quinn hadn’t been told the truth.

  But the dowager wasn’t wrong; she was along in years, and Belle couldn’t bear to think of losing Lady Ainsley as she’d lost her mother and the viscount. She guiltily bit her bottom lip. “If it makes you feel better to have Lord Quinton here, then I suppose—”

  “It does.”

  That came rather quickly. Belle eyed her suspiciously. Quinton Carlisle wasn’t the only one being manipulated by Lady Ainsley’s scheme to find Belle a husband. There was no way out of the marriage stipulation for her inheritance, and Lady Ainsley was doing everything she could to make certain Belle didn’t lose her home. Belle couldn’t fault her for the sentiment.

  But the execution—especially Quinton’s involvement—was certain to prove disastrous.

  “I am a practical woman, Annabelle,” Lady Ainsley explained. “Sentiment only takes one so far. At some point, practicality must enter the room.”

  Belle supposed so. She only hoped she could find a way to make it leave again.

  “Perhaps Ainsley and I were wrong not to force Quinton to marry you six years ago,” the viscountess said thoughtfully. “If we had, you would not be in this situation now.”

  No, her situation would have been worse. Which was why she’d begged Lord Ainsley not to push for marriage with Quinton as a way to salvage her reputation after the ball. Being forced to wed would have done nothing to help her standing and everything to ruin both their lives by creating a marriage of animosity and regret. She’d never seen the viscount so angry, but he’d finally relented and let her return quietly to Glenarvon, to put London and that horrible night behind her.

  As for Quinton, she suspected that the rascal knew how close he’d come to being leg-shackled then and now would never set foot on Glenarvon land, summoned by his great aunt or not. Belle took comfort in that. After all, there was already enough trouble in her life as it was.

  No matter. Quinton Carlisle was the last person she wanted to think about. Not when the sunset was this beautiful and the evening most likely one of the last warm ones of the year.

  “If you don’t mind, my lady.” Belle slipped her arm from the viscountess’s. “I’d like to take a walk down by the pond, for some fresh air before dinner.”

  “Very well. I shall see you at dinner then.” She tilted her cheek toward Belle so she could kiss it.

  Belle obliged with a smile.

  Lady Ainsley walked on toward the house, and Belle sighed out a grateful breath as she hurried away in the opposite direction, toward the end of the garden and the little path lying just beyond. One way led uphill to the tumbled ruins of the old castle, the other down toward the glen and the secluded pond. She turned downhill, her feet moving quickly over the familiar path she’d walked at least once a day for the past fifteen years.

  For the first time all day, she felt at peace, and she hummed a soft tune to herself as she reached the edge of the pond and began to undress. Her worries slipped away as easily as the layers of her clothing. For a little while at least, she could forget about her troubles and simply enjoy the summer evening.

  With a small shiver as she entered the cold water, she took a deep breath and plunged forward, to swim out into the center of the pond as she did on most summer evenings. As always, she had the glen to herself. The men were all up at the stables, where they kept their quarters, or had returned to their families and homes in the village. There was no one to see her through the thick bushes lining the pond’s edge or to invade her peaceful solitude.

  She closed her eyes and let the cold water refresh her, cooling away the frustrations that had engulfed her life.

  But it couldn’t stop the sorrow that swept over her whenever she thought about the possibility of losing Glenarvon if she didn’t find a husband. The estate had been a refuge for her, free from the horrors of her childhood, where she’d always had a warm bed to sleep in and food free from the mealy worms she remembered picking from the flour with her mother. What would she do if she no longer had the security of this place and these special moments? How would she ever be happy again, forced away from all she held dear?

  “Well, well.” A man’s deep voice pierced the quiet eve
ning. “What have we here?”

  Spinning around, Annabelle gasped with surprise. Her arms flew up to cover her bare breasts, and she dropped down until the cold water came up to her chin, hiding all of her beneath the pond’s surface.

  Unable to see his face as he stood silhouetted against the setting sun behind him, she stared at the tall stranger standing at the edge of the pond, right beside her pile of clothes. She swallowed back both her startled fear and her mortification, and anger flared inside her. To sneak up on her like this when she was alone, naked, and vulnerable—how dare he!

  “Who are you?” she demanded in her sternest possible voice, which dripped with irony given the weakness of her current position. Heavens, she couldn’t even run away! “What do you want?”

  An impish grin blossomed through the shadows darkening his face. “Belle,” he called out, a laughing lilt to his rich voice, “is that you?”

  Her shoulders sagged beneath the water. God help her, she would know that grin anywhere. That handsomely smooth smile that could charm the king out of his crown…

  “Quinton Carlisle,” she called out tersely, peeved that he’d picked here and now of all times to arrive.

  Typical Quinn. Always showing up at the most inconvenient moments. And incidentally—as if he had some sort of a rogue’s sixth sense for it—where currently stood a naked woman.

  The last time she’d seen him, he was just twenty-one, fresh out of Oxford, and well on his way to becoming a rake even then. He and his two older brothers had cut a swathe through London’s most notorious venues that season, as if competing to outdo each other with drunken debauchery. The three had been the foremost topic of retiring room gossip, with the quality unable to believe that the Carlisle brothers belonged to their hallowed ranks. But while the ladies scorned them in public, privately they swarmed to them. Especially to Quinton, whose charming smile had them eagerly surrendering their hearts. And other body parts.