When the Scoundrel Sins Read online

  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 grim
aced. “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.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Quinn grimaced and rubbed at the pounding headache at his temples as he strode across the field, the pain a result of last night’s unfortunate combination of too little sleep and too much scotch.

  And not nearly enough Annabelle.

  He flipped up the collar of his coat against his neck to ward off the drizzling rain that threatened to fall at any moment and the summer morning’s unexpected cold. True to the north’s unpredictable weather, clouds had moved in during the night and now hung low over the mountains and valleys, leaving the fields awash in a blue morning haze. The temperature had dropped a good twenty degrees. He would have said that the chill made it difficult to imagine Belle swimming in the pond, but he’d had a tempting glimpse of her there, and now that seemed to be the only thing he wanted to think about.

  Good Lord, how the gel vexed him! He couldn’t remember the last time he’d lost sleep over a woman, if ever, but that’s exactly what she’d done to him. And not only because of that outrageous marriage proposal, although the prospect of wedding anyone certainly terrified him enough to ensure nightmares.

  No. He was loath to admit even to himself that rest hadn’t come because, in those few moments when he’d managed to fall asleep, his dreams were punctuated not by nightmares of marriage shackles but by erotic visions of Belle.

  He groaned. Not erotic, not exactly. When he’d dreamed of Belle, he saw her in that white cotton night rail, the bow at her bosom untied and its ribbons streaming along behind her as she walked through the mists, her hair free and tumbling down her back. A smile on her face that made him ache, a laugh that lilted lightly on the soft air. Head turned to reveal her elegant neck. Slender legs revealed to the knees, and arms just as bare. Then she turned back and offered him her hand, to follow her down into the dew-covered heather…He’d glimpsed more of her at the pond than in his dream, yet he’d awakened hard as iron.

  Oh yes. He had definitely lost his mind.

  So at dawn he gave up all pretense of sleep and went down for an early breakfast, hoping to find Belle so he could answer her proposal and end his suffering. But Ferguson informed him that she was already up and outside, as was her habit most mornings. Wonderful. The aggravating woman was also an early riser.

  Quinn rolled his eyes. He knew how to deal with ladies of the ton. Those women slept until noon, would never be caught dead in a library, and would certainly never drink scotch. Or pour it over a man’s head.

  But the contradiction that was Annabelle Greene fascinated as much as it frustrated. The beautiful woman on the outside was a hellcat beneath, an intelligent and sharp woman who knew practically everything…except the effect she had on men. She infuriated him and intrigued him, and she had him still wanting to tease and torment her like a kid, just so the man he’d become could selfishly see the fire inside her. How was it possible that the same woman who had him wanting to yank her into his arms also had him wanting to put an ocean between them?

  Madness. Madness that she should have ever considered him for her proposal. That Aunt Agatha thought he could be her protector.

  Apparently lunacy was contagious.

  He reached the crest of a small rise overlooking the south pasturelands and saw her. Dressed in men’s trousers and work boots just like the workers around her, complete with a tweed cap covering her hair, she helped to heave a thick post out of an irrigation ditch and onto the creek bank.

  Quinn let out a frustrated breath. Apparently, nothing about Belle was typical.

  With all the grim resolve of a man going to his own execution, he started toward her and the group of workmen gathered at the small stone structure at the side of the creek.

  One of the men bent down to give Belle a hand up from the ditch, where she stood up to her knees in water. From the way none of the men laughed at her appearance when she scrambled to her feet, not only were they used to seeing her in workman’s clothes but they were also used to being directed by her. He’d admit that knowing she’d inherit Glenarvon stirred jealousy inside him, when he would be forced to start from nothing. But he also felt admiration for her, because she didn’t consider herself either above hard work or too delicate for it.

  She rested her hands on her round hips beneath the long, brown coat, which reached to the tops of her muddied boots. Her shoulders sagged as she answered a question from one of the workman, “…damaged on purpose.”

  The man behind her lifted his eyes to Quinn as he approached. He cleared his throat loudly enough to cut off Belle’s reply, then nodded past her to gain her attention.

  Belle glanced over her shoulder and saw Quinn. For a heartbeat, she froze as uneasiness darkened her face. Then it vanished just as quickly, replaced by a bright smile that he knew was forced for the benefit of the men around her. Certainly not for him. From the flash deep in her eyes, he knew the Bluebell was still peeved at him for their misunderstanding last night.

  “Lord Quinton, good morning.” But she couldn’t hide the surprise in her voice at his arrival, or a soft bit of sarcasm as she teased, “I’m surprised to see you up so early, given your reputation as a Corinthian.”

  He laughed. A Corinthian? Well, he’d been called a lot of things by women before, but never that. “Not everyone in London sleeps until noon, Miss Greene,” he countered good-naturedly as he stopped in front of her. He was suddenly very aware of the men’s eyes on him, sizing him up and wondering who he was. And what he wanted with Glenarvon’s mistress.

  She asked wryly, “Just half past eleven, then?”

  “Quarter ’til,” he sent back with a crooked grin.

  “Well,” she commented, “then you’re a good four hours early to start your day.”

  She smiled, but he sensed an anxious dread beneath her calm façade, noting the tense way her shoulders stiffened, how she clenched and unclenched her gloved hands nervously at her sides. As a woman donning men’s clothing, her unusual appearance served only to make her somehow even more appealing. More feminine. And heartbreakingly vulnerable.

  Guilt gnawed at his gut, yet there was no help for it. She wanted an answer, and he had no reason to delay the inevitable. In fact, if he’d had his wits about him last night, instead of being preoccupied with the way she’d felt in his arms, he would have told her his answer then and saved them both from this awkward meeting.

  Yet whatever trouble he was about to cause her would be better dealt with sooner rather than later. Telling her this morning would give her more time to find a better candidate for marriage. It had nothing at all to do with wanting to avoid the confusion he felt about her. Or the persistent attraction between them, which had reared its head again last night and apparently still lingered between them so pal
pably that even now the air crackled with it.

  At least that was what he kept telling himself from the moment he’d left his room to find her. If he repeated it to himself often enough, maybe he would start to believe it.

  This morning, her eyes gleamed more green than gold in the veiled sunlight of the overcast sky. But the nervous flicker in their honeyed depths signaled that she knew why he’d sought her out. And that she’d already guessed his answer.

  He felt the weight of the men’s curious stares on him, not bothering to pretend that they weren’t eavesdropping on the conversation. But this was not a discussion he wanted to share. He inclined his head. “Would you care to take a walk with me, Miss Greene?”

  Her strained smile faded, and she hesitated. Then, with a stiff nod, she wordlessly turned to stroll along the creek, away from the worksite.

  He fell into step beside her. They walked on together in silence, which soon became acutely uncomfortable, the tension between them as thick as the clouds overhead. He grimaced as he took a sideways glance at her determined profile. She was going to make him talk first, clearly, but he wasn’t yet ready to broach the reason he’d invited her for the walk. Despite knowing what had to be done, he was reluctant to add to her troubles.

  He glanced over his shoulder and asked, “What are you doing back there?”

  “Repairs,” she answered curtly. Instead of placing her hand on his arm, as any London lady would have done, she removed her muddied gloves and shoved both hands deep into her coat pockets. Not touching him. Did the little hellcat realize the cut she was giving him?

  But of course she did. Apparently he’d underestimated how much that night at the St James ball had hurt her.

  “What kind of repairs?” he pressed, wanting to draw her out and knowing how much the estate meant to her.