No wonder he hadn’t paid her much notice that spring, except to torment her. Why would he give any mind to a shy country girl who felt more at home in bookstores than in ballrooms when he had the sophisticated ladies of the ton vying for his attention? She should have known when he charmed her into surrendering her first kiss that she meant nothing to him. Such a goose she’d been!
“So it is you.” With an amused glimmer in his blue eyes, obviously thrilled that he’d caught her in such an embarrassing situation, he lowered himself onto his heels and closer to her level. “Up to your neck in it as ever, I see.”
“And you, as ever a bother,” she muttered, goaded into the same bickering they’d engaged in when they were children. Old habits were hard to break.
He gave a short laugh. A lock of blond hair fell across his forehead as he removed his beaver hat and ran his fingers through the thick waves, which were just as golden as she remembered. His crooked grin grew impossibly brighter.
Oh, she knew that look! And knew well the effect it had on women. Even now, having experienced the devilishness that lurked behind that angelic face, she felt that charming grin swirl through her, so intensely that it curled her toes into the muck at the bottom of the pond.
He pulled off his leather riding gloves and slapped them against his hard thigh as if finding her in such an embarrassing—and increasingly colder—position was a grand joke. “I wasn’t certain if it was you,” he taunted, “or if mermaids had come to Scotland.”
“We’re in England,” she shot back. The pest aggravated the daylights out of her—always had, blast him. “But if you’d like to travel on, Scotland is just ten miles that way.” She gave a jerk of her head toward the mountains in the distance. “Safe travels!”
Instead of being offended, he laughed, his eyes sparkling brightly. That, too, was typical of Quinn—boundless energy and a magnetic personality. “Your loyalty to crown and country is admirable, Belle, but I don’t think ‘Rule, Britannia!’ applies to duck ponds.”
Oh, the devil take the man! Pressing her lips together tightly, she glared murderously at him, not trusting herself to respond without saying something she might regret.
He was just as aggravating as she remembered, despite being six years older, more mature, and definitely broader and more muscular. A sinking dread fell through her that Lady Ainsley had made a terrible mistake by inviting him here. How on earth was he, of all men, supposed to help her find a husband—something she didn’t want in the first place?
But her primary concern at the moment wasn’t his aunt and how the two of them were going to resolve the mess that the late viscount had created in her life—it was getting out of the pond and over to her clothes without Quinn seeing her naked. And judging from the relaxed way he rested back on his boot heels, his forearm lying casually across his thigh, he didn’t plan on being a gentleman and leaving.
“Lady Ainsley is up at the house,” she informed him, goose bumps forming on her skin. Good Lord, the water was cold! A few minutes more, and her teeth would chatter.
“I know. My brother Robert is with her,” he explained. “But the groom said you were here, and I thought I’d say hello before settling into the house. So…hello.” Even in the dim light of the fading sunset, his eyes sparkled like the devil’s own. “This feels like old times.”
Old times she very much wanted to forget.
When her eyes darted longingly to her clothes at his feet, he followed her glance. “Are you really…?” He gasped in feigned shock as he reached down to hook a finger in her dress and lift it from the ground. “Goodness, Belle! You all truly do live wild here in the borderlands, don’t you?”
Despite the chill of the water, her face flushed hot. Leave it to Quinn to so cavalierly point out that she was naked.
She sighed in aggravation. And shivered with cold. Her teeth began to chatter, and as she shook, she prayed he couldn’t see it. Or anything else he shouldn’t see. “Would you please—”
“My, my, how careless!” With a shake of his head, he clucked his tongue. “Some wild animal could stumble upon your clothes and carry them off, or the wind might simply blow them—”
“Quinton James Carlisle, don’t you dare!” But her threat lacked all force, since she could do nothing to stop him. And drat him, he knew it, too.
Which only caused his grin to widen. She could see on his face how tempted he was to do just as she feared and walk away with her clothes, leaving her as naked as Eve in the garden. The deceitful snake!
“Same Belle I remember.” He laughed good-naturedly, as if he truly were happy to see her. “Tell me, do you still prefer books to people?”
“Certain people, yes,” she bit out. And especially you.
As if he could read her mind, he nearly doubled over hooting with laughter. The rotten scoundrel actually laughed! When he should have had the decency to be remorseful about what he’d done to her all those years ago.
In frustration, her hands fisted beneath the pond’s surface. “Why must you always insist on tormenting me? We’re no longer children.”
“No, we’re not.” His gaze darkened heatedly as his eyes fixed on her, a look that proved he was pure man. “But teasing you puts a fire in your eyes, Belle,” he drawled in a silky voice, “and I’ve always liked seeing the fire in you.”
She shivered. This time not from the cold.
But his smooth words couldn’t be trusted. That much about him hadn’t changed, although the rest of him was most definitely different…taller, broader, more solid. And impossibly more masculine. The tight fit of his buckskin breeches accentuated the hard muscles of his thighs and his narrow waist as much as the redingote stretching tight across his back exemplified the wide breadth of his shoulders. Since she’d last seen him, he’d transformed into a golden mountain of man, just like his older brothers, yet retained the same charismatic grin he’d possessed since he was a boy.
If he were anyone else, she would have said he was attractive. Perhaps even handsome. Unfortunately, she knew the Carlisle brothers and was well aware of what lurked beneath their captivating exteriors. Sebastian was the serious one, Robert was the risk-taker, and Quinton…well, Quinn made his way through the world by his charm.
But his charisma no longer worked on her. She’d gained immunity. The hard way.
For a fleeting moment, she was tempted to show him exactly how much fire flamed inside her and simply walk out of the pond and collect her clothes, as bare bottomed as a newborn babe. Wouldn’t she just love to see the startled look on his face! Because she was certain he thought her incapable of doing anything so daring.
She trembled at the enticing idea. Despite the cold, an odd yearning of excitement fluttered up from low in her belly. Certainly the girl he knew before would never have considered it, but the woman Annabelle had become might just do something that unexpected. Something so bold that he—
She sneezed.
“God bless you,” he offered, then trailed his hand through the water at the pond’s edge. “Brrr! That is rather cold, isn’t it?”
Her eyes narrowed to slits. She distrusted herself to speak, knowing this time she really would say something indelicate.
“Better come out now, Belle. You’re turning blue.” His eyes gleamed with enjoyment at toying with her. “Like a blueberry.”
Her breath strangled in her throat. Blueberry. Her eyes stung at his thoughtless words, and her chest panged painfully. To be that unkind to her even now after all these years as to bring up that horrible night—but he only continued to smile at her, oblivious to the cruelty of his offhanded comment. Of course, Quinn wouldn’t think anything of it. His reputation hadn’t been ruined because of a fight. His heart hadn’t been shattered. But hers had.
Although she could hide her body beneath the water, she couldn’t conceal the dark humiliation gathering on her face like storm clouds.
From his puzzled expression, he’d noted the sudden change in her but didn’t realize the
full implication of what he’d said, and she didn’t dare speak past the knot in her throat to explain for fear she might cry. Because she would never allow herself to cry in front of him, never show him how much he’d hurt her.
“Belle, are you— Oh Christ.” His grin faded, and his eyes softened apologetically. “I’m sorry. It was so long ago that I’d forgotten all about it.”
But she hadn’t, and never would.
He rose to his full height, then turned his back to her and walked off a few paces to give her privacy. All his teasing vanished. “Come out whenever you’re ready.”
* * *
With his back turned and his eyes focused on the darkening shadows cast across the countryside by the sunset, Quinn heard the soft splash of water as Belle moved quickly toward the bank.
He smiled. Annabelle Greene. Quick-tempered, defensive, serious…exactly as he remembered. When they were children, she’d been a bluestocking whose nose was forever pressed into one book or another. So he’d nicknamed her Bluebell, a combination of her name and bluestocking, just to antagonize her. The name stuck.
So did his enjoyment of irritating her.
He hadn’t lied to her—he liked seeing the fire in her eyes, always had. Perhaps it was because all the society ladies he knew kept their true emotions carefully hidden. Not so with Annabelle, whose pretty face had never been able to hide what she was thinking, whose bright smiles had always lit up a room.
Maybe it was even simpler than that. As he’d ripened into manhood, he’d come to realize how close anger lay to passion. Fires stirred by teasing were nearly as sweet as those flamed by desire.
“Are you all right?” he called out over his shoulder. Then he added, just to taunt her, “Bluebell.”
“I-I’m fine!”
He heard her teeth chatter. Guilt stabbed him for keeping her in the cold water longer than he should have. Or perhaps her answer was forced out between teeth clenched in anger. That would certainly be the Annabelle he knew.
Good Lord, had it really been six years since he’d seen her?
The last time had been in London when she was starting her first season. As a late bloomer not yet grown into womanhood, she’d been at that age when her curves were just beginning to blossom and soften. The stick-with-ears she’d been all her life had grown into her long legs and big honey-hazel eyes, her gawkiness turning graceful and her shyness mellowing into a natural demureness. The Bluebell had suddenly turned interesting, even to the jaded buck he’d already become.
Then he’d kissed her.
He remembered the sweet tang of honey on her lips, the wild scent of heather that clung to her skin, the pliant softness of her curves…the utter confusion that gripped him afterward. She was the Bluebell, for God’s sake. Aunt Agatha’s companion. Innocent and inexperienced. And wholly intriguing for all of it.
Six years had passed, and he hadn’t seen her since. Based upon the barbs they’d just exchanged, though, she hadn’t changed. And oddly enough, he was more relieved than he wanted to admit that she hadn’t.
He offered affably, unable to stop himself, “Need any help with your stockings?”
“Just stay right where you are!”
“But I’m very good with ladies’ stockings,” he drawled.
“Oh,” she muttered beneath her breath, “I’m sure you are.”
He chuckled. Same old Annabelle, all right.
Good to know that some things hadn’t changed, especially when everything else in his life was turning on end. Including the unexpected invitation to visit Glenarvon, which had nearly knocked him flat. Aunt Agatha had implied in her letter that she had financial matters to settle, which only boded well for him.
“Lady Ainsley said you’d planned to travel to America,” Belle called out from behind him. “Is it true? Are you really going?”
He smiled at her stilted attempt at casual conversation. Or rather, at her not-so-subtle attempt to suss out when he planned to leave. “Yes.”
But first, he needed to pay his respects to his aunt and collect whatever funds she had for him. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, and he needed every penny he could get his hands on for what he had planned. To say his prospects as a third son were limited was a grand understatement. Oh, certainly he’d proven himself successful in managing the family’s estate, assisting Sebastian after he’d inherited. More successful, in fact, than anyone who knew of his wild reputation would ever have imagined. In just two years, he’d increased estate profits by over fifteen percent.
But it was Sebastian’s estate, not his, and he’d always chafed under the title’s shadow. Proving himself on his merits meant that he had to find another path for himself, where his own capabilities decided his success and where his connections to the Duke of Trent meant nothing.
“To New England or Virginia?” she persisted, as if this conversation was nothing more unusual than discussing weather over tea. As if she wasn’t naked.
“South Carolina, actually.”
“Why?”
He grinned at her interrogation. “I promised my father.”
“No,” she corrected. “I mean, why South Carolina?”
“An old friend of my father’s lives there.” Asa Jeffers had served in his father’s regiment during the first war with the Americans, then stayed on in the former colonies after the war, where he’d bought a significant amount of property outside Charleston along the Ashley River and settled down to raise a family. But he and his wife had only daughters. “He’s getting up in age now and has no one to continue working the land for him. So he’s putting it up for sale.”
“And you’re going to buy it?”
“I am.” Just as his father had arranged. Richard Carlisle had understood Quinn’s need to make his own way and hadn’t dissuaded him when he’d set his sights on America. He’d encouraged them, in fact. Quinn couldn’t afford the property by himself, even at the generous price Jeffers offered, so his father agreed to loan him the money. There was only one condition: that Quinn would allow Jeffers and his wife to live out their remaining days on the property, that he would care for them there.
And Quinton had every intention of keeping this last promise to his father. The very last promise, in fact. Because the letter from Jeffers, agreeing to the terms of sale, had arrived just three days before the accident that took his father’s life. Quinn’s plans had been put on hold after that, but he’d used that promise to find his way out of his grief and to be strong for his mother when she’d needed him.
Jeffers graciously understood Quinn’s need to remain in England, to help his family through their mourning period and to assist Sebastian in running the estate until a proper land agent could be hired. But their mourning was now over, and a good agent had been hired. And Quinn was needed in Charleston. He couldn’t be there at his father’s side to take care of him the night he’d had the accident that took his life, but he could take care of Asa Jeffers.
“Then shouldn’t you already be on a ship sailing for the west?” Belle asked.
Good question. Time was running out. He had to make his way to Charleston before the new year, when Jeffers would no longer be able to hold the land for him, having to sell before taxes were levied. Given the need to be on a ship bound for America in just four weeks in order to meet that deadline, this trip to the borderlands wasn’t convenient. But he wasn’t too proud to pass up any additional funds Aunt Agatha might be willing to provide that would help his new venture to found not only his own American estate but a trade business, as well.
“I will be soon enough,” he answered resolutely.
Of course, he also knew that the visit to Glenarvon meant seeing Annabelle. They hadn’t last parted under the best of circumstances, but he’d assumed that they could tolerate each other for a few days before he rode on to the coast. Then his future would begin. And not a moment too soon.
“Quinton! You got dirt in my stockings!”
He grinned. Yep. The same Bluebell he remembered
.
Unless…
How much exactly had Belle changed during the past six years?
The temptation to satisfy his curiosity was too great to ignore. And who could really fault him for taking a quick glance? After all, any man would be curious about a woman he hadn’t seen since she was eighteen, since the night she’d kissed him breathless.
“And look! There’s grass all over my dress.”
Would she be the same gangly girl he remembered? Would she still be nothing but skin and bones, sharp angles, and big feet? Fate would undoubtedly make him pay for this, but he couldn’t help himself—
He glanced over his shoulder.
His breath hitched in his throat when he caught sight of her in the fading golden-purple sunset, all curvy naked and dripping wet, her body half turned toward him as she hurried into her clothes. Sweet Lucifer. Full breasts with dusky-pink nipples drawn taut from the cold water, round hips, and long legs that stretched all the way from her toes to her…Well. She’d certainly grown into her feet, all right, along with the rest of her.
He swallowed. Hard. The Bluebell had become a woman.
And God help him, he wasn’t prepared for that, or for the visceral reaction in his tightening gut. Good Lord, for the Bluebell. And when she turned to drop her shift over her head and shimmied it down over her breasts and hips, unknowingly teasing him with another angle of her ripe body, the new view ripped his breath away.
He turned around before she caught him staring at her. Fisted at his sides, his hands trembled, and he inhaled deep, slow breaths to steady himself.
Well. Some things had certainly changed in the past six years. In all kinds of new and interesting ways.
“Just one moment more,” she called out. “I can’t quite reach…”
More fabric rustled behind him. Quinn imagined her lissome body twisting to reach behind her to fasten her dress, her breasts straining tantalizingly against her low-cut bodice as her back arched. One long leg would be half exposed by a raised skirt revealing the lacy edge of her stocking, which he could slowly roll down her thigh and follow along in its wake with his mouth.
When the Scoundrel Sins Page 3