When the Scoundrel Sins

by Anna Harrington

  And liked a great deal.

  CHAPTER THREE

  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 re
ad 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 a
way 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.”