When the Scoundrel Sins

by Anna Harrington

  “You’re my brother, and I like Belle. So of course it concerns me.” He withdrew a cheroot from his jacket’s inside breast pocket and bit off the tip, then spat it away. His shoulders dropped with concerned sympathy. “What are you still doing here, Quinton?” He lit the cigar on a nearby lamp. “You should have been on a ship to America three weeks ago.”

  Damnably good question, which only tightened the knot at his nape. “I was trying to find a way to help Annabelle.”

  Robert puffed at the cheroot, the tip glowing red in the shadows. “Do you have feelings for her?”

  “Of course.” He forced a casual tone into his voice to hide his confusion over what feelings, exactly, he did hold for her. Because they were growing more mystifying with each day he spent in her company, until he now didn’t want to think about departing for America and leaving her behind. “She’s an old friend.”

  “Well, then, you’re not just a damned fool.” Robert fixed him with a hard look as he clamped the cigar between his teeth. “You’re also a damnably bad liar.”

  Now that was overstepping. “Robert, I’m warning you—”

  “You two are a lot of things, but you’re not friends.” Robert’s gaze turned somber. “At least not anymore. Are you, Quinn?”

  His shoulders sagged under the weight of his brother’s concern and his own confusion about Belle. “No,” he admitted quietly, “we’re not.”

  “Are you going to offer for her tonight, then?”

  Through the doors, he saw Belle laugh at something one of the guests said. But even from this far away, he could see that her laughter was forced, and his chest tightened for the unseen distress she surely suffered tonight. “A scoundrel like me? I’m not the domesticating type.”

  “Are you certain about that?” Robert leaned back against the stone railing and thoughtfully studied the glowing end of his cigar. “She’s an heiress in want of a husband, and you’re a man in want of an estate. Seems like a perfect match to me.”

  “I’m a man whose future lies in America,” he corrected. But that declaration sounded thin, even to his own ears. The same niggling unease that had struck him recently whenever he thought of resettling in America came back tonight with full force.

  Robert flicked a bit of ash from the end of his cheroot and gestured at the house and gardens around them. “Why not remain right here?”

  “I can’t stay in England, you know that.” Here he would be seen first as the duke’s brother, second as a Carlisle, and never as the man he wanted to be—someone who succeeded on his own merits. In England, he knew people would always suspect that his success came from his brother’s connections or his family’s wealth, rather than his own hard work and intellect.

  Although he had to admit to himself that traveling to America was now starting to feel more like an obligation and less like his dream.

  “You’re only ten miles from Scotland,” Robert argued, “as far away from London as you can get and still be in England. Any further away, and you’d be wearing a kilt. Sebastian’s influence is growing, but even Trent’s shadow can’t follow you all the way up here.”

  He grudgingly admitted, “Perhaps.”

  In the few weeks he’d been in the borderlands, he’d come to realize that a different breed of men lived here. Tough and hardworking ones like Angus Burns who had been weathered by the northern winters into understanding the hard truth—that a man’s worth came from his abilities, not his given lot in life. If anyplace in England provided an opportunity to prove himself, it was here.

  Yet he’d promised his father America. “But I’ve got land waiting for me there.”

  Robert said around the cigar as he clamped it between his teeth, “You’ve got land waiting right here.”

  He shook his head. “I want a place where I can make a difference, under my own work and management.”

  “You can manage this place yourself and put into motion all those plans Belle has for the village and improving the estate. And you fit in well here. You won’t be able to say the same about America.” He gestured with his cheroot, indicating the house and the estate, even the unseen mountains in the distance. “Look around you, Quinton. Everything you want is right here.” He added, “And a beautiful woman to share it with.”

  “Not everything.” The estate would always be Belle’s, not his. No matter what the law said about matrimonial property, this place would always belong to her, its heart and soul belonging to her alone. True, he wanted to be like his father, a man who would never lord rights and privileges over his wife and home. But Quinn also knew it would grate to know that he’d come into marriage as an unequal partner.

  As for Annabelle…a man didn’t give himself to a woman like her and walk away with his heart intact.

  He turned away from the French doors. “Asa Jeffers needs me. I promised Father I would take care of him and his wife.” He wouldn’t walk away from that, even if the thought of leaving Belle grew harder to accept with each new day. “America was the path Father wanted for me.”

  “Yes. Because he knew how much it chafed at you to be the third son. Because he knew you’d need a way to prove yourself, away from the family’s influence and the title. Because he knew that life in the military or the church would never satisfy you, that you wanted to work for a living.” Robert put his hand on Quinton’s shoulder, adding quietly, “Because he wanted you to be happy.”

  Guilt once more gnawed at Quinn’s gut. Around them, the din of the party hummed low, and the soft night air gave an appreciated respite from the stifling heat and too-sweet odor of beeswax candles wafting through the overcrowded ballroom. All the guests waited expectantly for Belle to make her announcement and end their suspense.

  All except him.

  “Father thought America would give you that chance at happiness, so he arranged it,” Robert said soberly. “But Jeffers doesn’t need you. He doesn’t have any sons, but he has successful sons-in-law who could take over the farm, or who would welcome him and his wife into their homes if they didn’t want to work the land. He doesn’t need you. You need him. That’s why Father wanted you to go to Charleston. He understood that part of your nature better than you did.”

  Struck by the concern in Robert’s voice, Quinn slowly raised his eyes and met his gaze.

  “You need to be needed, Quinton,” Robert continued quietly. “Always have. All the schemes we planned out as boys, all the trouble we got into…you always had to be at the center of it. Every contest and bet you carried out was because someone else needed you to do them—whether to win money or just to have a good time. Father knew that about you. He wanted you to have the chance to prove yourself on your own merits, but he also knew that you’d only be happy starting a new life if you had someone who depended upon you, who needed your help.”

  His brother fell silent for a moment to study the glowing tip of his cigar, the same way Father always did when they smoked cigars in the dining room after the ladies had gone through. Quinton’s chest panged hollowly at the memory.

  “That’s why you excelled at overseeing the properties when you took over as estate agent when Sebastian inherited,” Robert continued quietly. “Because you were needed there. No one else could have done it, and you thrived at it. That’s also why you were the one who spent so much time caring for Mother after Father died, because she needed you.”

  Quinn looked away, his eyes stinging. He gritted his teeth against the pain he still carried for his mother’s grief. Always would.

  “And you’re still here, in some godforsaken sheep pasture in the borderlands, because Belle needs you.”

  With a skipping beat of his heart, Quinn snapped his gaze up to his brother’s. Could Robert be correct?

  “You don’t have to go to America now. You’ve got everything you need right here to make yourself happy. You just have to accept it.” He leveled a sympathetic look at Quinn. “Father wanted you to be happy, no matter where you ended up.” He paused. “Does Belle make you
happy?”

  Quinton drew in a jerking breath and admitted, “Yes.” That was the God’s truth. He’d not been happier than during the past three weeks with Belle. “Very much.”

  “Then stay right here, where you belong.”

  A lead weight settled on his chest. The temptation Robert was dangling in front of him was a bittersweet one.

  But he couldn’t take it.

  “I’m going to America as planned,” he repeated, although this time the declaration left him wanting a good stiff drink.

  Robert remained silent for a long while, then he drawled quietly, “And I’m leaving for London.” He flicked the ash from his cigar. “Tomorrow morning.”

  Quinn stiffened at the news. He was parting from his brother far earlier than expected. “I thought you’d be riding all the way to Liverpool to see me off.”

  And with that, the very real possibility that Quinn might not see his brother again for years. If ever. After all, most people who crossed the Atlantic made one-way voyages.

  Truly, he had no idea when he would be able to return. His mother could very well have passed away before then, given her age, which was why he was privately glad that Sebastian married Miranda when he did, to soften the blow of Quinn’s leaving by giving her a new daughter to fuss over. God only knew when he’d see Josie and his nephew and niece again, or how many more children she and Chesney would have while he was gone. Seb and Miranda would be plagued by children; he was certain of it from the way those two stared at each other. And Robert would make good on his business ventures and become a wealthy trade merchant—he was already well on his way, in fact.

  When Quinn did come back to visit in five years or so, there would be so many Carlisles running around Blackwood Hall and Chestnut Hill that he’d never be able to keep track of them all. And missing each of them terribly when he had to leave again.

  Robert looked down as he rubbed the ash into the stone terrace with the toe of his boot. “I thought I was going there, too. But a business matter has come up. I received a message this afternoon. Those trade investments I made in India have finally paid off. The ship docked at Greenwich three days ago, and I want to be in London when the goods are auctioned.” He paused to inhale a deep, shaking breath. “This is it, Quinn. The opportunity I’ve been waiting for. One which might very well turn into a partnership with a large trading company.”

  Might…Concern nagged at him. “Does Sebastian know what you’re planning?”

  Robert froze for just a beat, but Quinn caught it. They were brothers; of course he noticed everything about him. Hadn’t he wanted nothing more when he was a boy than to be just like Robert, looking up to his older brother the way boys now idolized Gentleman Jackson or Wellington?

  “No, and I don’t want him to. Not yet. If plans develop as I hope, then I’ll be able to launch a successful life for myself, just like you. Only in a civilized country.” Robert shot him one last warning look to mind his own business. “I’ll tell him soon, but I’ll tell him—not you.”

  Although Robert’s assurances eased Quinn’s suspicions, it didn’t erase them. Still, he knew from experience—and several bloodied noses—not to meddle in his brothers’ affairs. Besides, he had his own troubles to deal with…one particularly stubborn, inexplicably alluring, honey-eyed trouble, to be exact.

  “Speaking of Sebastian,” Robert commented as he reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a note. “This arrived for you a few minutes ago from Blackwood Hall.”

  His heart lurched into a booming beat as he accepted it. The answer to his proposal to buy Glenarvon. Just in the nick of time, too.

  Quinn mumbled his thanks and somehow kept from ripping it open right then. Belle’s last best hope lay inside that note.

  “I’m leaving first thing in the morning,” Robert told him. An amused grin spread across his face. “After tonight, our interviewing services won’t be necessary anymore, which Aunt Agatha must surely thank God for.” Then his smile faded, and he tapped his shoulder against Quinn’s. “If you’re going to America, you should leave with me.”

  “I want to stay a bit longer, to make certain everything is settled well for Belle.” He’d made a promise to protect her, and he meant to see that through.

  “She won’t need your help with that.”

  Quinn shook his head. “Contacts and property deeds can be complicated. She’ll need someone to—”

  “Quinton.” His older brother fixed him with a steely look. “After tonight, she won’t need you anymore.”

  Robert’s words came like a punch to his gut.

  Quinn turned his back to Robert, to lean over the balustrade and stare out into the dark garden, until he could regain his breath. He knew tonight was coming, knew she’d decided to take a husband…But down deep, he hadn’t truly been prepared for riding away and leaving her behind.

  But what other choice did he have?

  Robert asked bluntly, “Do you love her?”

  Quinn sucked in a deep, steadying breath to quell the riotous confusion of emotions that had swirled through him since the evening he arrived and saw Belle again, and admitted, “I don’t know.”

  With a disappointed shake of his head, Robert stubbed out his cigar on the balustrade, then tossed it away into the dark garden beyond. “Well, you’d better figure it out soon. Because in less than two hours Belle’s going to pledge her life to a man.” He pushed himself away from the railing and walked toward the French doors, sliding a parting glance backward at his brother. “I’d hoped it would be you.”

  The doors closed after him, muffling the noise of the party beyond to a low drone.

  Quinn squeezed his eyes shut. Damnation. What Robert wanted of him—didn’t his brother realize the impossibility of what he was asking? He had an agreement with Asa Jeffers and his wife, to let them remain on the land where they’d made their home for decades. And he’d promised his father, the very last promise he’d made to him in the days leading up to the accident that claimed his life. How was he expected to break it? And for what reason—a woman? What would Father say to that?

  He deserved an opportunity to prove himself, damn it! He’d worked hard and earned this chance for a new life, away from England and all the difficulties that came with being a duke’s son. And a Carlisle. Life would be much easier in America, where no one cared about titles or would say that his success was only due to family connections. Staying here would be more difficult, where everyone doubted him, where failure was expected and success to be credited not to his merits but to his family.

  He caught his breath as that realization hit him. Did he really want a life of easy? That’s what America would be, compared to England.

  A worse thought chilled him—was an easy future what his father had in mind when he encouraged Quinn to leave England? For Christ’s sake, even finding the land to purchase had been done for him, neatly arranged by his father and handed to him like a gift.

  If that was what a life in America meant, could Robert be right? Was he better off staying here?

  Except that staying here meant having to marry Annabelle. Could he ever let Belle into his heart, or allow himself to enter hers? Because love ended. Always. That was the last lesson his parents’ marriage had taught him, one he’d learned the hard way.

  Love…the one thing he promised himself he’d never do.

  But he could help her with Glenarvon.

  He tore open the message and froze as he scanned Sebastian’s scrawled writing. Then he crushed the note in his hand and threw it to the ground as he turned on his heel to stalk back inside.

  * * *

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Ferguson called out, his head held high and his chest puffed out beneath the garish-colored waistcoat he wore as tonight’s Master of Ceremonies.

  Annabelle smiled. She adored him and all the other servants at Glenarvon, and a fresh stab of guilt jarred through her as she thought about what might happen to them in only one short week. Those who weren’t old
enough to be pensioned would be moved to other Ainsley properties, and several of them would be making the move to the dower house in London. And her right along with them if she didn’t accept Sir Harold’s offer.

  The engagement was expected, of course. All the guests had assumed she would choose him, and Harold, himself, hovered nearby all night. As if the announcement had already been made and the marriage was now fated. All the guests were happy for her.

  But she was utterly miserable. Despite all her resolve to avoid a marriage of convenience, one which held no love and might end up as awful as her parents’ marriage, that was exactly where she’d found herself. The irony was bitter.

  Ferguson tapped his staff against the marble floor and announced proudly, “The first waltz of the evening!”

  The orchestra struck up the opening flourishes, and each note jarred into her. She’d been so busy greeting guests and thanking them for their kind felicitations that she hadn’t realized the dancing had started.

  A hand closed over her elbow from behind.

  Her heart leapt into her throat. Quinton! With a bright smile, she turned—

  “Sir Harold.” Her breath caught in a painful inhalation at the sight of him, her chest hollow with disappointment. But her fake smile never wavered, not even as her heart plummeted to the floor.

  “The waltz is beginning.” With a smile, he gestured toward the dance floor with a sweep of his arm, as confident as everyone else in the room that she would choose him at midnight. Without a better suitor in sight, he had good reason to assume so. “Shall we?”

  “Of course,” she whispered.

  He led her forward. They moved into position, and the sweeping first bars of the dance sounded through the room. Belle took a deep breath as he stepped her into the waltz, struck by the realization that she’d never danced with him before and didn’t know what to expect.

  What she found was boredom.

  Oh, Harold was a good dancer, knowing his steps and turning through them with precision. But the waltz reminded her of sitting through the music recital of someone who didn’t want to play—technically precise but utterly lacking in engagement. And passion. At least, thankfully, he didn’t try to hold a conversation with her, so she didn’t have to fake interest as well as a smile. She didn’t think she could have endured it.