“Thank you,” she murmured, struck by how everyone’s grief for her was stronger than her own grief for her father. A man who had been in her life only long enough for her to despise him.
“When Mr. Bartleby learned of his death, he told me.” Anticipating Quinn’s question about that, Lady Ainsley explained, “Bartleby has been our family attorney for years, and he knows that if there is any issue regarding Annabelle’s security, he is to contact me immediately.”
“I appreciate that you told me.” Belle shook her head. “But his death changes nothing. He cannot get Glenarvon now, but neither can I.”
Lady Ainsley and Mr. Bartleby exchanged another look, another silent communication. Then the viscountess said quietly, “But you can.”
“No,” she said as firmly as possible, not daring to meet Quinn’s dark gaze. Dear heavens, why wouldn’t they leave her alone about this? “I am not marrying.”
Bartleby replied carefully, “There is another part of the will that might now come into consideration and make your inheritance of Glenarvon possible without having to take a husband.”
Her breath caught in her throat as a bubble of hope swelled inside her. Tonight, when she’d made her decision not to marry, to follow after Quinton into the shadows, she was certain she’d lost her home. She’d accepted it then, and coming to that decision had emboldened her, because she’d had nothing left to lose.
But now, she had a second chance. Her heart raced painfully, and she barely registered that Quinn had tensed and sat forward in his chair. She asked softly, “How?”
“As you know,” the solicitor continued, “Lord Ainsley bequeathed all unentailed properties to his daughters to be split evenly among them.”
“Yes, his daughters from his first marriage.”
Bartleby glanced at Lady Ainsley, who hesitated, then nodded her permission for him to continue. He cleared his throat and explained, “Your inheritance of Glenarvon would have equaled their shares. Lord Ainsley made certain of it.” He paused and nervously pushed his spectacles into place on his nose. “He wanted all of his daughters to be taken care of.”
She nodded, noting from the corner of her eye that Quinn had pushed himself from his chair and moved to stand behind her at the settee. “Lord Ainsley was a good man. Of course, he—”
“Including you.”
She caught her breath, stunned. Quinn’s hand went gently to her shoulder as the soft words registered inside her. No, that couldn’t be. What he was implying…impossible.
But when she looked up at Quinn and saw his sober face, she knew—
“My father was Marcus Greene,” she breathed, so softly that her own ears couldn’t hear it. Her heart leapt agonizingly, each thumping beat coming so hard that she thought it might burst free from her chest. Numbly, she reached up to cover Quinn’s hand with her own, seeking an anchor in him to keep from falling away. “My father wasn’t…my father?”
Lady Ainsley sat beside her on the settee and took Belle’s hands securely in hers. The look of sadness and grief on the viscountess’s face ripped through her, stealing her breath away and instantly forming hot tears at her lashes. When she felt the blood drain from her face and all of her began to shudder, Lady Ainsley placed her hand against Belle’s cheek. “Charles North, Lord Ainsley, was your real father, Annabelle.”
Sudden grief tore through her so fiercely that even in her stunned shock the pain was blinding. The world tilted beneath her. Only Quinn’s hand on her shoulder gave her anything solid to cling to, his strong fingers tightening to let her know he was there.
“We never meant to hurt you by keeping this from you,” Lady Ainsley whispered softly, her hand soothingly stroking Belle’s cheek and hair while the other held tight to her hand. “But it cannot be kept any longer. You need to know now.”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she gave a jerking nod.
She felt Quinn’s hand slide away. No! Stay with me! But she couldn’t speak through the terrible anguish shredding her from the inside out. Then she heard Lady Ainsley’s voice through the painful fog suffocating her—
“…lost his first wife, Ainsley was devastated. He could barely leave his bed and wouldn’t eat. Your mother was his housekeeper at the London house, and she helped him through his grief. They became very close.” The viscountess’s voice quavered, and Belle was only dimly aware through her own pain of how difficult this must be for her. “Ainsley loved your mother, very much, but he was a viscount with young children to care for and could never marry a housekeeper.”
Another jerking nod, and her eyes squeezed tighter.
“Then one day, she left. No warning, no explanation…Ainsley looked for her, but she was gone. Yet he never gave up, and nearly a decade later, he found her. That was when he learned he had a daughter in you.” She took Belle’s face between her trembling hands. “Your mother had left because she’d discovered that she was with child, and she married Marcus Greene so that you would not be illegitimate. When Ainsley found you and your mother, you were eight. You thought Marcus Greene was your father, and your mother didn’t want you to know the truth.”
Belle gave a soft sob, unable to hold back a tear as it slipped down her cheek.
“Don’t blame her, darling.” Soft hands soothed at her temples and cheeks, gently brushing away the stray tears. “She wanted only to protect you, to keep you safe. But she allowed Ainsley to meet you, remember?”
“My birthday,” she breathed out past trembling lips.
“He gave you a new coat and shoes, and a pretty doll, just like the ones he gave his other daughters when they were little.” She paused, her own voice trembling with emotion. “It broke his heart to leave you behind.”
Belle was certain it did. But dear God! Hearing the truth now stirred so much pain inside her that it hurt to take each breath.
“When Marcus Greene was arrested, Ainsley made certain that you and your mother had a safe place to live, food, clothes—everything you needed.” The viscountess drew a deep breath. “Then your mother fell ill.”
“And I came here,” she whispered. She opened her eyes, and Lady Ainsley’s concerned face blurred beneath her tears.
“He promised your mother on her deathbed that he would treat you as well as his other daughters, that he would always care for you.” Her eyes glistened. “He was at her side when she passed. The last words your mother heard were of how much he loved her.”
Unable to choke down the flow of tears any longer, Belle collapsed into Lady Ainsley’s arms. The viscountess held her tenderly and cooed soothingly to her as she rocked her in her arms.
Belle had no idea how long she lay there in Lady Ainsley’s lap while she cried, but long enough that when she finally sat up and wiped away her last tears, Quinn had moved away to stand in front of the window, staring blankly outside at the night, his back toward them and his hand rubbing at his nape.
“Why?” Belle whispered, her hands tightly clutching the viscountess’s. “Why didn’t you tell me before now?”
“Life was hard enough for you as it was, having lost your mother to fever and the man you thought was your father to prison. Ainsley knew what happened to illegitimate children born to members of society when their father’s true identity was made known, and he didn’t want you to be hurt any more than you already were. He thought it was for the best to keep it secret and to give you the best life we could despite that.” She squeezed Belle’s hands. “We both did.”
All those years…she’d never once suspected that Lord Ainsley was anything more to her than the kind and generous man who had taken her in as a favor to her mother. But he’d loved her, Belle had always known that. As much as any father could have.
“We treated you exactly as we did his other daughters, and he made certain you had everything you should, right down to a good education and a London debut.” Lady Ainsley smiled sadly. “He was always so proud of you, most of all whenever he found you in the library, lost in a book. You were his little blues
tocking, and he constantly bragged about how smart you were, what new language you’d learned, what play or novel you’d forced poor Ferguson to act out with you in the gardens. He couldn’t have loved you more if you were his legitimate daughter.”
Belle nodded and lowered her face as she wiped at her eyes. And she’d loved him. The grief filling her heart now was not for Lord Ainsley but for herself, for never having the chance to know him as a father.
“He wanted to protect you, and so we agreed never to tell you. What good would it have brought?” She sadly shook her head. “But now, with circumstances as they are…”
When her voice trailed off, Bartleby interjected gently, “You can now receive Glenarvon as your share of the inheritance that he left to all his daughters.”
Quinn glanced over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing angrily on Bartleby. “Tell her the rest,” he ordered.
The two men stared at each other, and the silent communication that passed between them brought an icy frost over the room. A tension Belle couldn’t fathom.
“Tell her what she has to do to claim it. That she can only gain her inheritance that way if she lets herself be recognized as Ainsley’s illegitimate daughter.” Quinn bit out distastefully, “His bastard.”
“Quinton, please,” Lady Ainsley chastised.
The harshness in his voice and face could have cut glass. But when he looked at Belle, his expression softened. “You’ll never be accepted into society. They’ll never let you forget who you are and where you came from. They’ll cut you directly to your face—worse, they’ll do everything they can to embarrass you, spread vicious and untrue stories about you, ruin what’s left of your reputation.”
She held his gaze for a long moment, each passing second marked by her pounding heartbeat. And by the increasing anguish in her heart, that he could care this much about her to once more attempt to protect her by warning her…but not love her.
She smiled faintly, a soft curl to her lips as she lifted her chin. “Let them. I haven’t needed them in the past twenty-five years, and I won’t need them going forward.”
“You know what it means to be ostracized by society, how hard it can be,” he pressed. “Are you certain you want this?”
“What do I care what society thinks of me?” She squeezed Lady Ainsley’s hand. “I will have Glenarvon and my tenants, the workmen, the villagers…all the people I love, and all the people who love me.” She saw the concern that darkened his face, but she also saw the flicker of admiration deep in his sapphire eyes. “I now get to tell the world that Lord Ainsley was my father, and I will make him so very proud of me. The way a daughter should.”
His eyes never left hers as he murmured, “That’s my Bluebell.”
A warmth blossomed in her chest, even as her heart tore as she thought about her new future. One she wouldn’t be able to share with him.
“If that is your decision,” Bartleby interjected, “then first thing in the morning, I’ll file to have the courts reopen the will. The magistrates will certainly want to question all of us, but I am confident that they’ll grant you Glenarvon, especially after I show them the letters I have in my office, in which Lord Ainsley and your mother acknowledged your true paternity.” He smiled at her. “Congratulations, Miss Greene. You are the new owner of Castle Glenarvon.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. Belle glanced at Quinn. She wanted to share the bittersweet joy of this moment with him, but he’d turned away, once again staring thoughtfully out the window.
Bartleby smiled proudly at Quinn. His chest puffed out beneath his waistcoat. “You asked me to find a legal loophole, Lord Quinton. It seems that’s exactly what we’ve done!”
But Quinn only grunted to acknowledge the solicitor’s comment, his eyes and attention still focused out the window, where he could surely see nothing but the inky blackness of the dark countryside.
Lady Ainsley rose to her feet, gently pulling Belle up with her. “I think we should go to your room now.” She placed a motherly hand against Belle’s cheek and smiled reassuringly at her. “You’ve had a long evening. I’m certain you could use some peace and rest. And I know that while I can never replace your mother”—she paused, her eyes glistening—“I hope you still hold affection for me, the kind a daughter would.”
Unable to speak for fear of crying, Belle tightly hugged Lady Ainsley. Then the viscountess linked her arm around Belle’s waist and led her from the room.
Belle looked back in time to see Quinn turn away from the window and slap Bartleby on the back.
“Bartleby, if you don’t mind lingering a bit. I have a proposition for you…” Quinn’s deep voice drifted away as Belle passed into the hall with the dowager.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Belle sat on the window seat in her bedroom, her forehead resting against the cool glass, and stared into the dark night, unable to see anything beyond the pane. Although, in truth, she wasn’t really looking. Her thoughts were too preoccupied, churning and spinning until she didn’t know what to think. Or feel.
The solitude of her room hadn’t given her the peace she’d sought, especially as Lady Ainsley had come by twice to check on her and then sent her maid to bring up a cup of warm milk to help her sleep. Sleep? A bubble of laughter spilled from her lips. How ludicrous that notion was! She’d never be able to sleep tonight. Not knowing that Lord Ainsley was her real father and that Glenarvon was now hers and could never be taken away.
And certainly not with thoughts of Quinn revolving through her mind, so foolishly replaying every moment that he’d spent making love to her.
No. Not making love.
She squeezed her eyes shut at the searing pain that gripped her when she thought of that special melding of bodies and souls. She might have made love to him, but what he felt for her wasn’t anything near love.
To have him finally propose to her, only to have to reject him—oh, it had been torture! But she knew the hell that a marriage without love could be, and she would never put herself into that position. No matter Quinn’s honorable intentions, or how much she longed to be his wife.
A knock sounded softly at the door, and she rolled her tear-blurred eyes. What now? Why wouldn’t everyone just leave her alone so she could be miserable in peace?
But the knock came again. Dreading that it was another visit from Lady Ainsley, or more warm milk she didn’t have the stomach to drink, she opened her door.
And gasped. “Quinton.”
He leaned on his shoulder against the doorjamb and smiled down at her. For a moment she couldn’t believe he wasn’t a figment from her imagination, but she knew he had to be real. Because only the real Quinton could stir such confusion and yearning inside her, a riot of it leaving her not knowing whether to throw herself into his arms or throttle him. And for a moment not caring which as long as her hands were on him.
“Invite me inside,” he murmured softly. His deep voice twined down her spine and blossomed goose bumps on her bare arms.
Taking a deep breath, she held her ground and prayed he couldn’t see how he made her tremble. “That wouldn’t be proper.”
He trailed a searing look down her front that told her exactly how little he cared for proper. That look cascaded memories through her of every breath-stealing kiss he’d ever given her, every delicious touch, and she shivered beneath his audacity.
As if he knew what confused desires he flamed inside her, he quirked the corner of his mouth higher with amusement. “Can’t a man visit his fiancée?”
“I’m not your fiancée.” She forced a playful tone, despite the hollow ache in her chest. “Haven’t you heard? I’m an heiress now. You don’t have to marry me to save Glenarvon.”
Breathing deeply to steady herself, she longed to touch him, to brush her fingers through his mussed hair that even now had a golden lock lying rakishly over his forehead. But she wasn’t naïve enough to think that it would stop with such an innocent touch and tucked her traitorous hands behind her back.
Her breath caught painfully, her throat and nose stinging with emotion. She whispered breathlessly, “You don’t.”
“But I do. Let me in, and I’ll prove it.” He purred those words so wolfishly that a flush of heat rose in her cheeks, and his eyes sparkled at the reaction he drew from her. “Besides, I want to give you your birthday gift.”
A bittersweet knot tightened in her chest that he cared enough about her to bring her a gift, to come to her bedchamber tonight…yet not enough to love her. “Someone might see you here.”
He lifted a brow in challenge. “Then invite me inside so they don’t.”
Biting her lip, she hesitated. She should turn him away, make him leave—and with that, to possibly lose her last chance ever to be alone with him, to be held safe and secure in his arms.
“Please, Belle.” He told her honestly, “I’d very much like to come in and talk.”
“Talk?” she asked dubiously.
“Perhaps more.” His half grin blossomed into a wicked smile. “But we’ll never know if you don’t let me in.”
A voice inside her head screamed in warning, but even that wasn’t enough to tamp down the ache of desire she felt for him. Unable to deny herself the happiness of being with him, she stepped back to let him slip inside her room. She silently closed the door behind him, then paused to draw a deep breath before she turned the lock.
Quinn set the satchel he carried down on her reading chair and faced her. His sultry gaze swept languidly over her, from unruly locks to bare toes and back again, and everywhere he looked, heat prickled beneath her skin. The now familiar ache began to rise inside her, and her breath turned shallow and jerky. Her body knew now what he was capable of doing to hers, and she longed for those wonderful sensations again. Just as she knew that only Quinton would ever be able to make her feel such pleasure, such freedom and joy.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she protested weakly, unable to keep the aching tremor from her voice.
When the Scoundrel Sins Page 24