When the Scoundrel Sins

by Anna Harrington

  So they danced on, turning around the floor…stilted, uncomfortable, silent. A horrible, sinking feeling in her stomach told her that their marriage would be no different. Stilted. Uncomfortable. Horribly silent.

  Harold came to a sudden halt in the middle of the dance floor.

  She gasped in surprise, stopping quickly to keep from crashing into him. The other couples scattered around them as they continued on in their steps, yet all craning curious necks to see what was happening. Including Belle, who rose up on tiptoes to peer over his shoulder to see—

  Quinton.

  He grinned at her. “May I cut in?”

  Her eyes widened. She’d never seen a couple interrupted like this before—oh, it simply wasn’t done! Yet there he was, a shining contradiction of gold and black, with the audacity to interrupt. And her heart soared.

  “Go away, Carlisle,” Harold muttered threateningly, yet he smiled at Quinn as if they were old friends for the benefit of the curious eyes watching them. “I’m waltzing with my fiancée.”

  “I haven’t agreed to that yet,” Belle reminded him as she shrank away.

  “But you will.” He might have let Quinn stop them in their steps, with no other choice unless they wanted to trample over the top of him. But Harold wasn’t giving her up, his left hand holding fast to hers, his right resting possessively at the small of her back. “It will be midnight soon, and you’ll have to make an announcement if you want to keep your home.” He added, smiling down at her, “I’m the best choice, and you know it.”

  He was right. She swallowed hard to keep down the nausea roiling in her stomach at the thought of being married to him. Oh, she was going to cast up her accounts right there in the ballroom!

  “Then even more reason to let me dance with her.” Quinn’s charming grin only brightened as he slapped Harold good-naturedly on the shoulder, although Belle suspected that what he truly wanted to do was punch him. “If you’ll have her for the rest of your life, then the least you can do is let me have her tonight. For one last dance with an old friend.”

  If. Belle’s chest squeezed so hard that she winced. Even now Quinton still held out hope that she’d refuse Sir Harold. But he might as well have been whistling in the wind for all the difference it would make.

  “You don’t get her, Carlisle,” Harold half hissed. To anyone watching, the two men were simply having a convivial conversation, but tension seethed palpably between them. “Not tonight, not ever.”

  Quinn’s eyes flashed dark and territorial, and her breath caught in her throat. That was the same look he’d worn six years ago in the St James garden, right before he pummeled Burton Williams. Were the two of them bold enough to come to blows right here on the dance floor?

  She felt Harold’s hand draw into a clenched fist against her back. Good Lord—apparently, they were exactly that bold!

  “Please don’t cause trouble, both of you,” she chastened, then turned to Harold. “Besides, you don’t like to dance anyway. Quinn is doing you a favor by waltzing with me.”

  Quinn eyed her knowingly, the corner of his grin twisting up wryly at that.

  “Fine. Finish the damned waltz, Carlisle.” Quick anger pulsed visibly through Sir Harold, although Belle wondered which he was more furious about—losing the waltz or losing it to Quinton. He released her and bowed stiffly over her hand, a wicked smile touching his lips as he kissed her fingers. “After all, we’ll have every night for the rest of our lives to dance together.”

  Appalled at his innuendo, Belle snatched her hand away. Harold turned on his heels and tried not to stomp away, the current loser in the strange rivalry that had sprung up between the two men.

  “Shall we?” Quinton held open his arms.

  Belle stared at him uncertainly. She should have refused to change partners, should even now walk away. Being cut direct in the middle of the dance floor was the least he deserved for nearly fighting over her again, for potentially ruining her life once more by driving away her last best hope for keeping Glenarvon.

  But she couldn’t bring herself to leave, and the siren song of being held in his arms proved impossible to resist, even for half a waltz.

  She stepped into position, and he twirled her lightly into the waltz. They danced together fluidly, as artlessly as if she were born to be in his arms and follow his lead. Smooth, graceful…magical.

  She stared up into his eyes as he turned her effortlessly about the floor. He held her closer than he should have, brushing an almost imperceptible caress of his hand against her lower back, but she was helpless to make him stop.

  Her awareness of his solid body only heightened with each turn and brush of her skirts around his legs. The familiar ache he’d always been able to stir inside her blossomed with an electric tingling that spilled through her, all the way out to the tips of her fingers as he held her hand in his. She breathed deep his rich, masculine scent of tobacco and port, and her head spun as they danced together, all of him engulfing her senses until she trembled.

  Aware of the attention of the crowd on them, aching with the frustration of his nearness, and unable to bear the heat of his hungry stare another moment—“Quinton,” she breathlessly whispered in a plea for mercy.

  “I’ll ask one last time, Belle.” He squeezed her fingers as they rested lightly in his and sent a shiver racing up her arm, to land heavily in her breasts. “Don’t get married. Aunt Agatha will take care of you. She’ll always give you a safe home, if not here then in London.”

  Her shoulders sagged. She was so very weary of fighting this battle. “It’s too late.” Emotionally drained, she shook her head sadly. “We’re standing in the middle of the engagement party.”

  “Your birthday party,” he corrected firmly. “The announcement hasn’t yet been made. You can still change your mind.”

  “I can’t.” With only one week until the will’s deadline, there was no more time to delay. The announcement had to be made tonight in order to have time to negotiate the marriage contract and plan the wedding. Tonight was simply a foregone conclusion of what everyone already knew was inevitable. Everyone except Quinn, apparently. “There isn’t time.”

  “Don’t do this, Belle. Don’t shackle yourself to a man who—”

  “Quinton, stop!” She squeezed her eyes closed for only a moment, but even then, she saw his handsome face, the concern for her in his eyes. Which only made the sharp pain inside her chest flame more fiercely. Because his concern wasn’t enough to save her from a marriage she didn’t want and her home from being taken away, not enough to save her heart from him. The only man she wanted to marry. The man she loved. “Please…there’s no help for it now.”

  “The hell there’s not,” he growled.

  “Let it go, Quinton,” she breathed, unable to find her voice for fear of sobbing. The burning desolation in her chest was scalding. “Let me go.”

  The orchestra sounded the last flourish and ended the waltz. Regretfully, she shifted out of his arms and mechanically sank into a curtsy. Then she turned and walked away, blinking back the blurring in her eyes but keeping the false smile firmly in place.

  He took her elbow as he fell into step beside her to escort her from the floor. She trembled at his touch. Daring to take a surreptitious glance at him, she caught her breath at the hard determination in his expression, his jaw clamped tight and his eyes staring straight ahead as if he couldn’t bear to look at her.

  “I’m not giving up, Belle,” he promised in a low, intense voice.

  She forced her smile to widen even as her heart broke. It was almost midnight. “Perhaps you should.”

  He hesitated, then said quietly, “I’ve heard from Sebastian.”

  She tripped. His grip tightened on her arm and caught her, keeping her upright, even as she turned and stared at him, stunned. New hope blossomed in the barren desert that her heart had become tonight.

  “That’s why I was late for the waltz,” he informed her stiffly. “His reply came right before
the dance started.”

  She held her breath, waiting on pins and needles. “And?”

  “He’s willing to help purchase Glenarvon.”

  Relief cascaded through her, her knees going weak. She would have surely fallen to the floor if not for Quinn’s strong hand on her arm, still supporting her.

  “Oh, thank God,” she breathed, unable to speak louder through the turbulent rush of emotions pouring through her. At the last possible moment, an answer to her prayers…But why wasn’t Quinn happy for her? Why did he look so angry? She stopped, dread rising inside her. “Quinton?”

  “He’s willing to put up half the money,” he muttered, his jaw working so fiercely that the muscles danced in his neck. “Ten thousand pounds.”

  “Half?” she repeated, desperately praying she’d misheard. It might have been a single pound from the difference that much would make. Her heart shattered where she stood, and she pressed her fist to her chest to keep from screaming. “Then he hasn’t saved me at all.”

  “He wants me to put up the rest,” he added, once more taking her arm and leading her on as whispers began to rise around them.

  She shook her head, her eyes blurring so much that she could barely see the floor in front of her. “You can’t.”

  “I have enough money,” he bit out.

  “You need that money for America,” she whispered. The weight sinking back onto her slender shoulders was crushing, and she had no idea how she kept from falling to the floor beneath it.

  He repeated firmly, “I have enough money, Annabelle. You won’t have to marry.”

  “No, I won’t let you.” If her heart hadn’t already broken, his offer would have made it sing. Instead, grief blackened her insides. “Your dream is America, and I want that for you.”

  “Damnation, Belle—”

  “No!” she choked out. “And please, don’t mention it again.” Dear God, she couldn’t have borne it! To come so close, only to have all hope dashed once more…Any more would end her.

  They arrived back to Lady Ainsley, and their argument fell silent. Yet she could tell from the glint in his eyes that this discussion was far from over.

  But once midnight came and she made her announcement, it would no longer matter.

  “Are you all right, dear?” Lady Ainsley frowned with concern and gave her hand a motherly squeeze.

  Belle nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  “Quinton.” Lady Ainsley narrowed her gaze on him. Instead of recrimination, though, Belle thought she heard a touch of pleased admiration in the viscountess’s voice as she scolded, “Do you often go about stealing waltzes?”

  “It wasn’t much of a theft,” he joked, but Belle could tell that his heart wasn’t in it. After all, she knew his teasing ways better than anyone. “After all, I brought her back.”

  When what Belle wanted was to run away together. What was left of her heart burned like brimstone in her hollow chest.

  “Imp,” Lady Ainsley chastised him for forcing his way into the waltz…or was it for bringing her back? Belle couldn’t be certain of anything as the grief of losing him threatened to engulf her. Then the viscountess turned to Belle, and her features softened. “You’ll need to make the announcement soon. Will you be able to do it?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, wishing she could have been more resolved. Instead, dread seeped through her. She felt cold and feverish in turns, and she would have cast up her accounts right there if she hadn’t already been so upset that she hadn’t been able to eat anything all evening. With each heartbeat, every inch of her seemed to be screaming out for her to say no, to flee…to save herself.

  Hell. She’d been cast into hell. And there was no way out.

  “Whom will you choose?” Lady Ainsley asked quietly, her eyes drifting to Quinn.

  Now that the moment was finally arriving, Belle still couldn’t bring herself to put voice to it, as if speaking it made it real. But what choice did she have? Lose the only real home she’d ever had, or…“I’ll marry Sir Harold,” she breathed out, “if I must.”

  Through the watery tears she no longer bothered to hide, Belle saw Quinn stiffen, then silently turn and walk away. He left the ballroom, slipping out through the open terrace doors into the dark gardens.

  Then the crowd swarmed in to offer more good wishes and congratulations, separating her from Lady Ainsley, smothering her. The noise rose and swirled through her head, somehow both numbing and sickening at the same time. She felt as if she were falling away, with no one to stop her fall…

  No one but Quinn. Just as he’d been trying to do since he arrived.

  The truth slammed into her like lightning, so fiercely that it ripped her breath away, and a soft cry fell from her lips—

  She could never pledge her life to a man she didn’t love. Not even to save Glenarvon.

  She’d been wrong, so very wrong! How foolish had she been to think she could find happiness by marrying only for her inheritance? How would she not cringe whenever her husband touched her? Or stop the relentless tears if he never came to understand how much her home meant to her, even after she’d sacrificed her life, heart, and soul for it? How could the home she loved not become a prison in the face of all that?

  Certainly, ladies married for fortune and property all the time, without a care toward love. But she wasn’t one of those ladies. Not in men’s work clothes, with her books and evening swims. Never had been, and never would be.

  In that heartbeat of clarity, she realized what she wanted, what she had to do—

  God help her. She chose Quinton.

  With her frantic heart pounding so hard that the rush of blood in her ears was deafening, she pushed through the crowd and ran outside into the night after him.

  * * *

  Quinn bit out a savage curse as he stalked to the far end of the walled garden to lose himself in the shadows. But even all the way out here, he could still hear the party, muffled and distant, yet loud enough to plague him.

  Damnation. He ran a shaking hand through his hair.

  Belle was going to marry Bletchley. And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to stop it, unless he wanted to storm back inside and embarrass her in front of everyone. With that, he would ruin both her engagement and any chance she had of remaining in her home. Besides, the minute he opened his mouth, everyone in the room would think the same thing—that he wanted Belle for himself.

  What he wanted was for Belle to be happy so he could travel on to America and not feel guilty that she’d entered into a loveless marriage. That was all. It wasn’t as if he were in love with her himself.

  In love with Belle? Laughable! She was the Bluebell, for Christ’s sake! He didn’t love her. He wouldn’t let himself love her, just as he wouldn’t let himself love any woman.

  But that resolution was becoming harder to keep.

  He heaved out a frustrated breath. A bluestocking with the heart of an angel, she had him wanting to protect her with a determination he’d never felt before.

  Yet he’d failed to do just that, and in one hour, she’d be at Bletchley’s side, announcing her wedding plans.

  With a curse, he slammed his palm against the stone wall.

  “Quinton.”

  The soft voice swirled through him, prickling the little hairs at his nape. He froze, except for the fierce pounding of his heart.

  Appearing out of the darkness like a ghost, Belle came toward him through the shadows. Her hair shined dark, the sage-green dress she wore tonight showing white in the faint light of the sliver of the crescent moon lying low behind the distant mountains. Silent and ethereal…like a figure from a dream.

  As she stepped slowly toward him, he held his breath, fearing she was nothing more than a wishful illusion.

  “Belle,” he whispered. He drew a deep, tremulous breath. The sweet scent of heather surrounded her. “What are you—”

  She placed her fingers to his lips. “Hush.”

  Then she rose up on tiptoes and t
ouched her lips to his in a featherlight kiss that left him speechless. He was too entranced by her magical spell to put into words the emotions and desires pulsating through him.

  When she lowered herself away, he pursued, his mouth lowering to capture her lips and his eyes closing against the painful sweetness of her. Soft, delicate…enchanting. He whispered her name and lifted his hands to cup her face and hold her still as he deepened the kiss, as he sought to fill up his senses with her.

  But with a soft laugh, she slipped away. Taking his hand as she broke the kiss and lacing her fingers through his, she led him into the darkness beyond the garden walls.

  He followed, a willing captive. In the dim moonlight, surrounded by midnight shadows, she guided him across the lawn and down the path through the trees like a sprite from a fairy tale. Whenever he tried to take her into his arms, she danced ahead just out of reach and taunted him with the soft, seductive sound of her laughter.

  The path emptied into the clearing surrounding the old castle ruins. When they reached the outer wall with its tumbled stones, she stopped and leaned into him, letting his mouth possess hers and his arms encircle her. With a soft moan, she parted her lips, and he swept his tongue between them, to taste the sweetness inside.

  Then she was gone from his arms again, the seductive sprite slipping away deeper into the ruins.

  He chased after her. His arms ached to hold her, his body throbbed to enjoy hers. This time, he didn’t want to stop with a kiss and a touch. He wanted to possess her. He wanted all of her, every aggravating, independent, brilliant, beautiful bit of her.

  He found her at the heart of the ruins, standing in the castle’s keep and softly panting, breathless with anticipation. Even in the shadows he could see her body trembling and her bright eyes shining with nervous excitement as he moved toward her.

  “You can’t leave your own party,” he drawled, his voice hoarse with desire. He wanted her—Sweet Lucifer, he wanted her more than he’d wanted any woman in his life! But he wanted her coming freely to him because she wanted him. And no other reason. “You need to get back before you’re missed.”