Page 17 of When the Scoundrel Sins

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 notquiteblind. 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 ofDon 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 pridethatwas. 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?Hecertainly 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.”