Page 19 of When the Scoundrel Sins

Her patience snapped. She slapped at his shoulder with her open palm. “Quinton James Carlisle!” She scowled, no longer able to hide her aggravation. “Whydo 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 away 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 theton.”

“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.”

His mouth pulled down. “What truth is that exactly?”

She held out the empty tumbler and gestured for him to refill it. And this time, no small splash, either. He complied and poured a generous two fingers’ worth.

She was conscious of his sapphire eyes training on her as she drank a long sip. When she lowered the glass, he took it from her hand to drink after her.

“I’m in a terrible situation,” she whispered, pressing her fingers to her whisky-wet lips. “And I need help getting out of it.”

He arched a brow. “Doesn’t seem so terrible to me. You’re on the verge of gaining an estate.”

And an unwanted husband.She inhaled deeply. “I’m very grateful to Lord and Lady Ainsley,” she began, a bit haltingly as she tried to stumble her way through her explanation. “They raised me as if I were their own daughter.”

“I know.” He finished the remaining scotch in a single swallow. “Aunt Agatha adores you.”

Belle nodded glumly, her shoulders sagging. “And I love her. Which is the problem.”

He frowned. “How so?”

“She wants the best possible future for me. So did Lord Ainsley.”

“Which was why they put you into the will.”

Another nod, impossibly even glummer than the last. “When Lord Ainsley died and the inheritances were settled, the title and all its entailed properties went to his late brother’s son. Lady Ainsley received her dower, and his three daughters from his first marriage received equal portions of what was left. Except for Glenarvon.” She couldn’t stop her voice from trembling with grief for the late viscount, and with the gratitude she still felt every time she realized that he cared for her enough to include her in his will. “Which was saved for me.”