Page 23 of When the Scoundrel Sins

He grimaced, not knowing whether to be tempted at her offer or terrified to within an inch of his life. “You’ve got this all figured out, haven’t you?”

“Desperate times,” she answered solemnly, repeating his aunt’s words to him, “desperate measures.”

She slowly removed the glass of scotch from his hand. He watched as she took a sip, noticing the soft undulation of her elegant throat and the glistening of her wet lips after, and he felt that swallow sink all the way through him.

He was in serious trouble.

Of all the woman he’d known in his life, none of them had ever been more dangerous than Annabelle Greene as she sat there in her white cotton night rail with its ribbon bow and dipped her finger into the scotch, then raised it to her lips and sucked off the droplets clinging to her fingertip. With an outward appearance so innocent-looking that he felt the urge even now to pull her into his arms to protect her, while beneath lurked a siren who had him wanting to pull her into his arms to satisfy a far darker urge, she was a trap just waiting to be sprung. Add to that the financial boon which could be his—

Dangerous?Good Lord, the woman was downright deadly.

Unable to resist touching her, he reached out to caress her hair, which cascaded in a riot of caramel-colored curls around her shoulders. “If I agree to this plan of yours—and I’m not saying that I will—” A silky lock curled around his finger. “Do I get to leave as soon as the honeymoon is over?”

A soft sigh escaped her, her shoulders sagging as visible relief surged through her that he was agreeing to help. Or at least not running away. “That’s exactly what I want, too.”

He fought back a smile of pleased surprise, not expecting her to be so bold—and wonderfully direct—about the marriage bed. Perhaps he’d wrongly underestimated the Bluebell. Perhaps a hellcat lurked behind those blue stockings of hers. “Is that part of your proposal, too, then?”

She nodded earnestly. “If you’d like it to be.”

“I think I’d like that a great deal,” he murmured, not believing his good fortune. His eyes dropped to the top swells of her breasts, just showing above the scooped neckline, the bow nestled in the valley between. Lucky bow. But he’d never bedded an innocent before—how much did Belle know about the pleasures of wedding nights? “You’re prepared for marriage, then?” He paused before adding, to make certain she understood, “For a proper marriage?”

“Of course I’m ready.” She looked up from the scotch, and her lips tightened with ire. “I’ve been running the estate myself for years.”

He chuckled softly.Bluestocking.“That’s not what I meant.”

She puzzled. “Then what did you—”

He grabbed her by the front of her shawl and tugged her to him, catching her off guard as his mouth found hers, to take the kiss he’d been craving for years.

Her mouth was warm, deliciously soft, and oh so inviting. She tasted intoxicatingly of the north…the spicy tang of scotch, the floral of heather, the boldness of the wilderness. The tip of his tongue traced along the seam between her lips in hopes of coaxing her into opening for him so he could taste all of her.

She trembled but didn’t pull away. When he nibbled at the corner of her mouth, she acquiesced with a soft sigh and parted her lips. It was all the invitation he needed. He greedily swept his tongue inside and relished the sweetness he found there.

He’d kissed more women than he could remember, but none were as sweet as Annabelle. That was what he remembered from that night beneath the rose bower. More than the way she’d arched herself against him, more than how her hands had tangled in his lapels to draw herself closer, even more than the fumbling of hands reaching wherever they could touch…he remembered how delectably sweet she tasted. Like chocolate, wine, and woman. Even now that same rich, luscious flavor pulled straight through him and made him ache for more.

God help him, he wanted to devour her.

His lips slid away from hers to nibble along her jaw and down her neck. When he flicked the tip of his tongue against her racing pulse in the hollow at the base of her throat, she whimpered, and the soft sound shivered through him. Unable to stop himself, he traced his fingertip along the scooped neckline of her night rail to the bow and pulled the ribbon loose, letting the thin cotton billow open. His mouth followed after, to slide over that smooth stretch of flesh between her collarbone and the start of the valley between her breasts. He groaned. Sweet Lucifer, even her skin tasted sweet.

“Quinton,” she breathed plaintively against his hair as he dipped his head to place a single kiss on the top swell of her left breast. Just inches below his lips, he could see the outline of her dusky nipple straining against the white cotton.

He captured her breast against his palm through the thin night rail and teased at the nipple with his thumb. Even as he felt the bud harden beneath the caress of his fingers and her resulting shudder, he contemplated pulling the night rail lower to reveal a single, luscious breast to his eyes, to his mouth—

Cold wetness poured over his head.

“What the hell!” He scrambled to his feet and wiped his hand through his scotch-soaked hair as rivulets trailed down his face.

“There will benoneof that,” she warned, putting up her hand to half scold, half fend him away, her other hand still firmly gripped around the now empty glass. But her tremulous voice lacked conviction. She was as equally aroused by that kiss as he was. He could see it in the way she trembled and in the parting of her wet lips, but the frustrating bluestocking wouldn’t let herself give over to it. “No wedding night, no marriage intimacies of any kind,” she explained. “Our marriage would be purely a business arrangement, nothing else.” She shot him a determined glance, and from the way she struggled to catch her panting breath, he wondered which one of them she was trying to convince. “Nothingelse.”

Gritting his teeth tightly in equal parts humiliation at her rejection and frustration from the brief taste he’d had of her, he wiped his hand over his face and flung away the drops of scotch. “Fine,” he bit out. The liquid ran down his neck, and he grimaced as he added beneath his breath, “I doubt I’d survive anyway if this is how you’d welcome your husband.”

“Be reasonable.” Her chin jutted into the air with irritation. “With you on the other side of the world and me here, if we consummated, what would happen if we…if we…” She turned away to set the glass down. Her hand shook.

“Got with child?” he ground out irritably as he swiped at the cold trickle dripping beneath his collar.Damnable woman.“There are ways to avoid that.”

She gave him an odd look. “I was going to say develop feelings for each other,” she confessed softly, “although I’m certain there are ways of avoiding that, too.”

An invisible fist squeezed his chest. That was exactly what he feared, as well. Because if a man latched himself to a woman like Annabelle, how would he keep the little hellcat from getting beneath his skin? Or into his heart? Would even an ocean’s distance be far enough?