Page 24 of When the Scoundrel Sins

When his eyes solemnly found hers, she quickly covered any vulnerability by forcing a haughty sniff. “Regardless, the risk of complications doesn’t seem worth a night of what Lady Ainsley assures me is not very enjoyable for the bride anyway.”

He would have laughed at that, if he wasn’t soaked through to the skin and reeking like a gin palace. “Aunt Agatha is wrong,” he assured her, only to face her dubiousness when she silently raised an eyebrow in reply.

But he would get nowhere attempting to win an argument over how much she would enjoy being intimate with him, not with his reputation and her intellect to fight against. So Quinn wisely kept his silence.

He stared down at her, her lips reddened from his kisses and her night rail rumpled at her neckline, revealing more flesh than she realized. With her hands now folded primly in her lap, she looked every inch like a virginal seductress. One he very much still craved, despite the glass of scotch over his head, which was nearly as good in tamping down his arousal as a bucket of cold water.

But damnation, she was right, and he knew it. He maintained a healthy respect for the complications that could arise from sharing a bed, yet disappointment still panged hollowly in his gut. Over not possessing the Bluebell, of all women.

Sweet Lucifer, theworldhad gone mad.

“Will you do it, then?” Leaning forward on the settee, her fingers gripping the edge of the cushion, she looked up at him hopefully. “Will you marry me?”

His gut tightened at her modest proposal, the ramifications of which were anything but simple.

“I need to think about it,” he deflected, unwilling to answer while the heather scent of her still lingered on his body where he’d held her against him. While the thought of additional funds still tempted him.

“All right.” Her slender shoulders eased down. “I’ll give you time to decide.”

“Thank you,” he muttered, not nearly as relieved and hopeful as she was.

She rose to her feet and tied the ribbon bow securely at her neckline. His chest ached with disappointment. When he’d untied it, the sensation had been like unwrapping the most wonderful present he’d ever been given. Only to have it stolen away.

“But I’ll need your answer soon.” Her eyes darkened with a flicker of sadness. “If you say no, I’ll have to find another solution. And quickly.”

He swiped away the last of the scotch still clinging to the back of his neck and grimaced. “I would say that we should seal our agreement with a kiss,” he joked grimly, “but you’d likely bash me over the head with the bottle for suggesting such a thing.”

“I would never do that,” she assured him as she slipped past him and glided from the room, pausing only to take the copy ofDon Quixotefrom the shelf and tuck it beneath her arm. She added with an unrepentant smile, “It would be a waste of perfectly good scotch.”

As she disappeared into the dark hallway, he caught a parting glimpse of her in the moonlight slanting in through the tall windows and illuminating the nightgown hanging loose around her. Her breasts and hips were silhouetted dark beneath the white cotton as if she wore nothing at all as her hair tumbled in silky waves down her back, nearly reaching her round bottom. His cock jumped eagerly at the rash thought of following her back to her bedroom, to convince her that marriage rights could be enjoyable for the bride, too.Veryenjoyable.

And if he did that, the next thing to come crashing down over his head would be theQuixote. Along with all of his future plans for America and his promise to his father. Because he knew one thing for certain about the Bluebell. A man didn’t give himself to a woman like her and then leave.

“Damned woman,” he muttered and drank straight from the bottle.

CHAPTERFOUR

Quinn grimaced and rubbed at the pounding headache at his temples as he strode across the field, the pain a result of last night’s unfortunate combination of too little sleep and too much scotch.

And not nearly enough Annabelle.

He flipped up the collar of his coat against his neck to ward off the drizzling rain that threatened to fall at any moment and the summer morning’s unexpected cold. True to the north’s unpredictable weather, clouds had moved in during the night and now hung low over the mountains and valleys, leaving the fields awash in a blue morning haze. The temperature had dropped a good twenty degrees. He would have said that the chill made it difficult to imagine Belle swimming in the pond, but he’d had a tempting glimpse of her there, and now that seemed to be the only thing he wanted to think about.

Good Lord, how the gel vexed him! He couldn’t remember the last time he’d lost sleep over a woman, if ever, but that’s exactly what she’d done to him. And not only because of that outrageous marriage proposal, although the prospect of wedding anyone certainly terrified him enough to ensure nightmares.

No. He was loath to admit even to himself that rest hadn’t come because, in those few moments when he’d managed to fall asleep, his dreams were punctuated not by nightmares of marriage shackles but by erotic visions of Belle.

He groaned.Noterotic, not exactly. When he’d dreamed of Belle, he saw her in that white cotton night rail, the bow at her bosom untied and its ribbons streaming along behind her as she walked through the mists, her hair free and tumbling down her back. A smile on her face that made him ache, a laugh that lilted lightly on the soft air. Head turned to reveal her elegant neck. Slender legs revealed to the knees, and arms just as bare. Then she turned back and offered him her hand, to follow her down into the dew-covered heather…He’d glimpsed more of her at the pond than in his dream, yet he’d awakened hard as iron.

Oh yes. He had definitely lost his mind.

So at dawn he gave up all pretense of sleep and went down for an early breakfast, hoping to find Belle so he could answer her proposal and end his suffering. But Ferguson informed him that she was already up and outside, as was her habit most mornings.Wonderful.The aggravating woman was also an early riser.

Quinn rolled his eyes. He knew how to deal with ladies of theton. Those women slept until noon, would never be caught dead in a library, and would certainly never drink scotch. Or pour it over a man’s head.

But the contradiction that was Annabelle Greene fascinated as much as it frustrated. The beautiful woman on the outside was a hellcat beneath, an intelligent and sharp woman who knew practically everything…except the effect she had on men. She infuriated himandintrigued him, and she had him still wanting to tease and torment her like a kid, just so the man he’d become could selfishly see the fire inside her. How was it possible that the same woman who had him wanting to yank her into his arms also had him wanting to put an ocean between them?

Madness.Madness that she should have ever considered him for her proposal. That Aunt Agatha thought he could be her protector.