Page 32 of When the Scoundrel Sins

He fought to keep from rolling his eyes. Tea.Wonderful.When all he wanted to do was put as many miles between himself and Glenarvon as possible, before he did something he would regret. With the Bluebell.Good Lord.

But Aunt Agatha’s request couldn’t be ignored. With a welcoming smile he certainly didn’t feel—and casting a longing glance toward the potted palm in the corner—he sauntered forward.

Agatha proffered her cheek to him, and Quinn nearly blinked at the unexpected display of affection. What had gotten into her?

But he did as expected and kissed her cheek. “Aunt Agatha, you look well-rested this morning.”

Her sharp eyes swept over him. “And you look absolutely fierce.”

“It’s the weather,” he deflected. “Too damp and cold for a good walk.” But apparently not for other things.

The flicker in her eyes made him wonder whether she believed that bit of dissembling. But if she didn’t, at least she didn’t press. Instead, she waved a hand at the man with her. “Quinton, I want to introduce to you Sir Harold Bletchley, our good neighbor to the east.”

And the man who wanted to marry Belle.

Quinn tensed, his eyes narrowing. Bletchley looked perfectly harmless enough, he supposed, although the man was at least fifteen years Belle’s senior, with thinning hair and the start of a paunch around his middle. And an arrogance that reeked.

For the life of him, he couldn’t imagine Belle being happily married to this man. Or kissing him as passionately as she’d just kissed him.

“Sir Harold.” Quinn gave a stiff nod.

His aunt continued the introductions. “Sir Harold, this is Lord Quinton Carlisle, my great-nephew, come to Glenarvon to visit with us on his way to America.”

“Carlisle.” Bletchley didn’t bother to nod, nor erase the bored expression on his face.

From the tea service and the way Bletchley and Aunt Agatha had been in polite conversation when he entered, Quinn suspected that Bletchley was here to pay a social call, although from his appearance, he’d given it little forethought. The mud on his boots showed that he’d been outside in the damp and found it acceptable to muck about the countryside before calling, as did the smirk on his face that Quinn had let the northern weather get the best of him.

Quinn disliked the man, instantly put off by his egotism. And by his early arrival. Dear God, did everyone in the north country wake with the bloody chickens?

“Were you wanting to speak with me?” Agatha inquired of Quinn, straight back to her no-nonsense self, now that pleasantries were over.

Clearly, this wasn’t the best time to admit that he’d been looking for a bottle of scotch to dull his frustrations over scandalously touching the companion who was like a daughter to her. So he offered instead, “I’ve decided to leave today for the coast and wanted to say my good-byes.”

An unexpected panic flashed over her wrinkled face. “But—but you’re staying to help Belle. I insist!”

Quinn grimly shook his head, unwilling to divulge anything more about his sudden decision to leave. “I need to get on to America, if that’s all right with you, my lady.”

She stared at him silently for a long moment, as if she simply couldn’t fathom him. Then she smiled tightly. “Of course,” she assured him, the lie obvious. “Then your timing is impeccable, that you should be here to meet Belle’s suitor.”

Bletchley’s thin lips curled with mock humility. “Now, viscountess, you know she hasn’t yet formally accepted my suit.”

Agatha waved her hand dismissingly. “Of course she will. And may I say how thrilled we are that you’ve declared your intentions? Aren’t we, Quinton?”

He quirked a brow and drawled, “Ecstatic.”

If Agatha heard the sarcasm in his answer, she made no reaction, her smile only widening on Bletchley. “Of course, Sir Harold first offered for her two years ago. But I didn’t think she was ready for marriage then, especially given what she’d gone through in her only London season.”

Quinn rolled his eyes. Would none of the women here let him forget that night? He bit back the offer to fetch Robert from bed so they could have his brother’s help in roasting him on a spit in revenge. “How fortunate you persisted,” he mumbled, drawing a surprised glance from his aunt.

Bletchley smiled lazily, as if marrying Belle were his birthright. “As I’ve learned, hunting requires patience. All good things take time.”

“Indeed, they do!” Agatha interjected before Quinn could say something entirely ungentlemanly about his so-called hunting of Belle. “And speaking of time, Sir Harold’s family has been in the area for over five generations.”

Quinn couldn’t help himself. “Legally?”

“Pardon?” Bletchley frowned.

“Sir Harold inherited Kinnybroch nearly twenty years ago,” his aunt hurried on, ignoring that small exchange, “which his family has owned since his great-grandfather received the estate for his bravery at Culloden.” She slid Quinn a deliberate glance. “Isn’t it wonderful that Annabelle might have the chance to marry into a family with such a distinguished history?”