Page 39 of When the Scoundrel Sins

“I think three cakes for the party, don’t you?” Lady Ainsley commented and added another note to her list. “Lemon, cinnamon, and chocolate.”

“Whatever you think best.” She couldn’t help craning her neck to take one last glance outside the window, hoping against hope that the Carlisle brothers had found a good husband for her. One who would let her run Glenarvon without interference.

“WhatIthink best,” Lady Ainsley repeated with a trace of pique, “is that I would like your input on these decisions. This is your party, Annabelle. It should be exactly as you want it.”

“It will be.” A lie.Noneof this was how she wanted it.

She began to pace again, not giving a fig about the rug.

She’d resigned herself to having to marry. She’d given up on a love match; now she simply hoped for an innocuous marriage that did no harm. Such a life wasn’t at all what she wanted, but Glenarvon would be hers, which was more than her mother ever had. In that, at least, she should have been happy.

So why did she feel like crying?

“The musicians have already been hired.” The viscountess ticked off another item on her list. “I’ve requested that they play several waltzes.”

Belle wrung her hands as her heart began to race and her breathing grew shallow. With the passing of each day, it seemed more and more likely that she would end up with Sir Harold. Would that be so awful, all things considered? He wasn’t someone dashing and strong like Quinton, but was it fair to compare them? After all, not every man had Quinn’s knack for land management, his skill for dealing with tenants and villagers, his foresight with accounts and repair lists…his extraordinary ability to turn a kiss into heavenly bliss.

“Also the extra footmen to serve the trays of champagne when the announcement is made.”

And then there was Glenarvon to worry about. A woman running an estate was far from the norm, but this place was her life and all she wanted. She couldn’t imagine what her existence would become if she couldn’t do that.

“Of course, there will scotch for the men and punch for the ladies.”

Her heart thumped harder and faster with each quick step she paced across the room, as if the floor would open up and devour her if she stood still. What would she do if she could no longer run the estate? Other things would fill the void, certainly. Overseeing the household staff. Being hostess for parties and soirees. Having babies that weren’t created in love or passion—

“What do you think, Annabelle?”

“I don’t want to marry!” Blurting it out before she could stop herself, she gasped, and her hands flew up to cover her mouth as she stared at Lady Ainsley with mortification.

The viscountess froze, her quill in mid-scratch. Then she slowly looked up at Belle, and the look on her face—was that happiness? Or was the woman simply stunned into disbelief?

“You don’t want to marry Sir Harold?” Lady Ainsley repeated in a whisper.

“No,” Belle breathed out between her fingers.

The dowager rose slowly, a look of hopefulness lighting her face. Or perhaps it was alarm. “Then…whom do you wish to marry?”

“I don’t,” she admitted. Guilt overwhelmed her because she didn’t want to wound the viscountess or have the woman think Belle was ungrateful for all she and Lord Ainsley had done for her.

Andthatwas an undeniable look of disappointment as her wrinkled face fell. “Not anyone?” She paused, as if waiting to be contradicted. “Notever?”

“I don’t want to lose Glenarvon,” Belle amended in a breathy whisper. “But I don’t want to be forced into marriage, either.”

She knew the prison a marriage could be. The moment a woman married, everything she possessed—including her body—became the property of her husband, for him to mete out affection or punishment as he saw fit. Including taking away her property. Including beating her, if she failed to do as he wanted. There was nothing the law or the Church would do to stop him.

It was silly, she supposed, how much she wanted in a marriage. Like something from a fairy tale, she wanted to love and be loved. She wanted to share Glenarvon with her husband and create a loving and happy home for their children, all of whom would be created and raised with love. She wanted a husband she respected, one who respected and cared for her in return.

Now all those dreams were slipping through her fingers.

“Your situation is far from ideal, I admit,” Lady Ainsley said gently, setting her quill and glasses aside. “But many women marry because they seek property or position, or because they need the help of their husbands.”

She shook her head. “I’m capable of running Castle Glenarvon myself.”

Lady Ainsley crossed the room to her and took Belle’s hands in hers, the affection and concern the viscountess held for her visible in her eyes. “You are very much capable of running this estate. No one could ever love this place more than you, my dear, and no one knows its heart and soul better than you.” She paused, her expression softening. “But with whom will you share your success?”

Belle couldn’t answer around the knot of emotion choking her throat, because in her heart she knew the truth, that the only man she wanted to share it with was Quinn. He was the only one who understood how much work she put into running the estate, how much sweat and tears.

But he wouldn’t be here. He was bound for America. Already her heart grieved at the impending loss of him.