Page 22 of When the Scoundrel Sins

“I need your help,” she pressed delicately. “You owe me, Quinton.”

She was wrong about that. He certainly didn’t owe herthis. “I am not marrying you, Annabelle. That night was nothing more than an accident, and you bloody well know it.”

“And several kisses, don’t forget,” she whispered.

No, he hadn’t forgotten. How could he? It had been a surprisingly passionate encounter that left him craving more, even as unpracticed and innocent as she’d been. All these years later, and after dozens of other women who did far more with him than simply kiss, that night with Annabelle was still embossed upon his mind. His senses tingled even now at simply remembering it.

Butmarriage…

“For God’s sake, Belle,” he ground out in exasperation. “What you’re proposing—”

“Yes,” she replied urgently, “exactly that! I am proposing.” She gave him a bright smile, but he could easily see the nervousness behind it, so much nervousness that she trembled. “Marry me, Quinton, and in exchange, I’ll pay you a portion of the annual estate profits. That way, we both win. I get to keep Glenarvon, and you get additional funds for your new life in America.”

A proposal. Good heavens, she truly meant it. “Marriage,” he stammered out. Even though he was certain she’d said it, he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe— “To you?”

“A business arrangement,” she clarified. “As you said, the quality marry for money and land all the time. Why should this be any different? Only on a much smaller scale.”

“I’m not quality,” he protested. When her lips curled in amusement at his self-deprecating slip, he rolled his eyes with a grimace. “You know what I mean.”

“You are, Quinn,” she assured him, although he was certain that bit of flattery was meant to sway him toward marriage. But it would take a helluva lot more than a compliment or two to get him to leg-shackle himself. Especially to someone like Annabelle. She was the kind of woman a man could fall in love with. And if he wasn’t careful, he’d find himself permanently ensconced in some barren sheep pasture in the borderlands. “Why do you think all those women in London throw themselves at you?”

Despite pointedly arching a brow, he wisely kept his silence. This was not the time to explain to her the darker pleasures of society entertainment.

“Will you do it, then?” she pressed. “Will you marry me and help me out of this mess?”

“And right into another.” He shook his head, flabbergasted that he was having this conversation. “You said yourself that you don’t want to marry without love. You and I are most definitelynotin love.”

“I no longer have a choice. Ihaveto marry. But if I cannot marry for love, then marriage to you is perfect,” she rationalized, “because emotions will never get in the way, and you’ll let me run Glenarvon as I want.”

“Because I’ll be on the far side of the ocean!” he nearly shouted in exasperation.

A slow smile pulled at her lips, reminding him of the cat that got into the cream. “As I said, perfect.”

He blew out a harsh breath. “Belle, for God’s sake—”

“At the very least I should be able to marry a man I know won’t hurt me,” she interrupted. Her smile faded beneath the brutal honesty of that comment, which sliced straight through his chest like a knife. “And I know you well enough to know that you’d never harm me on purpose.”

His shoulders slumped beneath the weight of fresh guilt, and he sank back down onto the settee. “Good Lord, youaremad.”

“Yet there is a method to it,” she answered, her eyes gleaming as she paraphrased Shakespeare and proved again that she was the same bluestocking he’d always known.

He nearly laughed at the irony. While she loved attending the theatre, he loved getting ladies alone in private theatre boxes.

The two of them were oil and water.

And yet, a dependable allowance from Glenarvon would certainly make life easier for him, he couldn’t deny that. Helping her secure the estate for herself would also more than repay her for that night six years ago.

But marriage…Good God.

“If you agree,” she urged, doing her best to sway him, “we still have time to read the bans and won’t need the special license.”

He sent her a sideways glance. “We’re less than ten miles from Scotland, Belle,” he reminded her. “We don’t even need that.”

“There!” She gestured emphatically with her hands as if her lunacy made sense. “See how convenient this is? Almost like fate.”

He rolled his eyes. “Or a phony invitation to a scheming plot.”

“That, too.” She reached for the bottle of scotch and refilled the empty glass he still held in his hand, although he’d lost his taste for the stuff. “Once we’re married, we’ll travel to Newcastle. I know a trustworthy banker there who can set up financial arrangements for you to receive an allowance in America.” She put the bottle down and leaned back against the settee. “It won’t be much at first, I’ll admit, but I have plans for the estate which should increase our profits nicely within the next few years.”