Page 25 of When the Scoundrel Sins

Apparently lunacy was contagious.

He reached the crest of a small rise overlooking the south pasturelands and saw her. Dressed in men’s trousers and work boots just like the workers around her, complete with a tweed cap covering her hair, she helped to heave a thick post out of an irrigation ditch and onto the creek bank.

Quinn let out a frustrated breath. Apparently, nothing about Belle was typical.

With all the grim resolve of a man going to his own execution, he started toward her and the group of workmen gathered at the small stone structure at the side of the creek.

One of the men bent down to give Belle a hand up from the ditch, where she stood up to her knees in water. From the way none of the men laughed at her appearance when she scrambled to her feet, not only were they used to seeing her in workman’s clothes but they were also used to being directed by her. He’d admit that knowing she’d inherit Glenarvon stirred jealousy inside him, when he would be forced to start from nothing. But he also felt admiration for her, because she didn’t consider herself either above hard work or too delicate for it.

She rested her hands on her round hips beneath the long, brown coat, which reached to the tops of her muddied boots. Her shoulders sagged as she answered a question from one of the workman, “…damaged on purpose.”

The man behind her lifted his eyes to Quinn as he approached. He cleared his throat loudly enough to cut off Belle’s reply, then nodded past her to gain her attention.

Belle glanced over her shoulder and saw Quinn. For a heartbeat, she froze as uneasiness darkened her face. Then it vanished just as quickly, replaced by a bright smile that he knew was forced for the benefit of the men around her. Certainly not for him. From the flash deep in her eyes, he knew the Bluebell was still peeved at him for their misunderstanding last night.

“Lord Quinton, good morning.” But she couldn’t hide the surprise in her voice at his arrival, or a soft bit of sarcasm as she teased, “I’m surprised to see you up so early, given your reputation as a Corinthian.”

He laughed.A Corinthian?Well, he’d been called a lot of things by women before, but never that. “Not everyone in London sleeps until noon, Miss Greene,” he countered good-naturedly as he stopped in front of her. He was suddenly very aware of the men’s eyes on him, sizing him up and wondering who he was. And what he wanted with Glenarvon’s mistress.

She asked wryly, “Just half past eleven, then?”

“Quarter ’til,” he sent back with a crooked grin.

“Well,” she commented, “then you’re a good four hours early to start your day.”

She smiled, but he sensed an anxious dread beneath her calm façade, noting the tense way her shoulders stiffened, how she clenched and unclenched her gloved hands nervously at her sides. As a woman donning men’s clothing, her unusual appearance served only to make her somehow even more appealing. More feminine. And heartbreakingly vulnerable.

Guilt gnawed at his gut, yet there was no help for it. She wanted an answer, and he had no reason to delay the inevitable. In fact, if he’d had his wits about him last night, instead of being preoccupied with the way she’d felt in his arms, he would have told her his answer then and saved them both from this awkward meeting.

Yet whatever trouble he was about to cause her would be better dealt with sooner rather than later. Telling her this morning would give her more time to find a better candidate for marriage. It had nothing at all to do with wanting to avoid the confusion he felt about her. Or the persistent attraction between them, which had reared its head again last night and apparently still lingered between them so palpably that even now the air crackled with it.

At least that was what he kept telling himself from the moment he’d left his room to find her. If he repeated it to himself often enough, maybe he would start to believe it.

This morning, her eyes gleamed more green than gold in the veiled sunlight of the overcast sky. But the nervous flicker in their honeyed depths signaled that she knew why he’d sought her out. And that she’d already guessed his answer.

He felt the weight of the men’s curious stares on him, not bothering to pretend that they weren’t eavesdropping on the conversation. But this wasnota discussion he wanted to share. He inclined his head. “Would you care to take a walk with me, Miss Greene?”

Her strained smile faded, and she hesitated. Then, with a stiff nod, she wordlessly turned to stroll along the creek, away from the worksite.

He fell into step beside her. They walked on together in silence, which soon became acutely uncomfortable, the tension between them as thick as the clouds overhead. He grimaced as he took a sideways glance at her determined profile. She was going to make him talk first, clearly, but he wasn’t yet ready to broach the reason he’d invited her for the walk. Despite knowing what had to be done, he was reluctant to add to her troubles.

He glanced over his shoulder and asked, “What are you doing back there?”

“Repairs,” she answered curtly. Instead of placing her hand on his arm, as any London lady would have done, she removed her muddied gloves and shoved both hands deep into her coat pockets. Not touching him. Did the little hellcat realize the cut she was giving him?

But of course she did. Apparently he’d underestimated how much that night at the St James ball had hurt her.

“What kind of repairs?” he pressed, wanting to draw her out and knowing how much the estate meant to her.

She eyed him suspiciously. “You really want to know?”

“Yes.” He did. Surprisingly enough.

She hesitated, then relented on her silence. “The spillway gate for the irrigation ditch broke, and the south pasture flooded,” she explained. “Our shepherd, McDougal, found it two days ago when he rode out to check on the sheep, so the men spent all day yesterday moving the flock into a smaller pasture until we can fix the gate and the land dries out.” She glanced up at the gray clouds overhead, heavy with their promise of rain, and he could almost hear the curse she inwardly yelled at Mother Nature. “Ifit ever dries out.”

Something about the way she described the damage pricked at him. “You don’t think it was due to age and wear, though, do you?”

She hesitated a moment, then shook her head. “No,” she sighed as if resigned to getting it fixed and forgotten as soon as possible. “Burns thinks it was done intentionally.”