Page 34 of When the Scoundrel Sins

Dread prickled at the back of his neck. “Glenarvon will belong to Annabelle. She wants to run it herself.”

Popping the biscuit into his mouth, Bletchley waved away his concern. “Once we marry,” he explained between munches, “she’ll come to see how much better it is to let her husband worry about such things. You know how women are. She’ll be thrilled to spend her time enjoying trips to the dressmaker and planning parties, rather than fretting over the account books and getting her hands dirty in the fields. Besides,” he continued with a smug grin, “we’ll need an heir. She’ll be increasing soon enough, and then all her attention will be on our child, where it belongs.”

A quick stab of emotion pierced low in Quinn’s belly at the thought of Belle with child. Of the hot fire in her tempered by the soft glow of motherhood. The sensation hit him so swiftly, so fiercely, that he nearly shuddered with it before he found his control.

Desperately needing that drink now, he crossed the room to the potted palm and from its fronds retrieved the hidden whisky he’d originally come into the room to find. With no glass at the ready, he poured himself a teacup.

“Annabelle’s a smart woman,” he commented.Downright brilliant, in fact.He corked the bottle and slid it into his rear waistband beneath his coat, then leaned back against the wall and studied Bletchley over the rim of his cup.Far too brilliant for you.“She’s already running this place well, and she’ll be able to handle both motherhood and the estate’s management.”

“Well, I’m certain she’ll be too busy to manage once she has another child.” Bletchley chuckled. “Or six.”

Quinn glared at him.Over my dead body.

Bletchley smiled blithely. “We’ll be certain to send you news in America when each of our children is born.”

Quinn’s hand tightened around the teacup until he thought he might shatter it in his palm as he fought back the urge to punch him. Bletchley cared only about the property and talked of marrying her as if he were acquiring a brood mare. Arrogant, pompous, misogynistic—

A movement at the corner of his eye captured his attention.

Through the tall window, he caught a glimpse of Belle returning from the fields, the collar of her coat turned up against the drizzle of the cold morning and her hair once more tucked beneath her tweed cap. Silhouetted against the gray clouds hanging low across the sky and the blue mountains in the distance, she looked for all the world as if she’d materialized right there from the mists. A fairy born of glens and mountains. A creature as wild and independent as the land around her.

Quinton knew then that he wouldn’t allow anyone to take Glenarvon away from her.

Aunt Agatha swept into the room, nearly breathless in her hurry to return. Her eyes darted between the two men as if checking for wounds. “Disaster averted,” she panted out. “The house won’t…burn down…before dinner.”

Bletchley smiled dutifully at her labored quip. But Quinn only continued to glare coldly at the man over the rim of his teacup as he took a calming swallow of whisky.

Fanning herself as she regained her breath, Aunt Agatha sank gratefully onto the settee. “I’m so glad you two had the chance to talk.” She poured more tea into her cup and added a dollop of honey. “It would have been a shame if Quinton had left before you had the opportunity to meet him, Sir Harold. Now knowing that Annabelle and Castle Glenarvon will be in your safe hands, Quinton can happily sail for America.”

Like hell I will.Belle would be safer with Lucifer himself.

“Actually,” Quinn announced as he pushed himself away from the wall and stepped forward as casually as if commenting upon the weather, “there’s been a change of plans.”

“Oh?” His aunt froze, the honey dipper poised in her hand accidentally filling her cup.

“I’ve decided to stay on as you asked, Aunt Agatha.” He looked squarely at Bletchley, whose face hardened as he slowly realized what Quinn intended. “To help you with Belle’s suitors.”

“Wonderful!” Agatha distractedly stirred her tea with the dipper as a beaming smile spread across her face. “I mean, it would bewonderfulif Belle agrees.”

“Oh, I think she will.” Quinn watched her raise the cup to her lips. When she made a face at the overly sweet tea, he sent her his most charming smile, although he planned on ruining her scheme to marry off Belle as thoroughly as he’d just ruined her tea. Then he turned toward Bletchley with feigned innocence. “Can’t be too careful, you understand.” He flashed a crocodile grin. “Seems there’s a new fortune hunter dropping by every day.”

“Of course,” Agatha interjected quickly, as if fearing the two men might yet come to blows, “this is all about doing what’s best for Belle.”

Bletchley clenched his jaw and dutifully agreed, “Of course.”

An awkward tension settled over the room. Bletchley glared at Quinn like a lion defending his territory.

Quinn grinned back confidently.

And Aunt Agatha had no idea where to look. Setting her tea aside, she cleared her throat and made a desperate attempt to change the direction of conversation. “I hope you two had a good chat about hunting and fishing while I was gone.”

Bletchley scoffed. “I wish we’d discussed something as entertaining as hunting, but focused on business instead, I’m afraid.”

“And Belle, don’t forget,” Quinn reminded him, just for spite. “Or is she nothing more than business to you?”

Bletchley narrowed his eyes. “Perhaps, Carlisle, you should rethink your plans—”

“Sir Harold is a keen marksman and avid hunter,” Agatha cut in with forced enthusiasm. “Aren’t you, Sir Harold?” When her question failed to draw his attention—and his ire—away from Quinn, she added skillfully, “He keeps one of the best hunting packs in the north.”