Page 35 of When the Scoundrel Sins

That arrow hit its target, and Bletchley turned toward her, a pompous smile softening his face. “One of my proudest achievements, I’ll admit. Just a few years ago, I had the pleasure of arranging a hunt for Wellington. Said it was one of the best he’d ever experienced.” He flicked his fingers at a piece of imaginary lint on his sleeve. “In fact, I just purchased a new bitch from the Duke of Devonshire. Fine blood lines, that one. She’ll whelp a good pup or two to improve the pack.”

Quinn couldn’t help himself— “Or six.”

The glare Bletchley shot him was murderous.

“And you, Quinton?” Agatha interposed smoothly. “Do you enjoy the sport of hunting?”

He set down his empty cup on the tea table. “It doesn’t seem like much of a sport to me unless the animals are also armed.”

Agatha pursed her lips tightly, although whether to suppress laughter or a scolding he couldn’t have said.

“Hunting takes skill,” Bletchley defended peevishly. “Perhaps your lack of ability prevents you from appreciating it.”

Quinn shrugged away the insult. “How much skill can it take to shoot a slow bird flushed out of a bush by a beater while a gamesman stands next to you to reload your gun?”

Bletchley turned red. He sputtered, “Now see here, Carlisle—”

A lilting laugh drifted from the doorway, musical in its softness. Quinn caught his breath at the sound that fell through him as gently as a warm summer rain.

Annabelle.He turned toward her, and his gut pinched at the sight of her. Even all wet and dirty from working in the fields, her hair coming loose from beneath her tweed cap, and a streak of dirt marring her cheek, she looked beautiful.

As she stepped into the room, she smiled a greeting to Aunt Agatha, then sent Quinn a puzzled glance at finding him here instead of upstairs packing.

“Sir Harold.” She nodded to Bletchley. But her greeting was reserved, and instead of extending her hand to him, she immediately scooped up a cup and saucer from the tea tray so that her hands were full and she wouldn’t have to touch him by presenting her hand.

Brilliant woman, Quinn noted with admiration. Too brilliant to be unhappily shackled to a fortune-hunting boor like Bletchley for the rest of her life.

“My apologies for interrupting,” she commented. But a wholly unapologetic smile played at her lips. “So you were having a discussion about the merits of arming prey?”

Instead of going to Bletchley, Belle retreated a step away from the tea table to position herself beside Quinn, as if seeking protection at his side. The small movement sent an unexpected possessiveness sweeping through him.

“In my opinion,” she teased as she raised her cup, “it would surely make fox hunting more challenging, although I’m not certain how it would work with larger game. However would deer pull the triggers without their hooves getting in the way?”

Bletchley stared at her as if insulted by her musings, and Aunt Agatha as if she’d lost her mind. Quinn grinned broadly.

She tilted her head, feigning deep thought. “Although I suppose we could arm them with bows and arrows.” Then she added brightly, as if the solution were suddenly obvious, “They could draw the bowstring through the cleft in their hooves!”

Agatha choked on her tea. “Annabelle!”

She laughed at herself, drawing another smile from Quinn and something else…something deeper and more intense than he’d experienced even when he’d been kissing her. He couldn’t put a name to it. But whatever it was, he liked it. A great deal.

“My apologies,” she offered. “I was only joking. I didn’t mean to offend.”

But Quinn saw the unrepentant gleam in her eyes. Oh, she’d meant to doexactlythat.

Mollified by her pretense of an apology, Bletchley nodded at Quinn. “You have excellent timing, Miss Greene. Carlisle and I were just finishing a discussion about future plans for Glenarvon.” His eyes swept over her, and he frowned with displeasure. “I see you’ve been working in the fields again.”

“Yes.” She smiled, ignoring his silent criticism of her appearance. “After all, the cheapest worker on any estate is always the owner, because he’s—”

“Already taken his share,” Quinn finished.

She glanced at him in surprise that he could finish her thoughts, her pink lips parting softly. He held her gaze for a heartbeat in silent connection, and an inexplicable warmth blossomed inside his chest.

He thought he saw Agatha’s lips twitch, but his aunt had raised her teacup to take a sip too quickly for him to be certain. “What were you doing, exactly?” she asked.

Belle shrugged dismissingly. “There was a problem with the floodgate.”

A worried frown creased Aunt Agatha’s brow, and she lowered her cup from her mouth. “More vandalism?”