Page 59 of When the Scoundrel Sins

Quinn stepped out onto the terrace and drew in a deep breath of the cool night air to steady himself.Good God.Even standing across the ballroom from Annabelle tonight had been too close for comfort.

Rubbing his hand at the knot of tension now permanently lodged at the back of his neck, he moved into the dark shadows near the balustrade and turned back toward the house. Keeping his distance, he could see her through the French doors, watching her as she smiled at the guests. Over the past week, it had become harder and harder to keep himself from her. And tonight was torture. Seeing how beautiful she looked in her soft satin and lace as she outshined even the flickering candles in the chandeliers, knowing how much she needed him and how much more with each minute that brought them closer to midnight, remembering how sweet her kisses and how soft her touch—

Christ.He blew out a frustrated breath. If he wasn’t careful and somehow ended up alone with her tonight, he wasn’t certain he could stop himself from kissing her again. Or touching her. And if he did that, he wasn’t certain he could stop himself from doing everything he could to save her. Including offering marriage.

Robert joined him at the balustrade. He followed Quinn’s gaze through the French doors and commented quietly to keep from being overheard, “The Bluebell’s quite a beauty.”

More than beautiful. Tonight, she simply glowed. “Yes, she is.”

“And you’re a damned fool.”

Quinn’s eyes narrowed, his hands tightening into fists. He hadn’t expected to pummel his brother this evening, but he was just frustrated enough to do exactly that. And enjoy it immensely. “Leave this alone.”

Robert slid him a sideways glance. “Have you left Belle alone?” When Quinn didn’t answer, he added, “Didn’t think so.”

Quinn turned on him. “It doesn’t concern you.”

“You’re my brother, and I like Belle. So of course it concerns me.” He withdrew a cheroot from his jacket’s inside breast pocket and bit off the tip, then spat it away. His shoulders dropped with concerned sympathy. “What are you still doing here, Quinton?” He lit the cigar on a nearby lamp. “You should have been on a ship to America three weeks ago.”

Damnably good question, which only tightened the knot at his nape. “I was trying to find a way to help Annabelle.”

Robert puffed at the cheroot, the tip glowing red in the shadows. “Do you have feelings for her?”

“Of course.” He forced a casual tone into his voice to hide his confusion over what feelings, exactly, he did hold for her. Because they were growing more mystifying with each day he spent in her company, until he now didn’t want to think about departing for America and leaving her behind. “She’s an old friend.”

“Well, then, you’re not just a damned fool.” Robert fixed him with a hard look as he clamped the cigar between his teeth. “You’re also a damnably bad liar.”

Nowthatwas overstepping. “Robert, I’m warning you—”

“You two are a lot of things, but you’re not friends.” Robert’s gaze turned somber. “At least not anymore. Are you, Quinn?”

His shoulders sagged under the weight of his brother’s concern and his own confusion about Belle. “No,” he admitted quietly, “we’re not.”

“Are you going to offer for her tonight, then?”

Through the doors, he saw Belle laugh at something one of the guests said. But even from this far away, he could see that her laughter was forced, and his chest tightened for the unseen distress she surely suffered tonight. “A scoundrel like me? I’m not the domesticating type.”

“Are you certain about that?” Robert leaned back against the stone railing and thoughtfully studied the glowing end of his cigar. “She’s an heiress in want of a husband, and you’re a man in want of an estate. Seems like a perfect match to me.”

“I’m a man whose future lies in America,” he corrected. But that declaration sounded thin, even to his own ears. The same niggling unease that had struck him recently whenever he thought of resettling in America came back tonight with full force.

Robert flicked a bit of ash from the end of his cheroot and gestured at the house and gardens around them. “Why not remain right here?”

“I can’t stay in England, you know that.” Here he would be seen first as the duke’s brother, second as a Carlisle, and never as the man he wanted to be—someone who succeeded on his own merits. In England, he knew people would always suspect that his success came from his brother’s connections or his family’s wealth, rather than his own hard work and intellect.

Although he had to admit to himself that traveling to America was now starting to feel more like an obligation and less like his dream.

“You’re only ten miles from Scotland,” Robert argued, “as far away from London as you can get and still be in England. Any further away, and you’d be wearing a kilt. Sebastian’s influence is growing, but even Trent’s shadow can’t follow you all the way up here.”

He grudgingly admitted, “Perhaps.”

In the few weeks he’d been in the borderlands, he’d come to realize that a different breed of men lived here. Tough and hardworking ones like Angus Burns who had been weathered by the northern winters into understanding the hard truth—that a man’s worth came from his abilities, not his given lot in life. If anyplace in England provided an opportunity to prove himself, it was here.

Yet he’d promised his father America. “But I’ve got land waiting for me there.”

Robert said around the cigar as he clamped it between his teeth, “You’ve got land waiting right here.”

He shook his head. “I want a place where I can make a difference, under my own work and management.”