Innocent Courtesan to Adventurer's Bride. Louise Allen

but he knew when to yield to superior force. Great-Uncle Simon’s tactics were, as always, masterly. There was no benefit exhausting himself and his temper in an attempt to get around the will; he was stuck with Dreycott Park until the autumn. And he was stuck with the responsibility for a nervous, flirtatious and puzzling young woman as well. He supposed he could just leave her here to keep the place in order for six months.

      ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Quinn said once he had his frustration under control. An outburst of temper would do no good. ‘Feel free to use the desk, Havers. Who do you want first?’

      ‘Miss Haddon, I think. Thank you, my lord.’

      Celina was sitting on one of the hard chairs in the empty hall, her hands in her lap, her back straight. The apron had gone and she had enveloped her blonde hair in a thick black snood. She looked even more like an occupant of a nunnery than before.

      She stood up when she saw him, her expression wary. As well it might be, he thought. What am I going to do with you? The option of simply leaving her here to run the house lost savour. His body stirred; it knew exactly what it wanted to do.

      ‘Havers will see you first, Celina.’

      ‘I am very sorry, my lord,’ she said as though he had not spoken.

      ‘For what?’ He was in no mood to be conciliatory.

      ‘For the fact that you cannot carry out your intentions, for the burden of my presence and for the diminution of your inheritance by the legacy to me.’

      That sounded like a prepared speech. ‘The money is in no way an issue, Celina. It was my uncle’s to do with as he pleased and your presence in the household is no burden. If I appear less than pleased with my uncle’s dispositions, it is because of the disruption to my plans.’ And the unaccustomed experience of having my own will thwarted, if truth be told, he added mentally.

      It was salutary, after years of doing what he wanted, when he wanted, how he wanted, to find himself constrained in this way just when he had resolved on a course of action. It was almost as though the old devil had second-guessed him and set out to throw a barrier in his path. Old Simon had been too cynical, and too unconventional, to worry about his own reputation and he would not have wanted Quinn thinking to avenge the slight on his good name.

      ‘Thank you. It is generous of you to reassure me,’ she said, her voice colourless. ‘It will be uncomfortable for you here, if your neighbours will not call.’ She was flushed now, her eyes, as usual, cast down. ‘Trimble told me about the scandal. It is very shocking that a young man could be treated in such a way.’

      ‘You believe me the innocent party, then?’ Quinn found himself irritated that her answer mattered.

      ‘Of course.’ She sounded almost sure, he thought grimly. Not certain, though. How very wise of her. ‘Trimble would not lie about something like that.’ But she thinks I might? ‘It was very honourable of you not to reveal the true parentage of her child.’

      He shrugged. It had been romantic wrong-headedness and a wounded heart more than any loftier motive, he suspected, looking back now at his young self. ‘That must have been a source of pride to you,’ she added, laying one hand on his sleeve as though trying to offer comfort

      ‘I was a romantic young idiot,’ Quinn said. The shuttered gaze lifted a fraction and he knew she was watching him sidelong from beneath her lids. ‘That did not last long. Do not delude yourself that I am some sort of saint, Celina. The high-flown moral stance persisted just as long as it took me to discover the delights of the flesh well away from English double standards.’

      Her pale hand was still on his forearm. He looked down at her bent head, the sweep of dark lashes against her cheek, the faint quiver of her fingers, the tender skin below her ear. The scent she wore, subtle and sophisticated and unexpected, teased his nostrils and his pulse kicked in recognition of her unconscious allure.

      Or was it unconscious? he wondered. She had the grooming, the elegance, the little mannerisms of a woman used to pleasing men for a living. And yet, there was the apprehension in her eyes when she did permit them to meet his fleetingly, her lack of sophistication with wine, her retreats into shy propriety. A mystery, and Quinn enjoyed a mystery. And one involving contact with a pretty woman was even more enticing. He had six months to tease the truth out of her. As he thought it, he realised that he was not going to just take himself off to London and abandon her here. He wanted her.

      He lifted her hand from his arm and raised it to his lips, just touching the tips of her fingers, letting his breath caress her. She stiffened and gave a little gasp, but he kept his attention on the pampered hand, the carefully manicured and buffed nails, the faint smell of expensive hand lotion. Celina cared for her skin like a courtesan, not a housekeeper.

      ‘Why are you telling me this?’ she asked abruptly. But she did not pull her hand away.

      ‘You will hear some torrid tales from our respectable neighbours, I have no doubt. I thought it better that I warn you.’

      ‘I see,’ Celina said. ‘I do trust you, Ashley.’

      That was like a jab in the stomach. He did not intend for her to trust him, he wanted to tease and intrigue her for sport, but if she truly trusted him then he should honour that. And perhaps he would—she was under his roof, under his protection. She might even be the innocent virgin she would have him believe.

      ‘I did not say you should trust me,’ he said, wanting to unsettle her, to pay her back for unsettling him. Her head came up and those wide blue eyes looked into his as though she was inspecting the inside of his soul—always assuming she could find it. ‘I simply wanted to set the record straight over that piece of history.’

      ‘Of course.’ The intense scrutiny dropped. ‘As always, it is for the woman to take care and it is upon the woman that the shame devolves if she is not vigilant enough of her honour. Excuse me, my lord. Mr Havers will be waiting.’

      The brush of her silk skirts across his legs as she turned had Quinn gritting his teeth as a sudden stab of lust took him unawares. He pulled open the front door and strode off to the stables, more angry with himself for even troubling about Celina than he was at her plain speaking.

      Lina had been watching his profile: the flexible mouth, the strong, straight nose that was almost too long, the thin scar that was visible now the stubble was gone, the hooded green eyes, the elegant whorl of one ear. He had seemed relaxed, as though he was telling her the plot of some novel, not his own story of disillusion, disgrace and sin. She did not believe in his detachment. Quinn Ashley was an excellent actor, but he had to be deeply frustrated by what had just happened—any man would be.

      Then he had kissed her fingertips and the scent of him, sandalwood and angry, tense male, had filled her nostrils and she had been unable to snatch her hand away. A more experienced woman would have known how to extricate herself, but she had been left there, gauche and enraptured. When Quinn turned back to face her and she saw the look in his eyes she could see he was not relaxed. Not at all.

      I did not say you should trust me. The smile had reached his eyes with those words. A smile and something else, something assessing and male and dangerous. In letting him take her hand, in confessing her trust, she had yielded to him and that had stirred some animal instinct in him.

      Idiot, she scolded herself as she tapped on the study door and let herself in. He attracted and fascinated her and that was lethally dangerous. One brush of his lips on her hand and she was disorientated, disconcerted and breathless. It was worse than the wine.

      ‘Miss Haddon.’ The lawyer rose to his feet. ‘Please, be seated. This should not take long.’

      Lina sat down and folded her hands in her lap, trying her best to look like a meek young lady and not a fugitive courtesan. With her hair invisible, her eyebrows and lashes, which were naturally darker, gave the impression that she was a brunette. Surely there would be nothing to spark Mr Havers’s suspicions, even if he had read her description in the newspapers?

      ‘Now,