Page 13 of Rogue of My Heart

Penny had overslept, which meant he’d overslept. There’d been no time for anything but a quick freshening up with tepid water from the washbasin and a guzzled cup of lukewarm tea. He was unshaven, cravat askew, waistcoat buttons, he noted as he looked down upon entering the duke’s study, misbuttoned. He’d decided to forego his coat and had his sleeves rolled to his elbows. He wasn’t going to play the part of the supposed aristocrat Raine had turned down—because his tailor was the best in London, and it showed in his attire—when the real Christian Bainbridge was an informal man.

He would be himself with his bluestocking and see how that went.

She was there, dependable to a fault, settled in the massive armchair that swallowed her petite frame, head bent, glorious hair stuffed in that horrid cap. After they crawled from bed the morning after their marriage, his second duty was going to be tossing those pathetic pieces of cotton and lace in the hearth. His first being making love to her until neither of them could see straight. He gave a mental sigh and made himself circle her to the desk. He had no reason to touch her even if his fingertips tingled with the temptation, his stomach twisting with the need. He’d dreamed about her most of the night, their kiss lingering on his lips like mist on the moors.

As he collapsed in the duke’s chair, his fingers stumbled over his waistcoat buttons, a quick repair when there was no way to hide the shape he was in.

Raine glanced up from her folio, took him in with one of those penetrating reviews that set his skin aflame, her lips lifting in a wry smile she didn’t try to conceal. With a slight shake of her head, she pushed a teacup across the desk, then returned to her work.

The tea was blessedly hot, strong, no milk, one sugar. Just as he liked it. This trivial thoughtfulness combined with the rosy tinge lighting her cheeks eased the spiral of tension in his belly. She wasn’t unaffected by him or his graceless proposal.

It was a start.

He popped his loupe in place, collected his tools, and dove into his work, content to be with her amidst a most companionable silence. The Duke of Devon had proven to be an excellent client over the years, his watches all coming from Christian’s shop. The one he worked on now was a particular favorite, a piece Christian had relinquished with what felt like despair, the substantial blunt in his pocket not enough to ease the pain of surrendering his design. Perhaps making him an artist if not an able businessman.

Christian smoothed his finger over the etchings on the sterling silver case, the whirring wheels, the coiled hairsprings. Clicking and spinning in a flawless tempo, with maintenance able to provide the most reliable part of the duke’s day for the rest of his life. His son’s life. Christian’s timepieces would live far beyond him, a notion which gratified whenever he imagined it.

The heat of Raine’s regard hit him, and he looked up in time to see her green-gold eyes focused on his hands, the flushed streaks beneath her cheeks etched in deeper than before, her face glowing in the muted illumination flowing in the window. The sounds of an awakening house vanished as their gazes locked, the scent of tea and books and ink beaten down beneath the weight of his longing, his desire to climb across the desk and finish what they’d started the night before.

His chest constricted, his body tightening.

The quill pen slipped from her fingers to the Aubusson rug beneath her feet. She must have felt it, too.

He rose, intent on rounding the desk and convincing her in a way he suspected he easily could when the notion came to him. With a secreted smile, he settled back in his chair. His joy knew no bounds.

Because he’d stumbled across the key to unlocking Raine Mowbray’s sealed heart.

Christian was used to employing stubborn persuasion—used to getting his way. Used to convoluted business negotiations, and in some instances, convoluted personal ones. He called the shots and expected to prevail while playing by his rules. Raine was used to none of this. A housemaid had limited opportunities to express an opinion. Little freedom to choose. Like they’d agreed at the beginning of this journey, within these four walls, he would be her friend first. Let her drive the carriage. A gift he’d guarantee no one had ever given her.

A gift he’d never given.

He flexed his fingers and held back a grin as she fidgeted as surely as if he’d trailed his lips over her skin. “Would you like to see the inner workings?” He gestured to the watch. God above, she should imagine he meant something else.

His body throbbed at the thought.

When, of course, he meant something else.

But he was willing to ride this out and show her the bloody watch.

Pushing aside the letter she was transcribing, she rested her elbows on the desk and leaned in, her simple, elegant scent skimming his senses. Soap and rosewater and the lightest hint of lemon, free of conceit or enticement, like the woman. Her eyes lifted to his, then dropped to the timepiece. “It’s exquisite,” she murmured and went to touch, then halted, thinking better of the impulse.

He smiled, rooted to the spot, his love for her confirmed that second if it hadn’t been already. “Here.” He took her hand, extended her index finger, and lightly touched the watch, letting her feel the whisper-kiss movement of the wheels against her skin. “Nickel motor barrel bridge. Winding wheel. Crown wheel. Regulator. Escapement wheel.” With each item he listed, he tapped her finger gently on the part.

“This timepiece will be in the duke’s possession, his family’s, for centuries. He’ll likely gift it to Lord Jonathan. Perhaps another to Lord William. And they will gift them to their sons. Or, one can hope, to their daughters.”

Christian’s heart skipped, a full second before it kicked into rhythm again. He exhaled, his hand trembling where it rested over hers. “That knowledge gives me such pleasure, such pride, that it makes it easier to let them go.”

She sighed, a low, melodic echo he would hold in his memory forever when he’d once wondered so savagely what her voice sounded like. Snaking her hand from beneath his, she said, “You’re possessive.”

He knew they weren’t talking about his watches. “I’ve had to fight for everything I have, and I do mean everything, Raine. I don’t easily share. Or give up.”

“Is that a challenge?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Is it?”

“Stubborn,” she added, humor chasing the declaration.

Taking his teacup with him, he sprawled in his armchair, his gaze locked on hers as he sipped. “Flaws aplenty.”