Page 4 of Rogue of My Heart

Had never been able to explain.

He turned to gaze at the verdant slice of lawn outside the study’s window, his chest tight, his fingertips tingling.

Tomorrow morning, he was finally going to meet the woman he’d been in love with for ten years.

Two

Raine adjusted the mobcap that never seemed to contain her unruly mass of hair, and with an anxious exhalation, blew the ruffled brim from her face. She stood before the door to the duke’s study, ten minutes late for her translation session because she’d volunteered to assist Miss Miller with a chore a kitchen maid should have taken on. She’d been delaying the inevitable because she was nervous. Agitated for no good reason. Trying to squelch the adolescent butterfly-tingle in her belly. Appalling when she was far removed from?—

Then he was there, the cause of her belly-tingle, opening the door, watch in hand. As if he’d been about to check the hall to see if she’d arrived. He was out of breath, dark hair tousled, cravat off-center. But not vexed as most men of her acquaintance would be by her tardiness. Instead, Christian Bainbridge, lover of wenches and watches, standing so close she could smell the delicate scent of citrus and ink drifting from his skin, had a tender, very fetching, very charming smile on his face.

And his eyes, because she’d wondered about them all night…

Oh, heavens, were his eyes a dazzling portrait, as blue as the delphiniums in the duchess’s garden.

“It is you,” he whispered beneath his breath, a statement she had no idea how to decipher. Had Miss Miller told him to expect her? Had he been expecting someone else? Had she mistaken the arranged time?

Discomfited, she smoothed her apron, the newest in her possession, and stayed from reaching to adjust her cap. The plain, somewhat dour dress assigned to the staff she could do nothing about. Although it looked better on slim figures than it did on curvaceous ones, so she could tally this benefit. When benefiting the imposing man standing before her in dark, finely-tailored clothing was absurd to contemplate.

His smile grew as she fidgeted, creating a tiny dent in his cheek. A glorious imperfection in an otherwise extremely handsome face. “Miss Mowbray, I presume,” he said and gestured for her to enter the duke’s study. “I can’t express how delighted I am to meet you.”

Oh. He seemed quite enthusiastic about the translation session. She hoped her German was on par with his needs. She gazed up into his face because he was tall enough that she had to. “Sir, I?—”

“No.” His expression shifted in an instant. Hardened, a flash of emotion confirming there was more to him than the bland smile and a compelling dimple. “My name is Christian,” he managed, then laughed and shook his head, leaving the door properly ajar behind them. An escape route should she need one. “So easy, and yet, ten years overdue.”

She entered the room, clearly missing some element of the situation. The ton, an exclusive group Christian Bainbridge was welcomed into, at least in part, were an eccentric lot. In her years of service, she’d grown accustomed to bizarre behavior. And become skilled at ignoring it.

On a table by the window sat a stack of books that hadn’t been there when she cleaned the study yesterday. A band of sunlight waterfalled over them, glinting off the gilded script on the spines. Christian took his place behind the duke’s desk as Raine moved forward like a pulley had drawn her. Brand new treasures, releasing nothing but the delicious scent of leather when she lifted one volume to her nose. No mold, no dust, no stained pages. Not yet. Her heart tripped. Books were her one indulgence, her grand passion in a life lacking any other. But they were costly and often out of reach.

As were most things she desired.

“I just finished the one on top. Austen. Two novels are included. Her last, sadly. You’re welcome to it.”

She streaked her finger along a groove in the cover, delighted but trying hard not to show it. “I couldn’t possibly.”

“Really? You couldn’t possibly? Why not?”

Raine turned, a spike of impatience racing through her. A sentiment that had gotten her into trouble her entire bred-to-be-subservient-but-at-times-unable-to life. What she found was Christian Bainbridge’s gaze centered on her, or more specifically, on her finger, which still lovingly caressed the spine of Jane Austen’s final tome. His eyes were heated when they met hers; there was no way to hide it. She removed her hand from the book and tangled it in her apron to hold back the tremor.

The man affected her like no other.

She wondered suddenly, alarmingly, why she quite liked the way he made her feel. The way his attention put her on a pedestal she’d never inhabited. Made her want in a way she never had, skin tingling, mind whirring, heart thumping. She felt alive. Swallowing hard, her throat clicked. “I cannot because a gentleman does not loan books to a servant in a household he is visiting. It’s simply not done.”

Christian tugged on a length of twine surrounding a stack of envelopes he’d taken in hand, his gaze sweeping the length of her. “Who says I’m a gentleman,” he whispered, his expression caught between professor and pirate.

She frowned and walked toward him, settling in the leather armchair situated before the desk. The same chair she’d huddled in as the duke offered her a reprieve from a dreadful situation, offered her a new life. A new life she must carefully guard. “This is a ridiculous conversation. You’re an esteemed guest of the Duke and Duchess of Devon, and I’m here to help you translate.” She pushed a breath past her lips. We’re not on the same level, and we shouldn’t converse as if we were. “I have one hour before I’m expected upstairs. Can we begin?”

“Of course, my apologies for any transgression. But know this.” He dropped his eyes, slid a letter free from the envelope, and ironed his palm across the sheet. “I’m the youngest son of a vicar who used God’s word most brutally. I was lucky enough to find my talent at an early age, a profitable talent, admittedly, and thank God for it because there was nothing else for me. I, too, have worked for everything I have; I’ve been given nothing. If you and I are going to spend time together, I simply wanted you to understand we’re not so far apart.” He sighed, his gaze touching hers before roaming to the window and that enticing stack of books. “As recompense for assisting with the translations, I thought it proper if you took the book. Any of them,” he added, dragging his hand through his hair, leaving it in charming spikes atop his head.

His distress, and his generosity, sent a jolt through her. Not many kind men populated her world. She drew a breath that smelled faintly of the duke but more of the man across from her. She knew, instantly, the difference—and which scent she preferred. “I suppose I could borrow it. The Austen. With its return, what’s the harm?” Shrugging, she curled her toes inside her worn slippers, letting the way her body sang in his presence capture every sense while vowing to deny it. “I love nothing more than reading.”

His head lifted, his smile blinding.

She was lost.

And vexed that he’d so easily won their first battle.

He was lost. Charmed, intrigued.