Page 7 of Rogue of My Heart

“A silversmith in France makes them. Unique to my pieces.”

“Gorgeous,” she murmured.

“Yes.”

She stared at the watch, unable to meet his gaze, wondering what he wanted from her. Her intuition told her it wasn’t what most men of her acquaintance had. Or not all. There was hunger in his attention, yes, but there was also an affectionate, enveloping kindness that even his sardonic banter couldn’t quell. He was a better man than he believed if she had her guess. It frightened her that she was beginning to trust him, to understand, like his timepieces, what made him tick.

“There’s a spare length of chain, slightly damaged, that has no home.” He nudged a length of filigree into her line of vision. “It would make an excellent bookmark.”

She shook her head. “No more gifts, Mister Bainbridge.”

“There’ve been no gifts. Miss Austen is returning to me, is she not? And the filigree has no use, consider it rubbish.”

She blew out an exasperated breath. Impossible man, she reasoned and reached for the chain. It glimmered against her skin, a flawless fragment, not an imperfection in sight.

“Rise to the challenge in our safe space, Miss Mowbray. Tell me what’s circling through your astute mind.”

“I’d rather serve as a maid my whole life than be beholden to anyone,” she said in a rush, the words tense, hard, shaded by a forlorn past and an uncertain future. She thrust the delicate silver across the desk. “That’s what I’m thinking.”

Christian cursed softly beneath his breath.

She looked up, startled to see how stunned he seemed by her words. “Sorry you asked? An honest woman isn’t always welcome.”

“No, God, no. I want to hear anything you wish to tell me.” He scrubbed his hand over his face. The eyes that met hers were apologetic, beseeching, an indigo sea she wanted to plunge into. “I imagined it would be days before we got to this topic. You see, I’m a devotee of actions over words, and if I speak before you’ve had time to see, I’m not sure you’ll believe me. I hadn’t planned on this, on ever meeting you. Of course, I had things I wanted to say should it ever occur, but life never goes the way you plan, does it?”

Her heart stuttered in her chest. Could her intuition have deceived her this appallingly? Was he a devious man, after all? “You’ve been withholding something from me. Something I should know.”

His beautiful lips parted, closed, parted again. “No, yes, partially.”

“You’re betrothed,” she whispered and rose shakily to her feet, the notion sending a dart of grief through her. Grief she had no right to feel. No place to feel. How many times had she seen aristocratic men take advantage? Was she going to betray herself and fall prey as well? Over a man who had the most arresting voice she’d ever heard, the sweetest smile, the gentlest laugh? A man who was intelligent and cunning and even a little shy? A man who seemed to know her, who she seemed to know right back.

Was that what it took for her to fold? To fall?

Bracing his hands on the desk, he shoved from his chair, fury tightening his stubbled jaw. “If you think I would betray you in this manner after I’ve sat here for two days consuming you with my eyes, panting like a dog over a bone but holding my feelings inside for both of us, then there’s no chance. I’m a scoundrel, fine, admitted, but I don’t play with people’s happiness nor seek to increase their challenges. When I can see you’re challenged. And alone. But I’m alone, too, Raine. For years, centuries.” He yanked a hand that trembled through his hair and exhaled sharply. “This is coming out wrong. I’m not gifted in the art of sustaining relationships. Or fostering them.”

“Not according to the chattering ninnies,” she returned, realizing they were arguing. Although she had no idea about what. So what if he had a mistress? A fiancée? Or one of each. It should mean nothing to her. But, oh, it did.

“Bringing up the gossips rags? Really? The lady doesn’t fight fair.”

She leaned across the desk, closing in until the gray flecks in his eyes shot into view. “You’re mistaken. I’m not a lady. I’m a housemaid, and that’s all I’ll ever be. You’re here”—she held her hand high, then lowered it—“and I’m here.”

“I won’t let you evade this discussion that easily. As if the tiers of society mean a damned thing to me.” He grasped her hand, unfurled her clenched fist, and angrily dropped the length of chain into it. “As if they mean anything to you. I’d be very disheartened if they did.”

Miss Bruce’s high-pitched voice intruded, a strident call from the hallway.

Raine backed away from him, bumping into the armchair, her fingers closing around the filigree. “I have to go.”

“Meet me tonight. Ten o’clock. At the stone bridge over the pond. I’ve been walking every night to clear my mind. It’s quite lovely. And safe.” He held up his hands. “I won’t touch you. I’ll explain everything, though I’m sure I’ll muddle it up. Hopefully, I can figure out what to say between now and then.”

“The truth will do nicely.”

When Miss Bruce’s voice again flowed between them, he sighed and gave Raine a resigned wave toward the door. “That’s what we’ll go with then. I only ask for tolerance in advance. Men are, you must remember, simple, foolish creatures. We often stumble along doing the best we can.”

Raine strode from the study with Christian’s gaze stinging her back and his delicate filigree chain marking her palm, confused and agitated, thinking somewhat crossly that she’d never met a less simple, foolish creature in her life.

Christian hadn’t been lying when he told Raine he wasn’t very good with women.

Success had brought them to his Berkeley Square doorstep in droves, and he knew, after diligent practice, how to satisfy. For a night, a week or two. A month. He was skilled in transitory pleasure; the mechanics of tupping weren’t hard to perfect when one liked working parts and the microscopic details that accompanied them as much as he did. He was patient. Meticulous. Generous in bed, as his last mistress had shared with a level of surprise that let him know most men weren’t. A fast pace had its time and place. As did a slow one.