Page 10 of The Rogue’s Runaway Bride (Rogue of Her Own #3)

N early two years before her desperate dash inside the tavern—a lair for rogues, no less—when she’d nearly crashed into Jon Mason’s broad chest, Belle had first laid eyes on the man under vastly different circumstances.

On the night they’d met, their connection had been electric. Undeniable. And utterly surprising.

Oh, she’d heard the tales, and then some.

Jonathan Mason was a tycoon. A rogue. And a ladies’ man of the first order.

While the handsome Englishman was in New York investigating sites for a new venture, the first American location in his family’s commercial empire, gossipy socialites—bored wives, winsome widows, and wide-eyed debutantes, alike—had been positively abuzz with excitement over his every move throughout the city.

At the time, it seemed Belle was the only woman in Manhattan who was not over the moon at the prospect of encountering him at some ball or another.

Weary of the talk that she simply had to meet him, she’d decided Jon Mason was most definitely not the man of her dreams.

Since the days soon after her first debutante ball, Belle had imagined a lover who would sweep her off her feet—a vibrant man who lived each moment as if it were his last. She’d expected to fall for a man who shared her passion for music and the arts and spontaneous adventures.

Truth be told, she’d encountered her fair share of men who’d made an obvious show of being precisely what they thought she wanted.

She’d honed an uncanny ability to see through their oh-so-earnest performances, to spot the dollar signs in their eyes as they attempted to impress her with their mastery of the latest dances and culture.

So many poetry-spouting suitors saw an heiress when they looked at her. Not the woman she truly was.

Over time, she’d tired of the entire game.

She’d turned away fawning earls seeking a dollar princess of their own, rejected second sons of industrialists in need of a marriage that would see them comfortably set for life, and coolly scorned a particularly irksome would-be seducer who thought to woo her with promises to pen a play in her honor.

The gossipy biddies caught on quickly, their whispers dubbing her the Frost Princess.

Behind her back, of course. She couldn’t quite remember which newspaper had first adopted the name, but she rather liked it.

The play on her name was amusing. And all too fitting.

She’d rather prided herself on her icy veneer.

Until the moment when she’d spotted Jon standing across a Manhattan ballroom, and she utterly lost her ability to erect a shield of chilly indifference.

Surrounded by the tony who’s who of New York gathered for the charity gala, he’d cut a dashing figure.

Tall, lean, and broad-shouldered, Jon had carried himself with an athlete’s natural strength and grace.

His black dress coat and trousers were impeccably tailored, while his crisp white shirt and bow tie were the height of elegance.

And yet, there was no trace of the elite snobbishness that marked so many of the men who moved in her circles.

There was something about him that warned he possessed both the strength and the confidence to make him a fierce competitor, both in the world of business and in the world at large.

He’d worn his dark hair parted and combed neatly back, the height of fashion. A sprinkling of silver accented the straight, sleek strands at his temples, which lent him a look of distinction. On another level entirely, the sight of him made her yearn to run her fingers through his hair.

She could still picture the way he’d looked at her when they’d first met. His dark eyes had lit with a slow-burning fire. Within days, she’d fallen for him. And she’d learned a lesson she would never forget: passion and love are not the same thing. Far from it.

And now, she was a guest in Jon’s home. In spite of her gruff manner, his careworn housekeeper regarded her with both curiosity and a touch of concern. How very unexpected.

“It looks like ye’ve made a friend,” Mrs. Gilroy said not quite cheerfully, pulling Belle from her thoughts as they proceeded up the stairs.

“A friend?” She noticed the tinkle of the bell then and glanced behind her. The little dog named Heathy navigated the steps at a jaunty pace. “I do hope Mr. Mason won’t be upset.”

The housekeeper chuckled. “That dog has the run of the house.”

“You don’t say,” Belle said.

“Ye find that surprising, do ye, Miss?”

“A bit,” she admitted.

“So do I,” Mrs. Gilroy said, the words sounding a bit like a grumble. “The pup’s a good-natured little fellow, but he’s never found a shoe he didn’t want to sink his pointy teeth into.”

“I gathered as much,” Belle said as they reached the landing. She glanced down at her hopelessly soiled shoes. “Fortunately, I’m not worried about these. A nibble or two on these won’t do much more harm.”

“Don’t give him any ideas, Miss,” she chuckled beneath her breath. “I do believe the little gent can understand English.”

Chuckling beneath her breath, Mrs. Gilroy led Belle to a neatly appointed bedchamber.

As she opened the door and lit the light, Belle’s gaze fell upon wood furnishings that had been polished to a warm luster, the simple lines fitting Jon’s no-nonsense style.

But the frilly curtains and ruffle-edged quilt in shades of yellow, cream, and blue lent the chamber a distinctly feminine touch.

“Mr. Mason’s sister had her say over the décor,” Mrs. Gilroy explained.

“Miss Macie stayed here quite a bit when she was a young lass, back in the days before she shared a flat with that flighty friend of hers. Now, of course, she’s a wedded woman, but she still stays here from time to time.

.. when she and her husband visit until all hours.

” She went to the massive wardrobe cabinet. “Let’s see what she’s left this time.”

Mrs. Gilroy selected a walking suit in a rich shade of teal and held the skirt up to Belle.

As she lifted up the white linen blouse, her lips pulled thin.

“This might work for the morning. Miss Macie’s not quite as tall as ye.

But it’s bound to be better than that gown ye’re wearing.

” She turned to the cabinet, searching about for a few moments.

“There’s nothing here that would be comfortable for ye tonight.

But I do have an idea.” She patted the back of a wing chair.

“Make yerself comfortable, lass. I’ll be back in a trice. ”

Drinking in the first moment of quiet she’d had in what seemed like days, Belle glanced around the room.

Gaslight from the wall sconce lent the chamber a soft glow.

Fat pillows in colorful shams lay upon the bed, propped against the headboard, while silver-framed photos were displayed on the dresser.

One in particular caught Belle’s eye. She wandered over to it, lifting it in her hand for a better look.

A boy and girl—Jon and Macie, no doubt—decked out in what appeared to be holiday finery filled the frame.

His mouth was set in a half-smile, his chin cocked at an angle she supposed he’d thought dignified, while Jon’s sister smiled brightly for the camera, her dark hair spiraling in waves over her shoulders.

Belle judged the girl’s age to be around ten, while Jon, all lanky, long limbs and serious dark eyes, appeared to be a few years older.

Goodness, Jon had been serious for his years, even at that young age. Something in his expression tugged at her heart. He looked rather stern, but the slight crook of his mouth led her to think it had been an act, a role he’d evidently played quite well since he was a lad.

Her gaze wandered to another photograph.

In this one, a tall, stern man with the same dark hair and eyes as Jon stood behind a chair bearing a lovely woman whose auburn hair framed her face.

Her wide eyes brimmed with life and joy and laughter, quite the study in contrasts with her rather somber husband. So, this was Jon’s and Macie’s mother.

“Macie resembles our mother.” Jon’s voice from the open doorway startled her so, she nearly dropped the framed image. She turned to him, meeting eyes that regarded her with an expression she couldn’t quite read.

He’d stripped off his wool jacket and loosened his burgundy tie.

The strip of silk hung loose around his neck, not quite touching the vee of skin revealed by the open collar.

She felt her breath catch. Perhaps the mere surprise of his unexpected appearance.

Or was something else—an emotion she’d thought long dead?

“She appears to have your mother’s expression as well as her features,” Belle agreed, brushing away the questions she didn’t want to answer, even to herself.

“They also share a similar temperament. While I have taken after my father in nearly every way.” Jon’s tone seemed rather ambivalent, as though he wasn’t quite sure if that was a good thing.

“The fruit did not fall far from the tree. You are definitely your father’s son.”

He shrugged. “I’m not sure he would agree with you. But I certainly did inherit his hair.”

She glanced at the image in the frame, then back to Jon.

His dark hair was neatly trimmed and worn in the parted style that was the height of fashion for men of industry.

At least, she supposed he’d combed in that manner earlier in the night, before he’d raked his fingers through his hair in weary exasperation.

“Indeed. Unlike your sister, you’ve not so much as a wisp of a curl.” She reached up to brush an errant lock of chestnut brown hair off his forehead, then caught herself. Good heaven, what was she thinking? He was no longer hers to touch, even in such a casual manner.

He was no longer hers. Not at all.