Page 13 of The Rogue’s Runaway Bride (Rogue of Her Own #3)

A nother sunrise. Another day. Another adventure.

Rays of morning light streamed between the curtains, rousing Belle from a restful sleep.

For a long, luxurious moment, she savored the feel of the sun upon her face as her mother’s morning greeting hummed in her memories.

Throughout her childhood, Belle had awakened to the cheerful, slightly off-key notes of her mother’s voice.

An eternal optimist , her father had dubbed Mama in that gruff yet affectionate way of his.

Mama was still a vibrant soul who saw the best in everyone, who hoped for the best in every situation.

In her eyes, every dawn was the opportunity for a new start.

Another adventure . The words echoed in Belle’s thoughts. She certainly would not have described the events of the day before as anything she had ever wished to experience. But perhaps there was a silver lining. She simply couldn’t see it yet.

She pried herself out of the comfort of the feather mattress and quilt and set about preparing for her morning.

Hopefully, Mama’s ever-sunny outlook would be justified.

Perhaps today would be the start of a new adventure, the first step in making her way home to the place where she belonged. Where she was safe.

She’d finished dressing when a light rap upon the door stilled her as she brushed her hair. Mrs. Gilroy called through the door. “Are ye up and about, Miss?”

“Up. About. And dressed in the lovely walking suit you found for me,” Belle said as she opened the door.

Mrs. Gilroy’s smile faded as her gaze landed on Belle’s shirtwaist. On her bosom, to be precise. “Have ye tried the dresses?” she said after a moment of hesitation. “That blouse appears to be a wee bit... snug.”

Belle glanced down at the mother-of-pearl buttons that appeared ready to pop their stitching at any moment. “I did,” she said, feeling a sudden pinch of defeat. “I’m afraid they’re not any better.”

“I’d had a worry that might be the case. Ye’ve got a bit more at the top than Miss Macie.”

Belle squared her shoulders. She certainly would not let such a small thing as a slightly—well, perhaps not so slightly—snug bodice put a damper on her prospects for the day ahead.

“I’ll take care not to breathe too deeply,” she said lightly, bringing a smile to the older woman’s thin mouth.

“It’s not the breathing that worries me.” Mrs. Gilroy flashed a little grin. “Whatever ye do, Miss, do not sneeze.”

*

By the time Mrs. Gilroy escorted Belle to the dining room, Jon was already seated at the head of a modestly sized oval table draped by a white linen cloth, a cup of tea and a slice of thoroughly browned toast by his left hand, the daily news in his right.

Dressed in his shirtsleeves and a silver-gray waistcoat with wire spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, he looked every bit the part of a well-to-do man of enterprise.

An exceedingly handsome man of enterprise, at that.

My, she’d tried to forget the way her gaze was drawn as if by instinct to his classically etched features.

For a heartbeat, she allowed herself to drink in the sight of him—the firm, masculine edge of his jaw, the sensuous curve of his mouth, the small divot in his chin that added to his charm.

He’d always looked especially dashing in his spectacles, the contrast between the civilized illusion he presented and the raw masculinity of the man beneath the proper and fashionable attire ever so tempting.

“Thank you, Mrs. Gilroy,” he said without glancing up. As the housekeeper took her leave, he set the newspaper aside, removed his spectacles, and turned to Belle. “Good morning, Miss Frost.”

“To you as well, Mr. Mason,” Belle responded in kind, oh-so-very proper.

Taking a seat across from him, she held her breath as the linen of the shirtwaist pulled taut over her bosom.

Mrs. Gilroy’s sage words played in her thoughts: It’s not the breathing that worries me.

.. do not sneeze. Actually, the housekeeper might’ve been wrong about the breathing.

She’d fastened the jacket of the walking suit to conceal the way the too-small blouse threatened to pop its buttons.

That garment was a better fit, but not by much.

Its braided ebony fastenings strained against their stitching with each breath.

Fortunately, Jon appeared entirely oblivious to her predicament. With any luck, he’d stay that way.

“I trust you slept well,” he said, rather deliberately bland, as if her presence in his home—at his morning meal, no less—was quite an ordinary thing. The overt detachment in his tone chilled the embers of heat the mere sight of him had kindled. Thank goodness.

“Very well, indeed,” she said, cool as could be. “The room was quite comfortable, and Mrs. Gilroy was a joy. So very kind.”

“A joy?” He quirked a brow. “Are my ears playing tricks on me?”

“Not at all. She’s quite endearing, in her own way.”

“As I said, she likes you. Trust me when I tell you that is not the usual case.”

“The usual case?” Belle quirked a brow of her own. “Before we met, I’d heard the tales. I suppose a woman at your breakfast table is not an unusual occurrence.”

His dark eyes met her gaze. “More unusual than you might think.”

Did he suddenly look a bit ill at ease? She smiled to herself. “Why, Mr. Mason, am I to believe you’re no longer playing the rogue?”

“These days, I doubt I could summon the energy.” He glanced at the door as Mrs. Gilroy returned. “Or a moment’s privacy.”

“I did not wish to disturb ye, but yer assistant, Mr. Bennett, is here.” The housekeeper’s dour expression made it clear she’d heard his comment. “He says it is important.”

“Indeed, it is. Please show him in.” Jon turned to Belle. “First thing this morning, I dispatched Mr. Bennet to make arrangements for your accommodations. He is also seeing to the matter of your security.”

“Efficient as always, I see,” Belle said, forcing a little smile.

He met her comment with a brief shrug. “Is there any other way to live one’s life?”

Mrs. Gilroy reappeared in the doorway. Her mouth thinned with tension. “He says he needs to speak with ye privately.”

“Very well,” Jon said. “I presume he has matters squared away.”

“’Tis not my place to question yer decisions, but—” Mrs. Gilroy met his words with a frown.

Jon’s brow furrowed. “Might I ask which of my many decisions you are doubting?”

Her frown deepened. “I believe ye already know the answer.”

“You’ve no reason for concern.” Jon regarded her for a long moment, his expression weary. “I have everything well in hand.”

As he rose to leave the room, Carrie bustled in. She greeted him with a wide grin and a cheerful “Good morning” spoken with a child’s enthusiasm for a new day.

“Good morning to you as well.” Jon smiled down at her, his expression losing its serious set for the first time that morning. “I will be back shortly.”

The faint curve of his mouth faded as the dog trotted in, announcing his presence with a rather jovial bark.

“Heathy would like to say ‘Good morning’,” Carrie said, her tone fairly bubbling with cheer.

Jon’s frown wiped away the girl’s smile. “What did we agree about the dog and the dining room?”

Mrs. Gilroy offered a well-timed clearing of her throat. “Have ye forgotten about Mr. Bennett?”

“Blast—” Jon broke off his words.

“He did say it was a matter of importance,” Mrs. Gilroy said, as if for emphasis.

“It is always important,” Jon responded, not quite under his breath. With that, he briskly left the room.

Carrie pointed to the chair beside Belle. “I’d like to sit with you.” She hesitated. “May I?”

“Of course. Please join me.” Belle smiled as the girl scrambled onto a chair, an amazing feat of nimbleness considering the layers of frilly skirts in her way. The dog plopped down beside the spindled legs, making it clear he wanted to be with the humans of the household.

Reaching down to pet the dog, Carrie nibbled her lip. “I shall take him to my room.” Her young voice sounded rather resigned.

“I see no need for you to do that,” Belle said, as a vision of Jon’s disapproving frown danced in her thoughts. “Not yet, at least.” She decided to change the subject. “Where is Miss Bun-Bun?”

“Cousin Jon does not want me to bring her to the table.”

“Now what could be the harm in it?” Belle said. “It’s not as if she’s going to nibble on anything now, is she?”

“Of course not,” the girl said with a giggle. “She doesn’t even have teeth. Not real ones, at least.”

“Unlike the dog,” Mrs. Gilroy said. “I’ll take Heathy with me. Mr. Mason won’t be pleased to see the wee chewing machine is still here.”

“I’d prefer the pup stay, if only for a short while. He rather reminds me of my Angus. I do miss him so.” Seeing Jon approach, Belle felt a sudden twinge of rebellion. “Besides, rules are made to be broken.”

“Are they now?” Jon questioned as he rejoined them. “I’d have to say I disagree.”

“Somehow, that does not surprise me in the least,” Belle countered, adding a sweet smile for effect.

“I was just on my way to take the dog to the lass’s room,” Mrs. Gilroy spoke up.

“Thank you.” His attention fell on Carrie before darting to Belle. “There is a children’s table,” he said, motioning to the small round table by the window.

Belle deliberately quirked a brow. “Unfortunately, there are no other children here. I see no reason for Carrie to sit by herself while we break our fast.”

“You may have noticed the girl is not tall enough to sit properly at the table,” he pointed out, sounding quite logical—as if logic truly mattered in this situation.

“I did take note of her child-sized stature,” Belle said. “I suppose you do have a point.”

His eyes flashed, betraying he’d taken note of her too-agreeable tone. “By thunder, I’d say today is a most remarkable day. Miss Arabelle Frost has decided to concur with me on at least one point.”

“There is a small problem.” She hiked her chin, meeting his gaze directly. “And I have a solution.”