Page 36 of The Rogue’s Runaway Bride (Rogue of Her Own #3)

A t the reins of his phaeton in the brisk night air, Jon headed to the one place where he might work off the tension that had seemed to permeate every cell.

Even the relaxed atmosphere of the Rogue’s Lair would not do the trick tonight.

No, he needed strenuous activity to unwind the stress that had seemed to coil within him.

Every corner of his world seemed to bring another source of tension into his existence.

Planning for the latest acquisition planned by Mason Enterprises had stalled, leaving their most recent expansion with an uncertain timeline.

He was losing patience with the snail’s pace of the negotiations.

But there wasn’t a bloody thing he could do about it.

At home, his residence had transformed from a quiet—perhaps too quiet, in fact—place.

For quite some time, his house had meant little more to him than walls and a roof over his head with well-appointed furnishings and possessions that held no sentiment.

Now, the near-silent peace was gone, replaced by the sounds of singing and conversation and laughter, the sight of a child’s genuinely joyful smile, the caring in Belle’s deep blue eyes, and inexplicable powdery white pawprints on bookshelves in his study.

For weeks, he’d looked upon the near solitude he’d previously found behind the closed doors of his home with a sense of nostalgia.

He had wanted to return to the life he’d known—an existence free of distractions and messes and noise.

But now, the question tore at him. Since he was a very young man—perhaps even before he’d reached manhood—he’d had a clear picture in his mind of what his life should be. Many might’ve envied the wealth and status afforded to him as his father’s heir. But at times, the expectations weighed on him.

In his life, efficiency was of prime importance.

After all, only with an effective use of time could he oversee the operations of the company and maintain the business his father had worked so diligently to build.

But now, suddenly, the prospect of structure and order and routine held far less appeal.

A life that was a mere existence would be suffocating.

Such a shell of a life might be bloody intolerable.

Tonight, he had to clear his head. And for that, he needed to use his fists.

Arriving at the Rogue’s Athletic Club, a gymnasium he and Finn had installed in a building that came available beside the Rogue’s Lair, he wasted no time before entering the ring.

He faced off with his first opponent, a burly regular who stood half a head taller than himself.

Despite the man’s advantage in height and weight, Jon easily prevailed in their sparring contest.

His second opponent proved more of a challenge.

But not by much. A brawny, puffed-up noble who’d had precisely enough liquor to think himself invincible, the man thought he’d get the better of him by fighting dirty.

After taking one low blow that took the air out of his lungs, Jon set him to rights.

Brought to his knees with a right cross, the baron glared at him, angered by the turn of events.

He came to his feet and swung wildly, aiming low once more.

This time, Jon knocked him on his noble arse.

Bloody hell, it felt good to use his muscles and pent-up raw energy.

After several bouts of sparring that greatly helped to clear his head followed by a pint of Murray’s best ale, he decided to call it a night. As he headed through the gaslit streets, his mind wandered. The questions he’d debated before he donned his gloves at the gymnasium flooded back over him.

None of the changes that had impacted the day-to-day order of his household were permanent.

The cat and the dog would soon return to their homes.

Though he’d actually delayed Heathy’s departure despite Logan’s return home, it was only a matter of time.

Carrie had grown so attached to the ball of fur on legs, it seemed only prudent to continue to have the dog in residence until Amelia’s return.

By then, Carrie might well be in his sister’s loving and attentive care. Macie and Finn would be kind and doting parents, and they’d embraced the prospect of adopting the girl. It was indeed the most sensible course of action.

Bloody hell, why did the very idea feel like a fist to the belly?

Acting as the child’s guardian had seemed a daunting task, given the demands he faced as the head of Mason Enterprises and his utter lack of experience with child-rearing.

But now, he’d actually started to look forward to the girl’s guileless smiles and off-key melodies.

And then, of course, there was Belle’s unanticipated arrival.

When he’d sailed out of New York harbor, he’d always known there was a chance they would encounter one another once again.

A good chance, in truth. After all, they traveled the same circles, even if on the opposite sides of an ocean.

But he’d prepared for a fleeting, cool interaction, a perfunctory exchange of pleasantries at best.

He had not been prepared for the sight of her smile, the melodic notes of her voice as she sang with a child, and her beauty even when her face was smudged with flour as she delighted Carrie with her impromptu art lesson.

He had never considered what it might be like to have her within reach at night, with only a door between them.

He had never thought to wonder what it would be like if he’d never walked away. Until now.

Bloody hell, he’d convinced himself he was over her.

That was the way it had to be. He’d believed leaving New York was the only rational decision he could’ve made.

After all, Mason Enterprises wasn’t going to run itself.

His father was getting on in years. It was his turn to take on the burden his father had long shouldered.

His turn to prove himself worthy of the trust his family had placed in him. He hadn’t really had a choice.

Or had he?

The question shook him to the bloody core.

In his life, he’d known his fair share of beautiful women. He had never been at a loss for the right words to tempt a woman into bed. No promises. No commitments. No regrets when one of them walked away.

Rogue. Once, a lovely young widow had flashed a particularly enticing smile as the word had dripped from her lips.

At the time, she’d expressed her clear taste for a man like him—a man who would neither whisper sweet, meaningless promises nor harbor expectations she had no desire to meet.

And above all, she’d wanted a man who would definitely not look upon her as a wife .

She’d spoken the word with disdain, as if the mere thought of marriage was utterly distasteful.

At the time, he’d been more than happy to be deemed a rogue.

Though at some point in his life he would have to settle down and produce an heir, at that moment, he’d had no need of a wife.

Nor could he have envisioned a time when he would look forward to spending his life with any one woman.

Until that night in Manhattan when he’d first laid eyes on Belle.

She is the one , he’d thought, swept up in the haze of passion.

Belle was special. Her heart was tender, far more vulnerable than she liked to let on. She deserved a man who would be there for her, through good times and bad, the true partner she wanted. The partner she needed. Perhaps someday, he might prove himself worthy of her.

But now, he needed to protect her.

*

It was a rare occurrence indeed when Jon returned home before the witching hour.

Generally, he arrived to find his home quiet.

Perhaps too quiet. Rather ironic, that, given the genial chaos he tended to face earlier in the day.

With Mrs. Gilroy sound asleep, Carrie tucked in snugly beneath her covers, and Heathy content in his bed by the hearth, his only companion on many late nights was Macie’s cat.

The feline typically regarded both Jon and Heathy’s sleepy snores with a look of unvarnished disdain. But tonight was different.

On this night, he was not alone.

So much for clearing his head.

He’d entered the house through the rear entrance, intent on making his way straight to bed while he was still inclined to sleep. But the sound of Belle’s quiet voice drew him with a magnetic pull to the sitting room.

The door was open, and he glanced in from the hallway. Holding an open book on her lap, Belle sat in an overstuffed chair with Carrie perched within the space between her body and the upholstered arm. As she glanced up, the relaxed set of Belle’s mouth made it clear he had not alarmed her.

Given that she was still dressed in the white blouse and dark blue skirt she’d worn earlier that day, she had not yet begun to retire for the evening. She’d tied her hair loosely at her nape, while the few loose tendrils framing her face emphasized the gentle beauty of her features.

By thunder, she was lovely.

“Might I join you?” he asked, then entered without further conversation, so as not to disturb the moment. He primed the flames in the hearth, retrieved a small pad and pencil from a side table, and settled into the chair nearest the fireplace.

“Hello, Cousin Jon,” Carrie said in a drowsy voice. “Did you have a bad dream, too?”

“Not yet,” he said. That would come later, after he managed to drift off to sleep.

“A nighttime story is just the thing to chase away a bad dream,” Belle said softly. “Isn’t it, Carrie?”

Not the ones that come to me. Jon kept the thought to himself as the girl nodded her response to Belle’s question.

“What story are you listening to?” he asked.

“Rapunzel,” the girl said, her pronunciation of the name impressively precise. “Her hair is very long. And very pretty. Like Belle.”

“Indeed,” he said. If anything, Belle’s honey-gold locks were far superior to anything Rapunzel might’ve used as a makeshift rope, but he would keep that opinion to himself.

“The prince is handsome,” Carrie went on.

“That is a requirement for princes, isn’t it?” he asked, sending Belle a wry look.

“Only in fanciful tales,” Belle replied with the slightest of smiles.

Turning her attention to the book, she went back to reading the story in a gentle, animated tone.

At her side, Carrie covered her mouth with her small hand and yawned. Belle’s calm reading of the fairy tale was working its magic. The child looked as if she could scarcely keep her eyes open.

Drawn to the image of Belle and the little girl sitting so contentedly, he picked up his pad and pencil. He’d intended to make notes of key points he needed to discuss when he attended a property negotiation the next day. But instead, he found himself idly sketching upon the blank page.

As Belle continued to read, his idle sketches turned to more.

With each stroke of the pencil against the paper, he captured the image before his eyes.

Years had passed since he’d last put pencil to paper for some purpose other than writing and performing calculations.

He didn’t spare a moment for such a frivolous use of time.

After all, it wasn’t as if he possessed true skill.

But his ability to recreate a scene with strokes of his pencil was ingrained deep within.

A natural talent, his mother had dubbed it, a true contrast to his father’s assessment of any artistic pursuit as a waste of bloody time .

Moment by moment, the sketch took shape. He captured the essence of kindness he saw in her eyes, and the loving trust gleaming in Carrie’s wide blue eyes.

As Belle declared that Rapunzel and her handsome prince—after all, what other kind were there in fairy tales—had lived happily ever after, Carrie grinned with happiness, then smothered her yawn with her hand.

“I never doubted it for a minute,” the girl declared happily.

“You are a clever girl,” Belle said as Jon agreed. “Now, let’s get you back in bed before it becomes very, very late.”

“I am sleepy now,” Carrie agreed. She scooted out of the chair and bustled over to Jon’s seat. He casually flipped over the pad, keeping the sketch out of sight. “Were you writing a story?”

“Nothing so clever as that,” he replied truthfully. “Now it’s high time you were in bed. It won’t be long before Heathy is awake and looking for his friend to play.”

Her expression scrunched into a little frown, but quick as it had come, the frown disappeared. “Goodnight,” she said, standing on her tiptoes to give him a kiss on the cheek.

“Goodnight, little one.”

“I’ll tuck you in,” Belle said as the child reached for her hand. Standing by his chair, Belle squinted a bit, as if puzzled. “You’ve been hurt.”

He rubbed his hand along the line of his jaw, feeling a small cut by his cheek. He hadn’t thought anyone would even notice.

“It’s nothing.”

“Did that happen during Mrs. Johnstone’s training session?” Her brow furrowed. “I don’t recall seeing it.”

He shook his head. “I shall explain in the morning.”

“Well, I do hope so,” she said, then took Carrie by the hand and led her from the room.

Blast it, he could not recall the last time anyone had looked at him with any semblance of concern. He’d simply tell her the truth. In better light, she’d notice the cuts on his knuckles from sparring. There was no point in leaving her to worry over him.

He leaned back against the chair and closed his eyes. The interest in her expression had been genuine. How bloody unexpected. Despite the hurt that had gone between them, she still cared about him, if only for his essential wellbeing. That small truth warmed him more than the flames in the hearth.