Page 38 of The Rogue’s Runaway Bride (Rogue of Her Own #3)

“She met the man in Paris. Given her light tone when she referred to him, I cannot say whether he caused any lasting heartache, or if his behavior became so irksome that she would prefer to forget him.”

“I’d wager it was the latter,” he said. “The change of name does rather fit her temperament. Nell—blast it, Ellie—has always been one to follow her whims of the moment.”

“That certainly would not be your preference, but I see no harm in following one’s instincts.”

“You might be surprised.” An emotion she couldn’t quite read flashed in his eyes. “There are times when I’ve done precisely that.”

She pursed her lips, regarding his statement with a skepticism she made no attempt to hide. “And to think I’d envisioned your life running with the precise efficiency of the gears on the Swiss watches my brother so admires.”

“You, of all people, know there have been times when my actions have been neither precise nor efficient... I’ve pursued a course others would view as impulsive. Perhaps even rash.”

“Rash?” She deliberately hiked a brow. “I think not.”

“Then perhaps, you should think again.” His voice was low and deliciously gruff. “I am certainly capable of carpe diem .”

“You do realize that seize the day does not refer to the most efficient use of your time?”

“Ah, Belle, you wound me. My Latin tutors ensured I knew the meaning.”

Again, she hiked a brow. “Making reference to your Latin tutors does not strengthen your case.”

“I had not thought you so cruel,” he said in a teasing tone. “Surely you have not forgotten the night we’d made our first acquaintance.”

The memory of that moonlit gala flashed through her mind. “By midnight, you’d kissed me on the steps of the art museum.” An unbidden warmth crept over her cheeks. “I suppose that might’ve been considered a bit impulsive.”

“Only a bit?” An appealingly crooked grin played on his mouth. “If I were to kiss you—right here, right now—many would consider that rash.”

“Most definitely.”

His gaze held hers, speaking louder than his words. “Would you?”

She gulped a breath. “Perhaps.”

Such a kiss would be impulsive. Rash. And utterly delicious.

She nibbled her bottom lip. As his attention drifted to her mouth, a sly smile crossed his features.

“It drives me a bit mad when you do that.” His voice was low and husky.

She knew full well what he meant, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “Why, Jonathan Mason, I have no idea to what you are referring.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

She gave a little shrug. “I see no reason why you should not.”

His brows knit skeptically. “You possess little talent for evasion.”

“Much as it pains me to agree with you, I must on this particular point,” she said. “My brother has advised me to never, ever play a game of poker.”

“Bluffing is not one of your strengths,” he said with a knowing nod.

She folded her arms at the waist. “You’re sure of that?”

“Quite so.” He spoke the words with vexing confidence.

She studied him for a long moment, taking in the carved lines of his features and the sable shadow emphasizing the contours of his jaw.

If I were to kiss you—right here, right now—many would consider that rash. Would you?

His question was bold. Unexpected. Perhaps even a bit provocative. But had it been nothing more than a bluff? Well, she knew precisely how she might call it.

Belle smiled to herself as a scandalous notion took shape in her mind. It was time she put his words to the test. She pulled in a steadying breath, as if that might shore up her courage. What she was about to do was impetuous. Scandalous. And perhaps, a bit risky.

“Something on your mind, Belle?” He took a step back, watching her with a touch of wariness. So, he knew she was up to something. “I see that look in your eyes.”

She had to play this carefully. After all, she could not go too far. She could not risk falling for him. Again.

But somehow, she couldn’t quite stop herself.

Taking a step closer—then another—she cut the small distance between them. Standing this near, she savored crisp notes of bergamot and shaving soap.

“Given that we are no longer involved in any semblance of a relationship, I find it somewhat curious that you would speak of kissing me.”

His eyes narrowed as he gave a nod. “I believe I referred to the act as potentially rash.”

“I would agree with that assessment,” she said, affecting a prim tone. “And impulsive as well.” Fixing a sly smile on her mouth, she grazed her fingertips along the strong lines of his chin. “And might I add, utterly ill-advised.”

His jaw went taut. His response to her touch seemed a triumph, if only a minor one.

“Indeed.” His voice was edged with gravel.

She met his gaze. “While I am here—under your roof, day and night—I presume you will remain a proper gentleman.”

“That is the plan.” His eyes flashed with an emotion she could not quite read.

“Oh yes, of course... the plan.” She brushed her fingers over dark bristles of new beard. “Frankly, Jon, I am not sure whether I should be relieved.” She lowered her voice, her tone anything but prim. “Or disappointed.”

“Perhaps you should tell me, Arabelle.” He uttered her name in a deliciously husky rasp. “Tell me what you want.”

Despite her best efforts to shield herself with a veneer of ice, the emotion in his dark gaze was all too clear. The flickers of primal hunger set her pulse racing.

He seemed to study her. “Arabelle, what is it that you truly want?”

You.

As she threaded her fingers through his straight, dark hair, her instinctive response sounded an alarm. My, she was playing a risky game—a game she could not win.

She’d taken her little ruse as far as she dared. She could not put her heart on the line. Not again. Taking a step back, she created a slight distance between them. But when she turned away, he reached for her. Gently, he caught her hand against his.

“Belle, is something wrong?”

She gave a brisk shake of her head, but he seemed to see through it. “When you spoke of a kiss, you seemed rather bold. I sensed that you were teasing me.”

“Teasing, eh?” His brows quirked, betraying his sense of intrigue. “And if I was?”

“I thought I might call your bluff.”

“Did you, now?” His mouth curved at the corners, not quite a smile. “I must admit, you had me going there. You’re a far better actress than I’d credited you.”

She hadn’t been acting. Not really. But she certainly wouldn’t tell him that truth.

Reaching for her, he drew the pad of his thumb over the curve of her face. Gently, he tipped up her chin. “It occurs to me that you never truly answered my question—would a kiss be rash, Arabelle?”

“Perhaps,” she repeated her response, but this time, her heartbeat thudded in her ears and she could not bring herself to look away from his eyes.

“Shall we seek a definitive answer?” His query was far more civilized than the simmering heat in his gaze.

“That might prove a risky venture.” Her pulse quickened. “Perhaps even a bit reckless.”

“Indeed.” He let out a low breath, as though he debated within himself. “But I am ready to take that chance.” With a velvet-smooth touch, he traced the tip of one finger over the curve of her mouth. “Are you?”

Belle held his gaze as his question echoed in her thoughts. Could he feel the slight acceleration of her breaths? Had he sensed how intensely she reacted to his touch?

“Yes,” she said on a whisper.

“Arabelle, if I kissed you—right here, right now—would you think me utterly mad?”

When he spoke her name like that, as a husky caress, it was all she could do to maintain a shred of coherent thought.

All she could do to resist the impulse to fall into his powerful arms even as a voice deep within warned her to walk away.

All she could do to hold tight to the strings to her heart.

“I would think you bold. Perhaps overly so,” she said. “And most definitely impetuous.”

“If I wanted to hold you... to touch you—would you think me a cad?”

“A cad?” She mused over the word. “I suppose that would depend... if you carry our risky little game a step too far.”

His brow furrowed. “You think this is a game?”

“At this point, I don’t know what is real.” The truth tumbled from her lips before she could hold it back. “And what isn’t.”

She felt him drag in a breath. “I do understand,” he said, his voice low and rough-edged. “The simple truth is this: I don’t want to go another moment before I hold you in my arms again.”

His words plowed into her with the force of a runaway train. She believed him. Every husky, searingly honest word.

Restrained hunger deepened the brown in his irises to a rich chocolate. His strong arms holding her close, he drew her to his lean, muscular body. “Arabelle, would you welcome my kiss?”

As she drank in the delicious warmth in his eyes, her heart beat with a long-dormant yearning.

But still, she would present a rational response to his question.

She was a woman. Not a skittish girl. She would meet his inquiry without hesitation.

Without shame. If she wished to savor his touch, that was her prerogative, was it not?

Still, she wasn’t about to let him know that after all this time, he possessed the power to make her heart soar. “I do believe I’d like that,” she said. “It’s not as if this would be the first we’ve shared. Not so very scandalous, really.”

A touch of amusement on his lips tempered the look of desire in his eyes. “You haven’t forgiven me yet, have you?”

“Not entirely,” she said, holding her tone rather cool. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“I’ve had my suspicions,” he said in that gravel-edged voice of his. “ Arrogant arse might’ve given it away.”

“Or perhaps it was when I told you the mention of your name set my teeth on edge?”

“Another clue,” he said.

“My, Jon, I never realized your deductive powers rank with those of Sherlock Holmes.”

“I make no such claim,” he said. The amusement faded from his expression. “My dear Miss Frost, something rather peculiar has occurred to me.”

“And what might that be, Mr. Mason?”

“We are both still here, and I am still holding you. It is the damnedest thing.”

“It is, isn’t it?” A curious blend of hope and desire and wonder rippled through her.

With exquisite gentleness, he framed her face in his hands. “I want to kiss you, Arabelle.”

“Do you, now?” she asked, if only to tease him.

“More than I’ve wanted anything in a very long time.” He spoke the words as a confession, low and gruff and ever-so-tempting. His dark eyes gleamed with sweet challenge.

And then, he kissed her.

Dipping his head, he touched his lips to hers. Lightly, at first. The most gentle of caresses.

His hands curved over her upper arms, drawing her to his body.

The heat of him warmed her, just as the heat in his kiss.

Moment by moment, he deepened the delicious contact.

Seeking. Exploring. Taking and giving with each tender touch of his mouth to hers.

Slowly, his hands glided along her body, settling at her waist.

With a low groan in the back of his throat, he eased away, even as he still held her. For the span of several heartbeats, he gazed at her.

His touch exceedingly gentle, he framed her face in his hands. “By thunder, you are so beautiful.” His words were spoken in a gravelly rasp, and instinctively, she knew he meant every word.

If she lived to be a very, very old woman, she would always remember the way she felt when he looked at her like that. When he kissed her. When the touch of his unshaven jaw to her face unleashed tingles all over her body.

Ah, yes, it was all coming back to her. The memories of tenderness and yearning and pleasure flooded over her. Yet this new longing was even deeper. The desire ever more profound.

“Oh, Jon,” she whispered as she wrapped her arms around him. The powerful muscles on his back flexed beneath her touch, and he grazed his lips over the tender curve of her face.

Again, he kissed her. Hungrier. More filled with need.

Pulling her to his body, his arms coiled around her in a possessive hold.

The undeniable proof of his passion for her pressed against the softness of her belly.

Instinctively, she canted her hips. She craved this contact, so primal and intimate and intense.

Another low, raw groan escaped him, and he eased away.

“My lovely Arabelle. You’ll always be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” His husky voice was like a caress. With a feather-light touch, he pressed another soft kiss to her lips. “It’s best if I leave you now.”

A heavy reluctance settled over her, but deep within, she knew he was right.

“Goodnight, Jon.” Standing on her tiptoes, she kissed him, a sweet, delicious caress.

And then, she turned. With quiet steps, she left him. Even as she reached her bedchamber, she ached to go back. Ached to return to him. But she closed the door behind her and lay upon the bed.

It was too soon. Far too soon to tell the difference between memories and the possibilities of a future. Far too soon to have faith that this was not a rekindled passion that would burn itself out like a shooting star. Far too soon to give her heart to him. Again.

Lying on her back, she stared up at the darkened ceiling. She felt the rhythm of her pulse steady as her breaths slowed. But her heart still longed for him.

They’d been caught up in a moment of desire that had flared beyond what either had anticipated. She knew that much. Had the memories of what had once been drawn them together?

Or was this something more?

As she eased into slumber, a pleasant notion—wishful thinking, perhaps—drifted through her thoughts. A new beginning.