Page 19 of The Rogue's Runaway Bride
The words plowed into Belle like a runaway train. How horrid it must have been to be shuttled about from one place to the next. She’d grown up surrounded by loving family and friends, never at a loss for someone who loved her. For someone who cared for her. Until tonight, when she was on her own in the city. She was an adult, an independent-minded woman, and yet, she’d felt so very alone. If the sense of having no one to turn to had left her feeling frightened and nearly desperate, how hard must it be for a child to endure such emotion?
“Of course, that will change soon enough,” Mrs. Gilroy went on. “I don’t expect Carrie will be here for long. When Miss Macie and her husband return from their travels, they’ll take the child into their home. At least, this is the plan.”
“He does tend to have a plan, doesn’t he?” Belle mused aloud.
“That he does, miss.” A thin smile played on Mrs. Gilroy’s lips. “Always has. Even as a lad.”
If only I could say the same, I might not be in this pickle.
“Somehow, that does not surprise me in the least.”
“Come along, Miss Frost. I’ll find ye something comfortable for tonight.” She motioned to Belle to follow her to the stairs. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten about my question. Tell me this, if only to put an old woman’s mind at ease—ye are stillMissFrost, are ye not?”
“Yes,” Belle said, bracing herself against a fresh wave of regret. And of relief.
“Ye’re quite sure of that?” The woman’s gaze settled again on Belle’s gown.
“Most definitely.” Belle met her eyes, seeing only caring within their gray depths. “You might say I came to my senses in the nick of time.”
“And that’s a good thing.” Mrs. Gilroy gave a knowing nod, seeming to comprehend what Belle had left unspoken. “Ye’re not the first lass to run from a man who was not meant to have her.”
The undercurrent of pain in the older woman’s voice touched Belle. What had she experienced to give her such understanding?
“Thank you.” Emotion welled in her throat, and the two simple words were all that Belle could muster in the moment.
“Well, enough of that,” Mrs. Gilroy said, her no-nonsense tone returning. “Let’s see to finding ye something a bit more comfortable.”
“Even Jon Mason could not have planned for this night,” Belle said with a lighter touch.
“Do not underestimate him, lass.” Mrs. Gilroy gave her head a weary shake. “He might not have had a plan when he left tonight for the tavern. But I’d wager my last penny he has one by the morning.”
Chapter Six
Nearly two yearsbefore 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 simplyhadto meet him, she’d decided Jon Mason was most definitelynotthe 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’dhoned 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?”
