Page 20 of The Rogue's Runaway Bride
“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 beenpolished 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.
“Well, then,” he looped his thumbs under his suspenders, sweeping his gaze over the wrinkled white silk of her gown. He cleared his throat. “I trust Mrs. Gilroy has located something for you to wear.”
“She found an ensemble that might work. I do hope she’s right.”
His brow furrowed. “If not, we’ll find something else in the morning.”
“There will be no need for that,” Mrs. Gilroy said, making her way into the room with two dresses in her hand. “In her rush to leave for the journey with her husband, Miss Macie left these behind.” Her gaze swept over Belle. “These should do.”
Belle quickly sized up the colorful, high-necked dresses. They did indeed appear to have been made for a woman of similar—but perhaps less generous—proportions to her own.
“Thank you so much,” she said as the housekeeper handed her another garment, a heavy flannel night dress with ruffles at the neck and wrists that looked very much like something her grandmother would have fancied.
“That one should do. It’s not as if ye need something fancy for taking yer rest.” Mrs. Gilroy hung the dresses in the wardrobe before settling a narrow-eyed gaze on Jon. “Now that that’s done, I should ask what ye think ye’re doing, intruding on a lady’s quarters?”
A bland look of amusement pulled at Jon’s mouth. “I’ll have you know I am assessing the progress made towards providing Miss Frost with suitable accommodations for the night.”
“So that’s it, is it?” Mrs. Gilroy looked as if she tried to scowl but couldn’t quite pull it off. “This is not one of yer stores. You’ll find no need to supervise with me under this roof.” Her eyes flashed with warmth and a hint of warning. “I have the situation well under control.”
For the first time since she’d encountered him that night, the crinkles on Jon’s forehead eased. He smiled. “So you do, Mrs. Gilroy.” He turned to the door. “I never doubted it for a moment.”
