Page 23 of The Rogue's Runaway Bride
“It’s not the breathing that worries me.” Mrs. Gilroy flashed a little grin. “Whatever ye do, Miss, do not sneeze.”
*
By the timeMrs. 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 herselfto 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.
