Page 37 of The Rogue's Runaway Bride
For a few breaths, Belle could only stare at the mess. And then, she met Mrs. Gilroy’s sympathetic gaze.
She set Heathy on the floor, watching the pup shake himself off as she touched her fingertips to the drops of warm soup on her own face. A bit more had splashed on her apron. But the majority of the liquid in the large bowl had landed on her blouse. Glancing down at the formerly pristine linen, she saw a thin shimmer of broth and a handful of diced carrots that resembled orange polka dots. My, she must look a fright.
“Here. This will help, if only a bit.” Mrs. Gilroy handed her a napkin. “I’ll fetch you a clean towel.”
A rasp of a cough—deliberately timed, or so it seemed—snatched Belle’s attention to the archway between the dining room and the hallway. Jon watched her for a moment as Heathy danced excitedly around his trouser legs and Carrie tugged at his hand.
He fished a handkerchief from his jacket pocket. “Dare I ask?”
“There was a... minor mishap,” she replied, forcing a pleasant tone as she dabbed broth from her face.
“Minor, eh?” Jon closed the distance between them, even as Carrie and the dog followed his every step.
“Cleo decided to put in an appearance. As you can imagine, Heathy’s response was a bit rambunctious.”
“That is one way of putting it,” Jon said. He reached out, cloth in hand. “May I?”
“Thank you.” She pulled in a low breath as he gently touched the linen pocket square to one cheek, then the other. The action was chaste, altogether innocent. And yet, there seemed an air ofintimacy in his gentleness as he dabbed at her soup-spattered face.
“That’s better.” An inner warmth filled his eyes. “Now we can see your true freckles rather than bits of vegetables.”
She didn’t want to smile, but she couldn’t quite help herself. Back in New York, he’d found the small freckles which dotted the bridge of her nose appealing. Once, he’d vowed to kiss each and every one, and given time, he might’ve made good on his promise. The memory brought a rush of heat to her face. Had her cheeks actually flushed?
“No harm was done.” With some effort, she held her tone casual. “Other than a mess to clean.”
It was at that moment that the action she’d so hoped to avoid occurred. A small tickle in her nose began to stir. Had a bit of seasoning from the soup landed above her lip?Drat the luck. Hoping against hope that the sensation would pass, she caught a breath, stilling herself. But the tickle grew more insistent. She tried to ignore it. And then, it happened.
She sneezed.
And with that simple, reflexive act, the button on her blouse that had struggled mightily to stay fastened came undone. Not only came undone, but popped off its stitching and sailed into the air, tumbling down to the carpet beneath their feet. Moments later, Cleo reappeared, rushing to bat the luminescent pearl button about as if it were a toy.
Easy as pie.Her own words played in her thoughts. She would not allow this moment, embarrassing as it was, to shake her confidence. For heaven’s sake, less than twenty-four hours earlier, she’d dashed through the streets of London in a wedding gown, of all the ridiculous things. She’d weathered that, just as she’d push through this minor setback. A soup-soaked blouse was an inconvenience. Nothing more. She’d simply have tochange into the snug-fitted dress Mrs. Gilroy had brought her the night before. She could make do, now, couldn’t she?
If only Jon had not walked in when he did. He’d seen her looking so very frazzled. She certainly hadn’t neededthat.
For his part, he observed the scene with a notable lack of comment. As he diverted his gaze from her gaping blouse, Belle suspected his care for her modesty was rooted in a sense of decorum as well as the example he set for the girl in his care. He plowed his long fingers through his dark hair.
“Well, then, it would seem I’ve returned at an appropriate time,” he said, keeping his attention on Carrie.
“Appropriate?” Belle could not help but balk at the statement.
He nodded, still appearing careful to train his gaze on something—anything—other than her soup-stained, modesty-challenged bodice.
“It’s evident you are in need of a proper wardrobe. I’ve arranged for someone to help with that,” he said, meeting her eyes. “Her name is Miss Blake, and you should expect her to arrive within the hour.”
*
At another timein his life, Jon might’ve been astounded by the sight of an American heiress standing in his dining room, covered with what he assumed was soup, moments after he’d had to stop in his tracks in the hallway to avoid colliding with a frantic cat, a dog in hot pursuit, and a girl rushing to catch the determined pup. But given the utterly unpredictable arrivals that had landed at his doorstep over the last several weeks, the fact that Arabelle Frost had been doused with broth and bits ofvegetable while pets and an energetic child ran wild in his home somehow seemed on par with everything else.
He’d tried to warn her, hadn’t he? If Belle had thought his household—and his life, for that matter—would run as smoothly as a well-captained ship, she was sadly mistaken. That assumption might’ve proven valid if she’d arrived in London a few months earlier. But now, he could not lay claim to any semblance of order, not even within his own home.
Easy as pie, she’d said, her eyes flashing with confidence like brilliant sapphires. The scene might’ve possessed an ironic humor, but the look of mild horror on her face when she realized he was there just in time to see her in that state of soup-covered dishevel muted his amusement. She’d put on a brave front, but he knew her well enough to spot the tiny quiver of her bottom lip when she faced him. Not tears. Not quite. But a definite sign of unhappiness.
Never one to succumb to an affront to her dignity, she’d kept her head high. He’d always found that quality so appealing. She was certainly giving life in his chaotic home a go, he’d give her that.
He’d done his best to act as a gentleman when the button on her blouse had unceremoniously escaped its moorings. But he hadn’t been able to avert his gaze quickly enough to avoid catching a glimpse of the lace of her chemise accenting her rounded curves. In truth, he’d seen very little of her bared skin in that fleeting moment, but it was enough to flood his mind with memories. And a renewed hunger.
By thunder, his sister’s decision to load her traveling case with journals and books and such even if it had meant casting out a dress or two had turned out to be a stroke of luck. Macie had left the garments behind in a quest for trunk space after she’d pillaged his library for references to consult while she and Finn were on their journey. At the time, she could not haveguessed she’d be providing a makeshift wardrobe reasonably well suited to his impromptu houseguest’s figure. Belle certainly could not have fit into any of Mrs. Gilroy’s dresses. The housekeeper was thin as a bird and, by his estimation, half a head shorter.
