Page 4 of The Rogue's Runaway Bride
No.She dismissed the panic-driven notions as quickly as they flitted into her brain. Jon Mason did not possess a gullible bone in his body. A West End thespian could not pull off a ruse on this man who prided himself on his razor-sharp logic.
So, as she usually did—before she’d met the scoundrel who now chased her through the streets of London, at least—Belle met the truth of the situation head-on.
“Hello,” she managed through half-gritted teeth. “I am feeling a touch of shock as well.”
His keenly intelligent eyes gleamed with curiosity as he tilted his head a bit more. At this rate, he risked getting a crick in his neck.
Dropping his hands to his sides, he took a step back and allowed his gaze to rather boldly sweep over her. For a moment, he idly stroked his chin, affecting the look of a man deep in thought. His attention settled on the delicate lace trim on the sleeves of the dress peeking out from beneath her plain cloak.
“Tell me this, Arabelle,” he said, the faintest hint of amusement in his expression. “Are my eyes deceiving me, or are you wearing a... a wedding dress?” A little frown crinkled the area between his dark brows. “A rather soggy one, at that.”
Good heavens.Every time she’d believed this night could not get any worse, it had done precisely that. Well, there was no point trying to evade the question.
“Why yes, as a matter of fact, I am.” She lowered her voice even as she held her tone steady. “Given the pouring rain, I don’t expect I will need to explain thesoggystate of the fabric.”
Nodding his agreement, he scratched his chin. “I suppose the detail that puzzles me is the very fact that you’re wearing such a gown in the first place.”
Through the leaded glass window behind Jon’s broad back, she caught a flash of black beneath the gas lamp. A sudden jolt of apprehension coursed through her. Had the driver spotted her when she made her way to the tavern?
“It’s quite a long story.” She dropped her voice nearly to a whisper and moved to stand by the window.
“Undoubtedly,” he said, joining her there. “Looking for the groom?”
Raising up on her toes, she peered into the night. The telltale whinny of horses permeated the thick glass.Oh, dear.Her stomach sank. She could not see the conveyance. Had the driver maneuvered it out of sight?
The taste of fear rose to the back of her throat. If the driver—and the occupant of the coach—had concealed the carriage in the darkness of the alley, they likely knew she was here.
And they would come after her.
Her mind raced. A season earlier, Jon Mason had been the last man on earth she would’ve turned to for... well, for anything. She would not have asked the arrogant cad to pass the sugar bowl so that she might sweeten her tea. The man was a rogue—a rogue who’d kissed her breathless, then walked away to attend his precious business as if she’d meant absolutely nothing to him.
But that was then. Desperate times called for desperate measures.
At the moment, Jon was her best hope.
Heaven help her.
Chapter Two
In his threedecades of life, Jon Mason had seen his fair share of surprising sights. God knew he could fill time at the pub over a pint or two recalling his marriage-averse sister’s escapades as she’d led theheiress hunterswho had been the bane of her existence on a not-so-merry chase. Until Macie had exchanged vows with the one man on the planet she didnotwish to outrun, her unconventional, suitor-repellent ensembles had raised many an eyebrow—including his own. But even she had never thought to make her way through London in a rain-soaked wedding gown, its silk hem caked with dust and dirt and whatever other muck was on the street.
In the days since he’d returned to the city from an uneventful trip to Cardiff, he’d heard talk that Arabelle Frost had made her way to London. After dodging merger-minded tycoons and down-on-their-luck dukes alike, the New York ice princess had finally embarked on the pilgrimage American heiresses were evidently obliged to make before they settled down to domestic bliss with some questionably lucky—and, of course, nobly titled—Englishman.
But what in blazes was she doing here, rain dripping from the tattered cloak that covered her hair, in a pub which bore no resemblance to the elegant restaurants she fancied?
She’d bolted through the door like a madwoman. In the first moments after she’d crashed into him, he had questioned his own eyes. Surely this was not thenever-a-hair-out-of-placesocial butterfly he’d first encountered in Manhattan. The prim beauty he’d known would not have risked so much as a crease in her pristine—and expensive—taffeta and velvet dresses, much less drag silk through the grime of the London streets. He’d gazed down at her then, searching her face, not caring if he seemed uncouth.
One look in her sapphire eyes was all it took.
One look, and he knew the truth.
This woman in a soggy wedding gown and ragged cape was indeed the dollar princess he’d come to know as Belle.
Now that he knew who’d plowed into his chest with a resounding thud, the questions were even more confounding. By God’s teeth, why had she rushed into the Rogue’s Lair, of all places, with the devil at her heels?
And why, beneath the cool veneer she affected like a shield, was there fear she could not entirely disguise in those unforgettable blue eyes?
“Do you intend to tell me why you’re here?” he asked, unconcerned if he came off as overly blunt. She already knew patience was not his strong suit.
