Page 57 of The Rogue's Runaway Bride
“Now that is music to these old ears.”
“Might I trouble you for your cookie cutters?”
“I’ll fetch them for ye,” Mrs. Gilroy said. “What else might ye be needing?”
“A bit of salt,” Belle said, then added with a smile, “And a few cups of flour.”
“I’m not sure I dare.” The old woman flashed a crooked grin. “But I trust ye know what ye’re doing, Miss Belle.”
“We shall see, Mrs. Gilroy.” Taking a sip of tea, Belle pictured the trail of white prints on the sitting room rug. “We’ll be working at this sturdy table. Hopefully, it’s capable of withstanding Heathy’s shenanigans.”
Chapter Sixteen
“Mr. Mason, willyou be heading directly to the Rogue’s Lair?”
“Not tonight,” Jon replied to his assistant, Alton Bennett. “I expect to venture out later, after I attend to matters on the home front.”
Bennett’s forehead furrowed, but he kept his thoughts to himself. The man’s reaction wasn’t surprising. Not really. In the not-too-distant past, Jon had rarely felt a need to head home before midnight. He’d gone about his days—and nights—with very little inclination to spend his waking hours rambling about his house, essentially alone. That was, of course, before Carrie had come to stay. Since the child had been rather unceremoniously shuttled into his care, his habits had changed. He now made a point to return home most nights, if only to verify the child’s wellbeing with her governess before he headed to the tavern for the evening.
An image of the girl’s wide smile flashed through his thoughts. Truth be told, he had come to look forward to the child’s enthusiastic greeting. By thunder, he’d even begun to enjoy her lively accountings of the dog’s mischief, especially as it related to the pup’s ability to leave Carrie’s dour governess in a stir.
Recently, Carrie had often made plaintive requests for a bedtime story. In all honesty, he could not puzzle out why the little girl wanted to hear the tales in his gruff voice, but it seemed to matter to her. And so, he’d actually delayed his departure toread from a book of fairy tales, of all the blasted things, after the child had been tucked into bed.
He couldn’t deny the heart of the matter. Since Carrie’s unexpected arrival at his doorstep, he’d grown quite fond of the child. When she was happy, the light in her blue eyes might’ve buoyed the spirits of Scrooge himself, while the sadness he observed from time to time was like a fist to his gut.
In those moments, a dreaded sense of uncertainty tended to fall over him. In his life, he was the one people turned to when they needed a problem solved. From major negotiations that had gone off the rails to the minor crises within his family’s enterprises that arose on a near-daily basis,hewas the one that his father—and so many others—counted on. He was the one who found the solution, the one who came up with a way to make the issue go away. But a sweet-faced moppet’s tears could leave him utterly confounded.
Truth be told, he didn’t know the first thing about raising a little girl. Or a little boy, for that matter. It wasn’t as if he could reflect back on his own childhood. It had been a bloody long time since his boyhood, and God knew he would not wish to raise a child with the same philosophy, for lack of a better word, that had guided his father. Over the years, he’d rarely spent time around children. One of his partners at the Rogue’s Lair was father to a tot and a babe in arms, and his sister was expecting the birth of a child soon after she and her husband returned from their journey. He’d never thought to have any interest in being a father, beyond the duty to carry on the family name.
But that had changed with Carrie’s arrival. He’d quickly come to care for the girl with her sweet, impish grin. Thewee lass,as Mrs. Gilroy had dubbed her, had quickly mastered the art of twisting him around her little finger. She was an adorable sprite, and though he wouldn’t admit it to Mrs. Gilroy, the child’s earnest affection for the wild little dog and cantankerous catwho were currently in residence rendered the bit of chaos they’d brought with them worthwhile.
Carrie had taken an instant liking to Belle. No mystery there. When Belle looked at the girl, her rosy smile was utterly genuine, as real as the kindness in her heart.
“Is there anything else for today’s agenda?” Bennett went on, ever efficient.
Shuffling through papers on his desk, Jon offered the man a perfunctory dismissal for the day and prepared to take his own leave. As he donned his overcoat, an image of Belle’s smile flickered through his thoughts, bringing with it a peculiar sense of anticipation. He didn’t want to admit it, even to himself, but the idea of Belle in his home—in his life—appealed to him far more than it should. Certainly far more than was prudent.
An hour later, as he walked through the door of his house, he was greeted once again by the sound of Carrie’s high, not-quite-on-pitch voice, singing a tune about Mary and her lamb. This time, the song was coming from the kitchen. And the flawless notes of a soprano accompanied the child. Was that Belle? He’d known she could carry a tune, but he’d never heard the true beauty of her voice.
Intrigued, he followed the sound, confirming his suspicion that the lyrical notes were the product of Belle’s voice. She sat at the kitchen table with Mrs. Gilroy and Carrie, cutting cookies out of dough while they happily recited the nursery rhyme verse set to music.
“Biscuits?” He decided to play the rascal. “I think I’ll have a taste.”
“Don’t,” Carrie said as he reached to take a small bit of the dough. “You won’t like it.”
“And why won’t I?” He took a better look at the dough, seeing that it looked nothing like Mrs. Gilroy’s shortbread.
“It’s not for eating, Cousin Jon,” she said with a tone of authority. “It’s for art.”
Art? He turned his attention to Belle, who at the moment was rolling out a bit of the mixture. Her cheek bore a streak of what looked like flour, while her chin was dotted with a smudge of the stuff. In all his days, he’d never met a dollar princess who wasn’t too preoccupied with her appearance to ever be seen with a dusting of flour on her face.How bloody appealing.
“You should listen to her,” Belle said lightly. “She knows what she’s talking about.”
“Or ye’ll get a mouthful of salt. And flour,” Mrs. Gilroy added.
“Might I ask what the three of you are doing?”
Belle slanted him a glance. “As Carrie said, we are making art.”
