Page 67 of The Rogue's Runaway Bride
In his life, he’d known his fair share of beautiful women. He had never been at a loss for the right words to tempt a woman into bed. No promises. No commitments. No regrets when one of them walked away.
Rogue.Once, a lovely young widow had flashed a particularly enticing smile as the word had dripped from her lips. At the time, she’d expressed her clear taste for a man like him—a man who would neither whisper sweet, meaningless promises nor harbor expectations she had no desire to meet. And above all, she’d wanted a man who would definitelynotlook upon her as awife. She’d spoken the word with disdain, as if the mere thought of marriage was utterly distasteful. At the time, he’d been more than happy to be deemed a rogue. Though at some point in his life he would have to settle down and produce an heir, at that moment, he’d had no need of a wife. Nor could he have envisioned a time when he would look forward to spending his life with any one woman.
Until that night in Manhattan when he’d first laid eyes on Belle.
She is the one, he’d thought, swept up in the haze of passion.
Belle was special. Her heart was tender, far more vulnerable than she liked to let on. She deserved a man who would bethere for her, through good times and bad, the true partner she wanted. The partner she needed. Perhaps someday, he might prove himself worthy of her.
But now, he needed to protect her.
*
It was arare occurrence indeed when Jon returned home before the witching hour. Generally, he arrived to find his home quiet. Perhaps too quiet. Rather ironic, that, given the genial chaos he tended to face earlier in the day. With Mrs. Gilroy sound asleep, Carrie tucked in snugly beneath her covers, and Heathy content in his bed by the hearth, his only companion on many late nights was Macie’s cat. The feline typically regarded both Jon and Heathy’s sleepy snores with a look of unvarnished disdain. But tonight was different.
On this night, he was not alone.
So much for clearing his head.
He’d entered the house through the rear entrance, intent on making his way straight to bed while he was still inclined to sleep. But the sound of Belle’s quiet voice drew him with a magnetic pull to the sitting room.
The door was open, and he glanced in from the hallway. Holding an open book on her lap, Belle sat in an overstuffed chair with Carrie perched within the space between her body and the upholstered arm. As she glanced up, the relaxed set of Belle’s mouth made it clear he had not alarmed her.
Given that she was still dressed in the white blouse and dark blue skirt she’d worn earlier that day, she had not yet begun to retire for the evening. She’d tied her hair loosely at her nape, while the few loose tendrils framing her face emphasized the gentle beauty of her features.
By thunder, she was lovely.
“Might I join you?” he asked, then entered without further conversation, so as not to disturb the moment. He primed the flames in the hearth, retrieved a small pad and pencil from a side table, and settled into the chair nearest the fireplace.
“Hello, Cousin Jon,” Carrie said in a drowsy voice. “Did you have a bad dream, too?”
“Not yet,” he said. That would come later, after he managed to drift off to sleep.
“A nighttime story is just the thing to chase away a bad dream,” Belle said softly. “Isn’t it, Carrie?”
Not the ones that come to me.Jon kept the thought to himself as the girl nodded her response to Belle’s question.
“What story are you listening to?” he asked.
“Rapunzel,” the girl said, her pronunciation of the name impressively precise. “Her hair is very long. And very pretty. Like Belle.”
“Indeed,” he said. If anything, Belle’s honey-gold locks were far superior to anything Rapunzel might’ve used as a makeshift rope, but he would keep that opinion to himself.
“The prince is handsome,” Carrie went on.
“That is a requirement for princes, isn’t it?” he asked, sending Belle a wry look.
“Only in fanciful tales,” Belle replied with the slightest of smiles.
Turning her attention to the book, she went back to reading the story in a gentle, animated tone.
At her side, Carrie covered her mouth with her small hand and yawned. Belle’s calm reading of the fairy tale was working its magic. The child looked as if she could scarcely keep her eyes open.
Drawn to the image of Belle and the little girl sitting so contentedly, he picked up his pad and pencil. He’d intended tomake notes of key points he needed to discuss when he attended a property negotiation the next day. But instead, he found himself idly sketching upon the blank page.
As Belle continued to read, his idle sketches turned to more. With each stroke of the pencil against the paper, he captured the image before his eyes. Years had passed since he’d last put pencil to paper for some purpose other than writing and performing calculations. He didn’t spare a moment for such a frivolous use of time. After all, it wasn’t as if he possessed true skill. But his ability to recreate a scene with strokes of his pencil was ingrained deep within. A natural talent, his mother had dubbed it, a true contrast to his father’s assessment of any artistic pursuit as awaste of bloody time.
Moment by moment, the sketch took shape. He captured the essence of kindness he saw in her eyes, and the loving trust gleaming in Carrie’s wide blue eyes.
