“Feels hopeless,” Christian said and rose unsteadily to his feet, the rain coming down hard, soaking his clothing and sending tiny rivulets of water into his eyes.
Penny took off across the bridge, throwing over his shoulder, “That’s the liquor talking.” He halted on the rise, just before he dipped down on the other side, lost from sight. “And she cares. At least a little. How do you think I found you? Your lovely bluestocking was worried about you out here in the wild, three hundred feet from a ducal manor, which I didn’t point out. Came to get me. To get you.”
Christian sank back against the bridge’s pillar, his mind awhirl. Thunder rumbled in the distance, but he barely acknowledged it. It would serve him right, getting struck during a fit of masculine pique.
Raine cared about him.
She’d almost admitted that. Not wanting to hurt someone equaled caring, didn’t it? Her kiss, while untutored and endearingly guileless, spoke of attraction. And curiosity. Which could lead to love. With their tempers, he expected a lifetime of senseless arguments and fierce lovemaking.
She was everything he’d dreamed of. Clever, perhaps too much so. Beautiful and serious-minded. Attentive. Kind. Unconventional in the most enchanting way. He didn’t care that she hadn’t been born a lady. He simply didn’t care. He’d never wanted anyone else, not ever. Had been in love with her since the first moment he noticed her sitting beneath a dusky summer moon, even if no one—except, incredibly, Penny—believed it.
He would find a way to make her forget about that ridiculous knighthood.
About her enthusiastic groom.
He would find a way to make her choose him.
Chapter 5
Christian was late for the morning’s translation session.
Penny had overslept, which meant he’d overslept. There’d been no time for anything but a quick freshening up with tepid water from the washbasin and a guzzled cup of lukewarm tea. He was unshaven, cravat askew, waistcoat buttons, he noted as he looked down upon entering the duke’s study, misbuttoned. He’d decided to forego his coat and had his sleeves rolled to his elbows. He wasn’t going to play the part of the supposed aristocrat Raine had turned down—because his tailor was the best in London, and it showed in his attire—when the real Christian Bainbridge was an informal man.
He would be himself with his bluestocking and see how that went.
She was there, dependable to a fault, settled in the massive armchair that swallowed her petite frame, head bent, glorious hair stuffed in that horrid cap. After they crawled from bed the morning after their marriage, his second duty was going to be tossing those pathetic pieces of cotton and lace in the hearth. His first being making love to her until neither of them could see straight. He gave a mental sigh and made himself circle her to the desk. He had no reason to touch her even if his fingertips tingled with the temptation, his stomach twisting with the need. He’d dreamed about her most of the night, their kiss lingering on his lips like mist on the moors.
As he collapsed in the duke’s chair, his fingers stumbled over his waistcoat buttons, a quick repair when there was no way to hide the shape he was in.
Raine glanced up from her folio, took him in with one of those penetrating reviews that set his skin aflame, her lips lifting in a wry smile she didn’t try to conceal. With a slight shake of her head, she pushed a teacup across the desk, then returned to her work.
The tea was blessedly hot, strong, no milk, one sugar. Just as he liked it. This trivial thoughtfulness combined with the rosy tinge lighting her cheeks eased the spiral of tension in his belly. She wasn’t unaffected by him or his graceless proposal.
It was a start.
He popped his loupe in place, collected his tools, and dove into his work, content to be with her amidst a most companionable silence. The Duke of Devon had proven to be an excellent client over the years, his watches all coming from Christian’s shop. The one he worked on now was a particular favorite, a piece Christian had relinquished with what felt like despair, the substantial blunt in his pocket not enough to ease the pain of surrendering his design. Perhaps making him an artist if not an able businessman.
Christian smoothed his finger over the etchings on the sterling silver case, the whirring wheels, the coiled hairsprings. Clicking and spinning in a flawless tempo, with maintenance able to provide the most reliable part of the duke’s day for the rest of his life. His son’s life. Christian’s timepieces would live far beyond him, a notion which gratified whenever he imagined it.
The heat of Raine’s regard hit him, and he looked up in time to see her green-gold eyes focused on his hands, the flushed streaks beneath her cheeks etched in deeper than before, her face glowing in the muted illumination flowing in the window. The sounds of an awakening house vanished as their gazes locked, the scent of tea and books and ink beaten down beneath the weight of his longing, his desire to climb across the desk and finish what they’d started the night before.
His chest constricted, his body tightening.
The quill pen slipped from her fingers to the Aubusson rug beneath her feet. She must have felt it, too.
He rose, intent on rounding the desk and convincing her in a way he suspected he easily could when the notion came to him. With a secreted smile, he settled back in his chair. His joy knew no bounds.
Because he’d stumbled across the key to unlocking Raine Mowbray’s sealed heart.
Christian was used to employing stubborn persuasion—used to getting his way. Used
