He slammed the folio shut, feeling the sting of dissatisfaction.
That was not happening as he’d given up on love.
At the moment, his loneliness was palpable but hidden, thriving despite the adoring mistresses he surrounded himself with. He’d tried, repeatedly, but there seemed little point in searching for what was not there. Had only been there that one time, a spark he’d extinguished by leaving before he even spoke to the girl.
“You’re getting that sullen look again,” Penny murmured from the chair, his lids low, close to sleep if Christian had his guess. “And we have no women, not yet, to lift you from your melancholy.”
Christian shook himself from his stupor, slipped a letter from the folio, and flipped it between his hands. “I’m worried about the translations, which I’d hoped to work on during my time here,” he lied, tapping the envelope against his palm. “A German watchmaker I’m in contact with tried to build a detached escapement caliber, but it failed, and he sent me details on the design in the event I’d like to have a go. But German’s not my area of expertise, and English not his. Parts of the missive are incomprehensible, at least to me.”
“I took care of it, whatever an escapement caliber is,” Penny said with another yawn. “I discussed your dilemma with Miss Miller, the housekeeper, upon our arrival. A lovely thing with the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. Like the sky in the middle of summer. Delightful. But back to the problem. There’s a maid, new on staff, talented with languages.” He settled his linked fingers over his belly and stretched his shoulders. “Assisting the governess with those subjects or some such. Unusual skill for a housemaid, isn’t it? I guess this one loves to read and taught herself several languages. Imagine, a bluestocking residing in the wilds of Yorkshire.” He toed one boot off, then the other, preparing for the kind of serious slumber only Penny could fall into, anywhere, anytime. “Starting tomorrow morning, nine sharp, you have a translator. One hour per day for the duration of your stay if you need her. You’re welcome in advance.”
“What an amazing valet you are, Penny.”
“It’s a gift.”
Christian dipped his finger beneath the flap of the envelope and broke the wax seal. “Does the bluestocking have a name?”
“Mowbray,” Penny whispered, definitely on the edge of sleep. “Miss Mowbray.”
The name danced through Christian’s consciousness, sending goosebumps zinging along his skin. He forced his hand from its punishing clench on the envelope. “Her first name, do you know it?”
Penny opened one eye, a lazy blink. “Raine. Is that French? I only remember because of Miss Miller’s eyes. Like rain falling from the clouds. Isn’t that poetic? I may try to use that.”
Christian’s breath caught, the letter sliding from his grip to bounce off the toe of his Hessian. “Whose house did Miss Mowbray recently arrive from?”
Penny dropped a bent arm over his face, shrugged. “An earl’s, I believe it was. A household going through a spot of trouble. A reprobate.”
“Holy hell,” Christian breathed, his heart kicking into a swift rhythm. There could be no one else with that name working for an earl with an appalling reputation. The coincidence was simply too much.
It was the girl he’d spent the summer watching. The summer dreaming of but never talking to. Years cursing himself for not trying, at the very least, to make her acquaintance. To be her friend when it seemed neither of them had been so lucky as to have one.
Her image, faded like it had sat too long in the sun, rotated through his mind. Hair the color of a shiny gold coin, dark eyes, shy smile. Slender and lovely and connected to him in a gut-sure way he couldn’t explain.
Had never been able to explain.
He turned to gaze at the verdant slice of lawn outside the study’s window, his chest tight, his fingertips tingling.
Tomorrow morning, he was finally going to meet the woman he’d been in love with for ten years.
Chapter 2
Raine adjusted the mobcap that never seemed to contain her unruly mass of hair, and with an anxious exhalation, blew the ruffled brim from her face. She stood before the door to the duke’s study, ten minutes late for her translation session because she’d volunteered to assist Miss Miller with a chore a kitchen maid should have taken on. She’d been delaying the inevitable because she was nervous. Agitated for no good reason. Trying to squelch the adolescent butterfly-tingle in her belly. Appalling when she was far removed from—
Then he was there, the cause of her belly-tingle, opening the door, watch in hand. As if he’d been about to check the hall to see if she’d arrived. He was out of breath, dark hair tousled, cravat off-center. But not vexed as most men of her acquaintance would be by her tardiness. Instead, Christian Bainbridge, lover of wenches and watches, standing so close she could smell the delicate scent of citrus and ink drifting from his skin, had a tender, very fetching, very charming smile on his face.
And his eyes, because she’d wondered about them all night…
Oh, heavens, were his eyes a dazzling portrait, as blue as the delphiniums in the duchess’s garden.
“It is you,” he whispered beneath his breath, a statement she had no idea how to decipher. Had Miss Miller told him to expect her? Had he been expecting someone else? Had she mistaken the arranged time?
Discomfited, she smoothed her apron, the newest in her possession, and stayed from reaching to adjust her cap. The plain, somewhat dour dress assigned to the staff she could do nothing about. Although it looked better on slim figures than it did on curvaceous ones, so she could tally this benefit. When benefiting the imposing man standing before her in dark, finely-tailored clothing was absurd to contemplate.
His smile grew as she fidgeted, creating a tiny dent in his cheek. A glorious imperfection in an otherwise extremely handsome face. “Miss Mowbray, I presume,” he said and gestured for her to enter the duke’s study. “I can’t express how delighted I am to meet you.”
Oh. He seemed quite enthusiastic about the translation session. She hoped her German was on par with his needs. She gazed up into his face because he was tall enough that she had to. “Sir, I—”
“No.” His expression shifted in an instant. Hardened, a flash of emotion confirming there was more to him than the bland smile and a compelling dimple. “My name is Christian,” he managed, then laughed and shook his head, leaving the door properly ajar behind them. An escape route should she need one. “So easy, and yet, ten years overdue.”
She entered the room, clearly missing some element of the situation. The ton, an exclusive group Christian Bainbridge was welcomed into, at least in part, were an eccentric lot. In her years of service, she’d grown accustomed to bizarre behavior. And become skilled at ignoring it.
On a table by the window sat a stack of books that hadn’t been there when she cleaned the study yesterday. A band of sunlight waterfalled over them, glinting off the gilded script on the spines. Christian took his place behind the duke’s desk as Raine moved forward like a pulley had drawn her. Brand new treasures, releasing nothing but the delicious scent of leather when she lifted one volume to her nose. No mold, no dust, no stained pages. Not yet. Her heart tripped. Books were her one indulgence, her grand passion in a life lacking any other. But they were costly and often out of reach.
As were most things she desired.
“I just finished the one on top. Austen. Two novels are included. Her last, sadly. You’re welcome to it.”
She streaked her finger along a groove in the cover, delighted but trying hard not to show it. “I couldn’t possibly.”
“Really? You couldn’t possibly? Why not?”
Raine turned, a spike of impatience racing through her. A sentiment that had gotten her into trouble her entire bred-to-be-subservient-but-at-times-unable-to life. What she found was Christian Bainbridge’s gaze centered on her, or more specifically, on her finger, which still lovingly caressed the spine of Jane Austen’s final tome. His eyes were heated when th
ey met hers; there was no way to hide it. She removed her hand from the book and tangled it in her apron to hold back the tremor.
The man affected her like no other.
She wondered suddenly, alarmingly, why she quite liked the way he made her feel. The way his attention put her on a pedestal she’d never inhabited. Made her want in a way she never had, skin tingling, mind whirring, heart thumping. She felt alive. Swallowing hard, her throat clicked. “I cannot because a gentleman does not loan books to a servant in a household he is visiting. It’s simply not done.”
Christian tugged on a length of twine surrounding a stack of envelopes he’d taken in hand, his gaze sweeping the length of her. “Who says I’m a gentleman,” he whispered, his expression caught between professor and pirate.
She frowned and walked toward him, settling in the leather armchair situated before the desk. The same chair she’d huddled in as the duke offered her a reprieve from a dreadful situation, offered her a new life. A new life she must carefully guard. “This is a ridiculous conversation. You’re an esteemed guest of the Duke and Duchess of Devon, and I’m here to help you translate.” She pushed a breath past her lips. We’re not on the same level, and we shouldn’t converse as if we were. “I have one hour before I’m expected upstairs. Can we begin?”
“Of course, my apologies for any transgression. But know this.” He dropped his eyes, slid a letter free from the envelope, and ironed his palm across the sheet. “I’m the youngest son of a vicar who used God’s word most brutally. I was lucky enough to find my talent at an early age, a profitable talent, admittedly, and thank God for it because there was nothing else for me. I, too, have worked for everything I have; I’ve been given nothing. If you and I are going to spend time together, I simply wanted you to understand we’re not so far apart.” He sighed, his gaze touching hers before roaming to the window and that enticing stack of books. “As recompense for assisting with the translations, I thought it proper if you took the book. Any of them,” he added, dragging his hand through his hair, leaving it in charming spikes atop his head.
His distress, and his generosity, sent a jolt through her. Not many kind men populated her world. She drew a breath that smelled faintly of the duke but more of the man across from her. She knew, instantly, the difference—and which scent she preferred. “I suppose I could borrow it. The Austen. With its return, what’s the harm?” Shrugging, she curled her toes inside her worn slippers, letting the way her body sang in his presence capture every sense while vowing to deny it. “I love nothing more than reading.”
His head lifted, his smile blinding.
She was lost.
And vexed that he’d so easily won their first battle.
* * *
He was lost. Charmed, intrigued.
Relieved. To know the girl he’d been drawn to so intensely years ago was a woman worth knowing, worth loving. Worth fighting for, should the situation come to that, which it would. He wasn’t afraid to act on impulse—and he always trusted his gut. Like the swift decision to take the apprenticeship in Cambridge that had changed his life, Christian knew what he wanted.
And he wanted Raine Mowbray.
Her finger trailed across the page, a tiny, concentrating fold centered between her brows. Her nose was pert, her cheeks lightly freckled, her jaw sharp, used to being stubbornly set, he’d bet. Her hair, as golden as the butter he’d spread on his breakfast scone, fleeing the silly domestic's headpiece he’d love to yank from her head. She was slender. Delicate. As poised as any lady roaming any ballroom he’d ever been invited into. Whip-smart, when intelligent females who admitted being intelligent, were a rare commodity.
And, ah, was she beautiful.
She nibbled on her thumbnail and hummed beneath her breath, scribbling translations on a sheet of foolscap. Christian held back a groan—and the urge to tip her chin high and pour his frustration into a fiery kiss. His body was pulsing with the fantasy, every inch of it.
“Am I interrupting your work?” she asked without looking up, a subtle smile tilting the corners of her mouth.
He wasn’t sure what he’d done to bring about amusement, but he’d go with it. They only had ten minutes left together, and Christian wanted Raine’s conversation more than he wanted details on how to build a detached escapement caliber. And that was a first. “I’m sorry, I got distracted. Devon’s watch repair may require a part I neglected to bring.”
Her long lashes lifted, revealing eyes he’d thought were brown but had turned out to be an enchanting shade of hazel. She hesitated before asking, “Did you truly turn down a knighthood?”
He opened his mouth, closed it. Ran his tongue over his teeth while searching for what he wanted to tell her. The truth was probably best. In any case, his cheeks flushed, saying it before he could.
“Heavens above, you did. You turned down a knighthood!”
The Prince Regent is cracked, Christian wanted to say. The watch in question was a piece of Austrian junk, not worth the expense or the bother. Annoyance, and a ragged little thread of panic, almost drove out the pulse of desire controlling him. Raine would never find him suitable if she believed a meaningless knighthood stood between them. “It was a lark,” was all he came up with.
She tapped her quill pen against the desk, considering. “Did Prinny think the proposal a lark?”
He placed his tweezers on the desk, removed the loupe from its nestle against his eye. “What else have the chattering ninnies been saying?” Gossip had followed him his entire life because he presented such an intriguing subject, stuck as he was in that graceless spot between the aristocracy and everything below. A man of industry when men of industry weren’t revered.
Her smile broke, spreading across her face. So exquisite, it stole his breath. “Watches and wenches,” she said through her glee.
A winding wheel dropped from his fingers and rolled across the desk, coming to a stop against the duke’s inkwell. “What?”
“All you care for, that is.”
His cheeks got so hot, they stung. “My work is my passion. I treasure this”—he gestured to the tools, the watch parts, spread across the desk—“more than, well…more than any…” More than any wench. More than I could any woman except you, I’m coming to suspect.
But that didn’t sound right at all. And she’d never believe him anyway.
Raine dropped her head, laughing softly. “I’m sorry. I’m being unkind. Teasing you when I should not dare to.”
Christian slumped back in his chair, uncertain where she was going with this. Women seldom admitted being unkind, especially when they were being unkind. “You are?”
“I don’t often get to converse in this manner.” She folded her arms along the desk and rested her chin atop them, giving him a candid perusal typically only circulated inside a bedchamber. “You see, clever conversation isn’t expected of a humble housemaid, isn’t requested or required. Just because I’m passive by necessity doesn’t mean I am in life.” Her lids fluttered with a sigh that almost had him reaching for her, which would be a mistake. He wanted to be her friend first. Needed to be her friend first. There was a reticence about her he feared had come from the debacle that had sent her fleeing from Tavistock House.
But Christian knew one thing. If he found out his cousin, a man he hadn’t talked to in ten years and barely knew, had touched Raine Mowbray against her will, he would kill him.
Calming himself, he picked up a winding wheel and flipped it between his fingers, better to have something to do with his hands than placing them on her person. “You can talk to me as I adore clever banter. I’ll not require but certainly request.”
Her gaze danced away from his. “I miss those conversations. I miss engaging my brain. My former employer, Countess Tavistock, let me attend lessons with her governess from the time I was in leading strings. Later, I acted as an informal tutor to her children in certain subjects. My education is lacking for a peer but advanced for a maid. Languages, reading, came easil
y.” Lost in thought, she chewed on her bottom lip, increasing his enchantment and his physical discomfort. “I think…I’m finding it easy to talk to you, which should not be. Or rather, doesn’t need to be for me to assist with your translations.”
He slid his hand across the desk, unable to check the impulse. His heart had begun to thump, images of what he’d like to share with her—mind, body, soul—flooding him.
She was watching, wide-eyed but accepting, about to let him touch her.
“Kit, have I found the most unbelievable—” Penny burst into the room, took one look at the intimate scene, and bumped back against the door. “Sorry. I’ve interrupted.”
“Kit,” she mouthed with a grin that lit Christian up inside. Then she flipped one of the five watches on the desk over and viewed the time. “Oh, goodness, I have to go.” Making a note on the letter to mark her place, she collected her papers in a tidy pile and laid the quill pen on top. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Same time. I don’t think it will take me more than three days, maybe four, to translate them. There are a few words I’m not sure of, colloquial speech, but the duchess has a German-language text in her materials for the children’s lessons which may help.”
Christian was out of his armchair like a shot and heading to the stack of books by the window. He knew Penny was watching the scene unfurl with undisguised interest, but Christian couldn’t worry about that and deliver Jane Austen. A bit winded from his effort, he intercepted Raine at the door. “You forgot this,” he murmured and pushed the volume into her hand. She wasn’t wearing gloves, and neither was he, and his thumb brushed her wrist, a desperate, exhilarating feeling flowing up his arm and into his chest. And settling. “Please,” he added when he’d never begged a woman for anything in his life. “We had a deal, remember?”
Her shoulder lifted, that ridiculous cap on her head bobbing as if she was going to refuse when her fingers closed gently around the book. Then she left him standing there, the sensation of touching her bare skin engraved on his senses like his name was engraved on his watches.
Tempting the Scoundrel Page 2
