The first time he’d taken a watch apart and put it back together had been the only time, aside from the girl on the veranda who’d knocked the breath from him years ago at Tavistock House, when his heart had wholly ruled his mind.
When he fell in love, if he ever fell in love, his wife would wear one of his watches. Which would mean more to him than any ring ever could. He would wait to find the woman who would understand that. Who would know without him having to tell her.
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.