His burst of laugher had her glancing up from the letter she’d spread across glossy mahogany, another opportunity to dive into the blasted blue of his eyes. Another opportunity to note the wicked dimple denting his cheek. “Let’s agree,” he said, sliding a cup of tea across the desk when a man had never poured tea for her in her life, “that within the walls of Devon’s exhaustively regal study, you’re afforded every opportunity to rise to such a challenge.”
She pressed her lips together to hold back a smile. “So I’m to speak freely. And this benefits you how?”
Christian popped the loupe into place against his left eye, picked up a small screwdriver, and turned his attention to the metal parts spread before him. “That, Miss Mowbray, is still to be determined.”
The hour passed quickly, quietly, contentedly. There was an ease in being around Christian Bainbridge, which Raine understood was not customary or conventional. His regard warmed her, brief strikes when he stretched or took a sip of tea, that made her feel like a thick, woolen shawl had been placed about her shoulders rather than a sharp blade edged along her skin, as masculine attention usually brought. She was attractive, and men were weak. Indeed, her appearance was a drawback rather than a source of good fortune, as beauty was for a woman of highborn birth. Thinking of the times she’d had to push the scuffed bureau in front of the attic door at Tavistock House suddenly came to her, and she frowned. Placed her quill on the desk and leaned back in her chair to watch Christian work.
Five minutes at her leisure, she decided with a glance thrown at the mantel clock Christian had modified earlier, a device that had never before kept accurate time. Fascinated, she watched him adjust the wheel of a pocket watch, pause, then go in for another alteration.
“There’s nothing faulty with the piece. Just a loose hairspring.” One side of his mouth kicked up. “It’s aging, like skin that starts to sag. Springs lose their elasticity, as it were.”
“It’s lovely,” she murmured, unable to look away from the long, slim fingers manipulating the tool with true artistry. He was gifted. More talented than anyone she’d ever known. Foolish, to be this attracted to a man so far from her reach. To be compelled to know him better, to share the scant, uninteresting bits of her life with him.
“A Bainbridge open-face duplex chronometer, to be precise.” He removed the loupe, leaving a shallow dent where it had pressed into this skin, and slid the watch across to her. “Take a look. It’s a superb model. Probably the one I’m best known for.”
“The most accurate,” she said and grasped the watch, the metal casing warm from his touch.
He tilted his head, his lips curving in pleasure. “The chattering ninnies included that bit, did they? Sometimes gossip is as precise as my timepieces.”
She rotated the watch, the silver filigree chain sliding through her fingers. “This is beautiful. I’ve never seen the like.”
“A silversmith in France makes them. Unique to my pieces.”
“Gorgeous,” she murmured.
“Yes.”
She stared at the watch, unable to meet his gaze, wondering what he wanted from her. Her intuition told her it wasn’t what most men of her acquaintance had. Or not all. There was hunger in his attention, yes, but there was also an affectionate, enveloping kindness that even his sardonic banter couldn’t quell. He was a better man than he believed if she had her guess. It frightened her that she was beginning to trust him, to understand, like his timepieces, what made him tick.
“There’s a spare length of chain, slightly damaged, that has no home.” He nudged a length of filigree into her line of vision. “It would make an excellent bookmark.”
She shook her head. “No more gifts, Mister Bainbridge.”
“There’ve been no gifts. Miss Austen is returning to me, is she not? And the filigree has no use, consider it rubbish.”
She blew out an exasperated breath. Impossible man, she reasoned and reached for the chain. It glimmered against her skin, a flawless fragment, not an imperfection in sight.
“Rise to the challenge in our safe space, Miss Mowbray. Tell me what’s circling through your astute mind.”
“I’d rather serve as a maid my whole life than be beholden to anyone,” she said in a rush, the words tense, hard, shaded by a forlorn past and an uncertain future. She thrust the delicate silver across the desk. “That’s what I’m thinking.”
Christian cursed softly beneath his breath.
She looked up, startled to see how stunned he seemed by her words. “Sorry you asked? An honest woman isn’t always welcome.”
“No, God, no. I want to hear anything you wish to tell me.” He scrubbed his hand over his face. The eyes that met hers were apologetic, beseeching, an indigo sea she wanted to plunge into. “I imagined it would be days before we got to this topic. You see, I’m a devotee of actions over words, and if I speak before you’ve had time to see, I’m not sure you’ll believe me. I hadn’t planned on this, on ever meeting you. Of course, I had things I wanted to say should it ever occur, but life never goes the way you plan, does it?”
Her heart stuttered in her chest. Could her intuition have deceived her this appallingly? Was he a devious man, after all? “You’ve been withholding something from me. Something I should know.”
His beautiful lips parted, closed, parted again. “No, yes, partially.”
“You’re betrothed,” she whispered and rose shakily to her feet, the notion sending a dart of grief through her. Grief she had no right to feel. No place to feel. How many times had she seen aristocratic men take advantage? Was she going to betray herself and fall prey as well? Over a man who had the most arresting voice she’d ever heard, the sweetest smile, the gentlest laugh? A man who was intelligent and cunning and even a little shy? A man who seemed to know her, who she seemed to know right back.
Was that what it took for her to fold? To fall?
Bracing his hands on the desk, he shoved from his chair, fury tightening his stubbled jaw. “If you think I would betray you in this manner after I’ve sat here for two days consuming you with my eyes, panting like a dog over a bone but holding my feelings inside for both of us, then there’s no chance. I’m a scoundrel, fine, admitted, but I don’t play with people’s happiness nor seek to increase their challenges. When I can see you’re challenged. And alone. But I’m alone, too, Raine. For years, centuries.” He yanked a hand that trembled through his hair and exhaled sharply. “This is coming out wrong. I’m not gifted in the art of sustaining relationships. Or fostering them.”
“Not according to the chattering ninnies,” she returned, realizing they were arguing. Although she had no idea about what. So what if he had a mistress? A fiancée? Or one of each. It should mean nothing to her. But, oh, it did.
“Bringing up the gossips rags? Really? The lady doesn’t fight fair.”
She leaned across the desk, closing in until the gray flecks in his eyes shot into view. “You’re mistaken. I’m not a lady. I’m a housemaid, and that’s all I’ll ever be. You’re here”—she held her hand high, then lowered it—“and I’m here.”