When a Rogue Meets His Match Page 10

  She swallowed and curtsied, taking his hand. “Thank you.”

  Had her voice shaken? Lord, she hoped not.

  He led her to the door, and she glanced down at her hand on his plain black wool coat sleeve.

  Should she tell him he ought to change his suit? But surely he must know that people of quality wore, if not their best, then certainly clothing to be seen in when they visited the theater?

  She glanced sideways at him as he opened the door, gesturing for her to precede him. She hesitated. Was he so arrogant as to defy all convention? If he planned to move in aristocratic society, he needed to dress as someone who belonged.

  He raised a slanting eyebrow. “Is there a problem?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him. But then she remembered that he’d lived all his life without her advice.

  He didn’t need her.

  Messalina shook her head and proceeded through the door.

  * * *

  Gideon watched Messalina’s face as the carriage jolted over cobblestones. Since they’d left the house she’d grown quiet and was avoiding his gaze.

  What else had he expected? One afternoon of something like a truce was not enough to make up for what had come before. Messalina was a proud, stubborn woman who knew her own mind. She wouldn’t be swayed into accepting him as a husband so lightly.

  He needed patience.

  Still he found himself searching her eyes when he handed her down from the carriage some five minutes later. She smiled slightly and his chest flooded with warmth.

  Fool.

  Gideon nodded at Reg, sitting in the box beside the driver. Earlier he’d ordered Reg to stay with the carriage when they went into the theater. A brace of bodyguards was too conspicuous.

  Gideon was very aware of Messalina’s smaller body beside his as she shook out her skirts. The summer air was still warm from the day, and the night was alight with lanterns and torches. The classical facade of the theater was thrown into bright light and people crowded the steps.

  Gideon held out his arm to her. “Ready?”

  She glanced up at him as she laid her fingers on his forearm, her eyebrows arched pointedly. “Yes. Are you?”

  He felt the corners of his mouth curl, the scent of bergamot teasing his nostrils. Within the theater before them lay his quarry. His pulse quickened at the thought, the coming hunt. But he had no need for nerves.

  How could he fail with her on his arm? “We’ll find out, won’t we?”

  Inside the theater the air was warm with the press of bodies and the heat of dozens of candles from three grand chandeliers. Gideon made for the stairs, aware as they moved that heads were turning to look at them. They left a trail of murmurs in their wake.

  He glanced out of the corner of his eye at Messalina. She held her head high, a faint smile playing about her lips.

  He bent to her, murmuring in her ear, “Very good.”

  Her breath caught, but she said only, “I’m so glad you approve of me.”

  “I do,” he replied. “I approve of your grace, your intelligence, and your strength. I don’t approve of your stubbornness, but I confess, I like it.”

  That got him an indignant sniff. “Where is your box?”

  “Third level,” he said, and added to provoke her, “Intimate and discreet. I inspected it myself when I bought the tickets.”

  “Hardly discreet, since it overlooks the theater,” she replied tartly with her smile still in place.

  “I assure you,” he drawled lazily. “I can most certainly find a way to be intimate.”

  She glanced at him sharply. “The people across the way can certainly see us.”

  “Yes.” His lips twitched. “But only above the waist.”

  For a second her face was perplexed, and then bright pink flooded her cheeks, making her look young and unbearably pretty and he wanted…

  He looked away. He had a plan, a series of steps to get what he wanted. Finding himself enthralled by his wife was not one of them.

  He had to keep his head.

  He was still thinking over the matter when they reached a landing on the stairs and a matron in a deep-orange gown and lavender-powdered hair cried out, “Messalina! I didn’t know you had returned to town.”

  An outright lie, judging by the eager expression on her face as she stared at Gideon.

  “Lady Gilbert,” Messalina replied sedately. “May I introduce my husband, Gideon Hawthorne?”

  “Hawthorne? Hawthorne?” Lady Gilbert’s watery blue eyes turned sly as she held out her hand to him. “Why, I don’t remember any Hawthornes. Tell me, who are your people, Mr. Hawthorne?”

  Messalina stiffened beside him.

  Gideon took Lady Gilbert’s hand and bowed over it, not quite touching her knuckles. “My people are terribly scandalous, my lady.” He straightened and let his lips spread into a dangerous smile. “I come from thieves, whores, and murderers.”

  “Oh my!” Lady Gilbert looked positively giddy with excitement.

  Messalina’s face was blank as she nodded to the woman. They moved past Lady Gilbert and mounted the stairs.

  “She’ll spread what you said,” Messalina muttered. “Everyone in the theater will be talking by the end of the play.”

  “Let them.”

  He felt her glance at him. “You want everyone to know your past?”

  “There seems very little point in trying to hide it, so I’ve decided not to bother.” His lips twisted. “I won’t apologize to anyone for my birth.”

  They would know exactly what he was—and why they should fear him.

  She was silent a moment and then said softly, surprising him, “No. You’re quite right.”

  They came to the third floor, and he stopped and looked at her.

  Messalina met his gaze, and he saw that her clear gray eyes were defiant. “It’s not your birth I object to.”

  “No?” He leaned closer to her, inhaling bergamot. “Perhaps you should detail my flaws in our box.”

  She scoffed. “That would take all night.”

  He snorted.

  She was witty, his wife.

  Too witty. He was in danger of forgetting his mission here.

  The thought made him uneasy. He couldn’t lose his drive, his pride, himself in her.

  They’d reached the rented box, and he pulled back the curtain for her, letting her enter first.

  The box was almost over the stage, and from it they could see not only the actors but the milling audience in the center of the house. Gideon seated Messalina before taking his own chair and glancing about. He’d had information from Pea and his gang that the Earl of Rookewoode, Sir Barnaby Bishop, and Viscount Hardly would be attending tonight, yet Gideon couldn’t make out any of the men.

  His gaze was drawn back to the stage. Several performers were dancing about, but no one appeared to be paying any attention to them.

  Gideon frowned. “I thought the play had begun.”

  He felt Messalina glance at him. “It has. Or rather the entertainments before the main play have begun.”

  “Ah. Of course.” He nodded curtly.

  People were still entering the theater, and half the boxes were empty. In the occupied boxes, more than one pair of eyeglasses was aimed at him.

  He showed his teeth.

  “Have you not been to the theater before?” Messalina asked softly beside him.

  He glanced at her.

  She looked at him curiously, but without any sort of scorn.

  “No,” he said.

  Her eyes raked his form, and she pressed her lips together as if repressing words.

  Then she relaxed, her smile mocking. “You don’t enjoy the entertainments?”

  “I haven’t the time for entertainments.”

  She cocked her head, drawing his eyes to the long, sweet line of her neck. The dress she wore tonight exposed the upper mounds of her breasts. Her skin was so white it seemed to glow in the theater’s candlelight. “No entertainment
s at all?”

  What was she probing for? “No.”

  She stared at him. “Music?”

  He felt his mouth flatten. “No.”

  “Gambling games?”

  He arched a brow. “Gambling—or rather other men gambling—is a business for me, nothing more.” He glanced back to the audience. “Or it was. I’m moving into different endeavors now.”

  “What—?” She shook her head. “No, I shan’t be diverted. What about books?”

  He stiffened, turning to meet her eyes. “I can read, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I’m asking if you read books,” she said gently.

  He’d never reached that skill with his letters—how could he when he’d never had schooling? But he held her gaze. It was too humiliating to confess his weakness. “No.”

  She was silent a moment, and a great roar of laughter rose from the audience.

  Gideon glanced at the stage. One of the players was bent, his coattails lifted to expose his buttocks to the audience. The player was swaying from side to side.

  Gideon blinked. Was this really what the aristocracy enjoyed?

  “Is there anything in your life you do simply for…amusement?” Messalina asked.

  He turned to her, honestly confused by her questions. “Why? I work for my bread. You know that.”

  “Mm,” she hummed. “I do know that. You’ve made it more than plain. But most people, even the absolute lowest among us, find ways of playing. I’ve seen ragged boys throwing knucklebones on the street. I’ve seen two old beggars singing together. I’ve seen a scullery maid use a month’s pay to buy a book. Really, I’m not sure that working for your bread has anything to do with it.”

  He shook his head, glancing back at the stage, where a vigorous sword fight with wooden swords was underway. Impossible to explain to her his drive to gain money and power. How could she understand—she who had never wanted for food or shelter?

  He drew a breath. “I cannot let play distract me from my goals.”

  She was silent a moment, then said, “That sounds like a very dull life.”

  Gideon looked at her. Messalina’s gray eyes were wide and sincere.

  “What do you like?” He cleared his throat. “For entertainment?”

  “Books.” Her lips quirked, and she leaned a little closer to him, as if she were telling him a secret. He could see the swirling gray of her irises. “And not the instructive type. I like scandalous biographies and the tales travelers tell of strange foreign countries, and I love terrible tragedies with innocent heroines.”

  He could just imagine her curled in the corner of a library, reading her books. Something about the image drew him, and he was puzzled. It was a picture of Messalina not under his sway, not helping him to achieve his goals, but simply being.

  Simply content.

  He shook the thought away and said gruffly, “I suppose a few books in the library at Whispers wouldn’t be amiss.”

  Her smile was glorious. “Thank you.”

  He couldn’t stop himself asking, “Are books your only pleasure?”

  “Oh, of course not. I enjoy listening to music, though I have no talent myself, and my voice is quite atrocious, my sister assures me. I like the theater”—she nodded at the stage—“and opera and really most entertainments. Riding is a pleasure, as is strolling, especially if it involves shopping. I adore shopping, as I think you now know.” Her mouth twisted wryly. “After all, unlike you, I don’t need to earn my bread. My time is entirely free to do as I wish with. You must think me—my family and the aristocracy as a whole—such lazy beasts.”

  He pressed his lips together at that because the aristocracy were lazy beasts. He’d always known that.

  But he didn’t want to hurt her.

  “I think,” he said carefully, “that most of humanity is born to labor. A very few are born lucky and never know want. The latter often confuse luck with divine righteousness.”

  She said softly, “I’m not sure what you mean?”

  He looked at her and saw that her head was tilted inquisitively.

  He frowned. “Many of your peers think that they come by their birth—their lucky birth—because they are superior to the common man. That being born rich means they are more intelligent, better able to lead, and have a better sense of morality. That God or whatever divinity they believe in made them so and put them on the earth to rule over other, lesser people.” His lip curled slowly. “They are wrong. God does not crown kings. Mankind does.”

  Her lips had parted during his diatribe, and she looked at him now almost in wonder. “You are a philosopher, sir.”

  His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You mock me.”

  “No.” She laid her hand over his on the arm of the chair. “No, I am not mocking you. You yourself said that no man is better than another by right of birth. It seems to me, then, that the reverse must be true as well. No man is worse than any other because of his birth. And that means that you, Gideon Hawthorne, my uncle’s henchman, might be a philosopher every bit as intelligent as those who write learned books.”

  Her smile was teasing, but her words were serious.

  And they moved him.

  He turned his hand over so that he grasped her delicate fingers, raising them to brush his lips against her knuckles.

  Her fingers trembled. He had a sudden wish that they were somewhere else—somewhere private—where they could spend the evening discussing the books she read and the differing thoughts they had. Where he might, at the end of the night, taste the rose red of her lips.

  Instead of doing the work he needed to do tonight.

  But that was impossible, so he said, “I’m lucky to have you as my wife, madam.”

  She raised a brow. “I think luck had very little to do with it.”

  He was about to retort when the curtain of the box opened behind them and two people entered.

  The Duke of Windemere stood there, his smile disarmingly benevolent. “Ah, I was told I might find you here. The gossips are in full cry in the lobby.” The old man’s gaze speared Gideon. “I say, Hawthorne, didn’t your loving wife tell you to dress for the theater?”

  “I did not expect to see you this evening, Your Grace.” Gideon pulled his hand from Messalina’s grasp, curling his fingers into fists. He forced a smile to his lips. “And in my box. I’m honored, of course, but surprised you’re out so late. At your age, I mean.”

  Windemere didn’t like that at all. Any mention of his mortality reminded him of who would succeed him.

  The duke’s upper lip curled into a soundless snarl.

  Gideon rose to bend over the duchess’s hand. She was a meek little thing, the third of Windemere’s wives, and, like the others, childless, despite three years of marriage. “Your Grace. I trust you are in good health?”

  The duchess blushed. She couldn’t be more than two and twenty. “Oh, erm…yes. Quite. Thank you.”

  She darted a nervous look at her husband.

  The duke ignored her. He’d regained his aplomb and was smiling beatifically at Messalina. “My dear, I haven’t seen Lucretia since you and she traveled to the north. I would hate to lose touch with her. It’s my duty, as head of this family, to see she marries as well as you did.”

  Messalina sat still as stone at the clear threat.

  Gideon gritted his teeth, fighting an urge to lay the old man flat for distressing her. If they’d not been in the theater—

  Messalina stood suddenly and reached out to take the duchess’s hands. “Have you enjoyed the play, Aunt?”

  The duchess’s eyes grew wide. “I don’t know.”

  Messalina smiled. “Come sit by me.”

  She led the duchess to the far side of the box.

  Windemere turned to Gideon and said lower, “I’m surprised that you’ve found the time for such frivolity as the theater, Hawthorne. I thought I’d set you a task to occupy you, but if you find yourself free, perhaps I should give you another as well.”
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  Gideon raised an eyebrow. What game was the old man playing, discussing this matter in the open? In front of Messalina?

  “The subject isn’t in town yet,” he murmured. “And when he is, I will move slowly and carefully. I’m sure”—his words dripped with irony—“Your Grace would hate for me to be caught.”

  “Oh, naturally,” the duke said carelessly, his gaze drifting over Gideon’s shoulder.

  Gideon felt sweat start at the small of his back. He refused to look behind him to see if Messalina was paying attention to their discussion.

  The duke frowned as if disappointed. “Just as long as the job gets done.”

  “It will,” Gideon replied, staring the old man dead in the eye.

  “Good.” Windemere leaned close to him, washing Gideon’s face with the sour odor of his breath. “Because if you don’t, I shall destroy you so that you’ll never be received in society, my niece for a wife or no.”

  Gideon didn’t think his expression changed, but he must’ve made some sign.

  The duke smiled. “Oh yes, I know of your fantasy of obtaining titled business partners.” He cocked his head, watching Gideon. “You’re quite insane. Men of your ilk may serve us, may even run our businesses, but that doesn’t mean that they”—he gestured to the now-filled boxes—“would ever deign to sup with you. You ought to try being a secretary. With Messalina as your wife you may just be able to attain such a position. But not if I put a word in an ear or two. Do you understand?”

  Gideon snarled, leaning into the other man’s face. “This works both ways. I know you and I’ve proof. Do you understand?”

  Windemere’s nostrils flared as he whispered furiously, “How dare you. What proof do you have? I’ll—”

  “It’s always lovely to chat with you.” Messalina’s voice interrupted whatever the old man had been about to say. The ladies had risen and were drawing closer.

  Gideon merely smiled.

  Windemere cleared his throat. “I’m glad to see that you haven’t been distracted by marriage…and its delights.”

  Gideon lifted an eyebrow at this poor retort.

  But before he could comment, Messalina, staring her uncle in the eye, said, “There’s certainly more delight for some than others.”