When a Rogue Meets His Match Page 14

  “Mmm.” His sensuous lips twisted as if he were confused. “There is something about you that draws me, makes me lose my sense, my intelligence, my very control.” He inhaled. “You are like an exotic poison in my blood—one that should kill me, but instead keeps me alive. I truly do not know if I can live without you.”

  Her lips parted in wonder. Did he know what he was saying?

  She didn’t think before she leaned down and kissed him.

  His mouth was warm and sensuously soft, as if the hot water he soaked in had infused his flesh and relaxed all his muscles.

  He let her lead.

  She tilted her head, suddenly breathless. She’d kissed a man or two before, but she’d never initiated the embrace. The feeling of control made her giddy with possibilities.

  Slowly she ran the very tip of her tongue over his bottom lip, feeling for herself the wicked curve. His lips parted passively as if he waited for something.

  It took her a second, and then she was licking into his mouth, tasting the smoky coffee he’d drunk, dancing dangerously with his tongue.

  She gasped, inhaling the breath in the thin space between them, and reluctantly pulled away.

  His eyes were hooded, sleepy and gleaming wickedly, and his voice when he spoke was a dark rasp. “If you stay, I may break our pact to wait a full month before taking you to bed. The decision is yours.”

  She was tempted—so very tempted.

  But something within her still hesitated. Did she truly know Gideon yet? Could she trust him?

  It seemed somehow that she ought to trust him before letting him bed her.

  Or perhaps she was simply making excuses for her trepidation.

  “I’ll leave then,” Messalina said, shocked at how husky her voice was.

  “How responsible,” he mocked gently.

  Already she was regretting her decision, but she rose from the chair, her knees only a bit wobbly as she walked to the door.

  She couldn’t help one last glance over her shoulder as she closed the door.

  Hawthorne’s head was tilted back, his eyes closed, and his right hand moved beneath the water.

  * * *

  It was early afternoon by the time Gideon rapped on Blackwell’s door. His business partner lived in a modest house, one of a row in a solidly respectable part of London.

  After a moment’s wait, Blackwell’s small maid opened the door.

  She looked up at Gideon and bobbed a curtsy. “Will you come in, Mr. Hawthorne? Mr. Blackwell is in his study.”

  She didn’t wait for Gideon’s reply, but turned to lead him into the house.

  Gideon followed her past a hall table and mirror and to the door of the study.

  “Mr. Hawthorne to see you, sir,” the maid announced as she opened the door.

  Blackwell looked up from a desk covered in papers. He immediately put down his pen and took off his small square reading glasses. “Hawthorne! I was beginning to think you’d never come around to see me.”

  Gideon raised his eyebrows as he threw his tricorne on a small table near the door. “I just saw you at the theater last night.”

  “Indeed, but we couldn’t discuss business there—even if you’d wanted to. Not with your lovely wife in attendance.” Blackwell tilted his head. “How exactly did you manage to marry a duke’s niece?”

  Gideon sat in a chair in front of the desk. “Not a subject I’m prepared to discuss.”

  Blackwell threw up his hands in feigned disgust. “Of course not. You’ll just continue to be a cypher, even to your poor, beleaguered partner.”

  Gideon snorted. “Why would I confess to such a gossip? You’re no better than an old woman.”

  Blackwell turned to the little maid, who had reappeared with a tray of tea and cakes. “Molly, do you hear how your master is slandered?”

  But Molly merely shook her head and set down the tea tray on the crowded desk before leaving again.

  Blackwell picked up the teapot and began pouring. “Well, at least you now have a wife to keep you company in that big house of yours.”

  “Not only a wife,” Gideon said, taking the teacup and pouring milk into it himself. He and Blackwell didn’t stand on ceremony. “I plan to install Messalina’s younger sister when she comes to town.”

  “Oh?” Blackwell sat back, munching on one of the small cakes. He swallowed. “Is she in the schoolroom?”

  “Not at all,” Gideon replied, amused he was now gossiping. “Lucretia is…” He squinted, trying to think. “…two and twenty? No. Three and twenty.”

  “Then she’ll probably marry and move away soon,” Blackwell mused. “Unless she’s terribly plain.”

  “She’s almost as lovely as her sister,” Gideon said objectively. He’d paid far less attention to Lucretia than Messalina. “And she has just as large a dowry as her sister, too. It’s not for lack of suitors that she’s not married yet.”

  Blackwell leaned forward, sounding intrigued. “Then what is it?”

  Gideon shrugged. “The Greycourt women are a stubborn—and choosy—lot. I think Lucretia simply hasn’t seen the right gentleman yet.”

  “Oh dear. Mrs. Hawthorne’s eyesight must be impaired,” Blackwell said sadly.

  Gideon looked at him suspiciously. “Why?”

  His partner grinned at him. “Because out of all the men in London she chose you, my friend.”

  He chuckled along with Blackwell, but Gideon was aware that the opposite was true: Messalina hadn’t chosen him. Had she the choice, she’d have rejected him. Would a gentleman such as Blackwell have felt guilt for forcing a lady to marry him? Yes. No doubt at all.

  But Gideon couldn’t bring himself to regret forcing Messalina to marry him. She was softening, day by day, hour by hour. If, in the end, she was truly content with their marriage, perhaps even happy, what did it matter that she hadn’t started that way? It was merely a small quibble.

  And her brother’s murder? Just this morning Pea had presented Gideon with a short list of Julian Greycourt’s London haunts. When the man finally arrived, Gideon would be more than ready to do the deed. A knife slipped between Greycourt’s ribs and it would be all over.

  He shifted at the thought, putting his teacup down. “What was it you needed to talk to me about?”

  “Mmf.” Blackwell had just taken a large bite, and he waved his hand to indicate wait before he swallowed. “The accounting.” He started lifting papers, evidently searching for the ledger to their business. “Ah, here it is.”

  Blackwell hauled out an enormous leather-bound book. He bent his head, turning pages until he came to the section he wanted. Blackwell swiveled the volume toward Gideon, tapping a figure in one of the long columns. “See here.”

  Gideon pushed the ledger back. “You know I don’t do numbers well.” He felt an angry flush heat his cheeks. He didn’t like admitting it, even to Blackwell, who already knew.

  “All right.” Blackwell took the book good-naturedly. “I’ll tell you, then. The Nightingale mine is doing very, very well for us. Even better than Last Man’s Hope mine—we’ve made back nearly double what we invested in the mine.” Blackwell leaned forward as if there were listening ears in his house. “There are rumors—rumors, but ones I have reason to believe—that old man Marshall is going to sell all three of his mines. We need investors, Gideon!”

  “Which is why I’m seeking rich men to sell shares to.” Gideon sighed. “It’s proving a more tedious job than I first thought.”

  Blackwell nodded sympathetically. “Rich men are loath to part with their moneys even if it is in service of making more money.”

  Gideon shook his head. “I still think you need to be in Newcastle to manage the mines—especially if it’s now to be more than two. I dislike managers I do not know who are so far away. What’s to stop them from pocketing our money and recording a smaller revenue?”

  “Mathers and Barkley are good men. I picked them out myself, and I make the trip north to see them and the mines at least o
nce a month. Besides, who would manage our accounts in London?” Blackwell raised his eyebrows. “You told me that your man Keys wasn’t ready to take over the ledgers.”

  “No, but he will be soon,” Gideon said. “Keys is studying hard with a tutor I found for him.”

  “Is he?” Blackwell sat back in his chair, smiling. “That sounds like an extravagance, hiring a private tutor for a boy off the streets. It doesn’t seem like something you’d do.”

  Gideon glanced at him sharply. “It’s an investment. When Keys can work the accounts for us, he’ll be more valuable for the business and you can take over other duties.”

  “Of course.” Blackwell held up his hands as if in surrender. “Your championing of the lad is very kind.”

  Gideon grunted. Kindness was a weakness. “Is that all the business you have to discuss?”

  Blackwell seemed surprised. “Yes, it is. Are you leaving already?”

  “I’ve other matters to attend to.” Gideon rose and picked up his tricorne. “Thank you for the tea.”

  Blackwell had risen as well. “You’re more than welcome.” He hesitated. “You know we can meet for more than simply business. I like to think we are friends.”

  Blackwell held out his hand.

  Gideon eyed the hand. Blackwell had always been more open—more congenial—than Gideon himself. Still…“As do I.”

  He shook Blackwell’s offered hand and had turned to the study door when he remembered something. “Did you have any trouble returning home from the theater last night?”

  Blackwell’s eyebrows winged up. “No. Why do you ask?”

  “Because Messalina and I were attacked,” Gideon said grimly.

  “What?” Blackwell stared. “Good God. The Covent Garden footpads are getting more and more bold. Did they take anything off you?”

  Gideon gave his partner a look. “Of course not. Nor did they ask.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The footpads—if such they were—never demanded my purse or Mrs. Hawthorne’s jewelry,” Gideon replied.

  “You think they weren’t footpads at all.” Blackwell frowned, dropping into his chair again.

  Gideon nodded. “Have we stepped on any toes with our business?”

  “Not that I can think of.” Blackwell waved a dismissive hand. “Besides, most of our business is up north. Have you thought about your own affairs? After all, you’ve emptied many a gambler’s pocket of his last penny. Many might blame you for that instead of their own ill luck.”

  Gideon grunted. “Maybe.”

  “In any case,” Blackwell said, “I trust you will be more careful in the future. And for God’s sake, put a guard on Mrs. Hawthorne. I would hate to see that lovely lady hurt.”

  “Already have,” Gideon growled irritably. He didn’t like the insinuation that he couldn’t take care of Messalina.

  “Well, good,” Blackwell said mildly. “Shall I see you to the door?”

  “No.” Gideon nodded curtly and left.

  Outside the London street was a-bustle with street traffic. An elegantly dressed gentleman argued from his open carriage with a dray driver blocking his way. The various people on foot paid them no mind, streaming around the two vehicles.

  A dog barked, scampering next to a ragged band of boys, and Gideon was reminded of the puppy and Messalina. He had to put more guards on her.

  She would hate that. Would probably think he was merely curtailing her freedom.

  On that gloomy thought Gideon glanced up and realized that his musing had brought him all the way home. He was admitted into Whispers by Reggie, looking nearly respectable in a new suit.

  “Where is Mrs. Hawthorne?” he asked the man as he handed him his hat.

  “In the kitchens, guv,” Reggie replied. “Went back there maybe ’alf an ’our ago.”

  Gideon nodded. “From now on, double the guard on her when she leaves the house.”

  Reggie frowned. “It’s those footpads from last night, innit? They’ve got you spooked.”

  “I don’t know about spooked,” Gideon muttered. “But I certainly don’t want last night to be repeated. And Reggie?”

  “Aye, guv?”

  “Make sure the boys you have guarding her can do so discreetly. She’s not going to like it.”

  “Right you are, guv.”

  Gideon grunted and made his way back to the kitchens. Hopefully Messalina hadn’t decided to dismiss Hicks, because the boy really didn’t have anywhere else to go.

  As he neared the kitchens, he heard Messalina’s bright, feminine laughter. The mere sound had him hard in seconds. He closed his eyes, leaning against the passageway to the kitchens. Only yards away was his bathing room, where this morning she’d run her cool hands over his shoulders and back.

  Where he’d taken his cock in hand only moments later, thinking of her.

  He took a deep breath to steady himself. Then he silently entered the big room and saw Messalina crouching in the middle of the kitchen flagstones, Hicks and the scullery maid to one side, Sam on the other, and the puppy sprawled upside down in front of them. The animal was attempting to wrest a length of string from Messalina’s hands.

  Messalina glanced up and immediately hid both her hands behind her back like a guilty child. “Hawthorne! I didn’t expect you home yet.”

  “No?” He strolled into the kitchens, suppressing a smile. She’d obviously grown fond of the puppy and just as obviously didn’t want him to know. “I suppose you were discussing the menus with Hicks?”

  “Well…” Messalina looked guiltily at the cook while the puppy attempted to scramble onto her lap. It slipped and fell back to the floor with a little yelp.

  Sam gasped.

  Hicks and the scullery maid looked worried.

  And Messalina snatched up the puppy.

  Gideon raised his eyebrows and waited patiently.

  “Oh, fine!” Messalina muttered, looking as if Gideon were crowing in victory. “I’ve decided to keep Daisy.”

  Sam whooped.

  Hicks and the scullery maid smiled.

  And Gideon said faintly, “Daisy?”

  * * *

  “Daisy is a perfectly good name for a dog,” Messalina said an hour later as she and Hawthorne strolled along a lane just off Bond Street. They’d been bickering about the name for almost the entirety of that time, and Messalina felt rather lighthearted.

  “Daisy is a perfectly good name for a cat. A female cat,” Hawthorne replied. “It’s humiliating for a male dog. Even a male lapdog.”

  Messalina repressed a smile. “I’m not changing his name.”

  Hawthorne sighed heavily, as if Daisy’s name personally offended him, but changed the subject. “What is wrong with the tailor I’ve always used?”

  Messalina refrained with great effort from rolling her eyes. She should’ve known that convincing Hawthorne to see a proper tailor wouldn’t be as easy as it had seemed last night at the theater.

  She glanced at him. Her husband wore an irritable frown, which should’ve made his face quite ugly. Or at least unattractive.

  Alas.

  She looked quickly away as if doing so could erase the memory of those devilish furrowed brows, the scar, just visible in the sunlight, and his diabolical lips frowning at one corner. It occurred to her that most women would find it near impossible to deny him anything.

  Well, she wasn’t most women.

  “Your former tailor,” she replied, “was undoubtedly a competent man, but we need far more than mere competence.”

  “Hmm” was his only rejoinder.

  Messalina pressed her lips together. They walked with her hand tucked into the crook of his arm, but other than that he seemed to be trying not to touch her, and she felt…

  Well. Not disappointed, naturally. It wasn’t as if she wanted him to touch her. Of course not.

  Except…

  She stole another glance at him.

  Unfortunately, his lips remained ridiculously beautiful
. She couldn’t keep from remembering—over and over—his gleaming skin in the bath. The kiss they’d shared. She’d never been so overwhelmed, her body surrendering without her consent to his tongue, his taste, his passion.

  And then there was the sight of his hand moving under the water as she’d left the room. She couldn’t get the picture out of her mind. It haunted her—Gideon, his head tilted back, his strong neck limned by the candlelight, and that moving arm…

  Had he been touching himself? Did he spend like that?

  Did he imagine her?

  Messalina felt the heat climb in her cheeks.

  She had to stop thinking about Hawthorne. Had to somehow forget that too-short touch that had promised so much more. She was leaving him. Although—a small voice inside her head reminded her—she would have to lie with him before she could gain her moneys.

  What would those long legs, those broad shoulders look like without the veil of soapy water?

  Oh, good God.

  “Here we are!” she chirped in a voice much too loud for the day.

  Hawthorne shot her an odd glance as he opened the door for her.

  She ignored his look, sailing beneath an extremely discreet sign reading merely Underwood. The shop was deceptively plain—only two chairs before a low table and a counter in the back. Bolts of jewel-colored cloth were displayed on the wall. Rumor had it that this shop filled the clothing needs of more than one royal gentleman.

  “Good afternoon,” the young man standing behind the counter said. He was dressed in a dull gray suit exquisitely fitted to his slender frame. “May I help you?”

  His gaze moved discreetly between Messalina—dressed in the height of fashion in a cream day frock covered in yellow, blue, and red embroidered birds—to Hawthorne, who was of course in his black suit. The clerk was obviously of the highest sort, for he made no comment or assumptions. Messalina had a small moment of mirth when she realized he might think she was outfitting her lover. After all, she’d heard there were ladies who did such.

  “I need a suit,” Hawthorne replied without grace.

  “Several suits,” Messalina cut in. “My husband, Mr. Hawthorne, finds he needs something more…”—both she and the clerk assessed Hawthorne’s attire, and she smiled brightly as the clerk gave her a look of understanding—“appropriate.”