When a Rogue Meets His Match Page 15

  “Naturally, madam,” the clerk replied. “Please let me summon Mr. Underwood himself.”

  Mr. Underwood was revealed to be a tiny man, several inches below five feet tall. He seemed to know at once what was needed and began ordering down bolts of cloth in a rainbow of colors.

  None of which Hawthorne liked.

  Messalina reined in her impatience and said to him, “Will you trust me to pick out the style and color?”

  His eyes narrowed, and for a moment she thought he would refuse. “If you wish.”

  “I do,” she said firmly, nodding to Mr. Underwood.

  The tailor bowed to Hawthorne and nodded at his assistant.

  The young man gestured to the back room. “If you’ll come this way, sir, we can note your measurements.”

  Hawthorne gave a rather desperate glance at Messalina before disappearing into the back room. The clerk followed closely, as if to make sure Hawthorne didn’t escape.

  “Now then, my dear madam, would you care for some tea?” Mr. Underwood asked.

  “Yes, indeed.” Messalina gratefully took a seat as the tailor rang for tea and another two assistants. “You see,” she said to Mr. Underwood, “my husband is used to quite simple clothing, without adornment or even color. He would like several new suits, something that will be fashionable and show him to be a man of the world. I fear, though, that he will simply reject anything he considers too ornamental.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Underwood replied with a confidential air. “Perhaps you will permit me some suggestions?”

  “Oh yes,” Messalina said, and sighed with pleasure as a hot cup of tea was handed to her by one of the assistants, with the remainder of the pot and the accessories placed on the low table before her. She couldn’t help noting that a small plate of tiny cakes was also included.

  Mr. Underwood contemplated the wall of silks, velvets, and brocades, muttering beneath his breath, and then clapped his hands for his assistants. The two younger men rushed to him and were given orders in a voice too low for Messalina to catch.

  The clerks hurried away and in a moment were back again, their arms piled high with cloth.

  Mr. Underwood selected a dark-gray velvet with just a hint of violet. He presented it to her. “Subtle, but elegant. I have a lovely pale-silver waistcoat embroidered in black, purple, and gold thread. It can be fitted to Mr. Hawthorne quite easily.”

  Hawthorne had said no purple, but really he couldn’t go altogether without embroidery. “That sounds exactly right,” Messalina decided happily.

  Over the next hour she picked out three more suits—a blue so dark it was almost black, a striking emerald green, and finally a deep bloodred silk shot through with ruby and purple threads. The last was rather pushing the boundaries of Hawthorne’s stated preferences, but Messalina simply couldn’t resist. The iridescent bloodred silk would look so dashing on him.

  Except, she suddenly realized, it was unlikely that she’d ever see Hawthorne in it. The suit would take weeks to finish. She might already be gone by the time he received it.

  She frowned at her empty teacup. The thought was rather disappointing. Perhaps if she stayed a little longer than a month…

  Hawthorne emerged from the back room, looking harassed. “I trust you are done?”

  “Of course.” Messalina rose and just had time to thank Mr. Underwood before she was hustled from the shop.

  Outside Hawthorne inhaled deeply. “Thank God for fresh air.”

  Messalina eyed the horse droppings in the middle of the street and said, “If one can call it fresh.”

  Hawthorne gave her one of his quick, devastating grins. “To a Londoner born and raised even the stink of horse shit smells like home.”

  “Hm,” Messalina hummed doubtfully as she took his offered arm. “I think I prefer the country air.”

  “That’s because you are not a Londoner,” Hawthorne said, turning off Bond Street.

  “I am too!”

  He glanced at her, his black eyes wicked and amused. “Where were you born?”

  “At Greycourt,” she answered.

  “Which is so far north it nearly trips into Scotland.” He looked irritatingly smug.

  “Yes, but we spent the winters in London, when I was quite young. I might be…” She trailed away because he was no longer paying attention to her. Instead he was staring ahead. “What is it?”

  “A hanging.” His voice was almost a whisper.

  And now she could see the crowd, coming closer, the sound of jeers and shouts growing louder. Above the milling heads was a man standing—or rather cowering—in the sledge. He must’ve been just condemned and on the way to Tyburn to be executed. For a great many people, such an awful event was as good as a fair.

  Messalina looked curiously at Hawthorne. “It’s a disgraceful sight, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t answer, his face blank and staring at the parade to the gallows.

  “Gideon?” she said softly.

  Abruptly he turned, as if he’d had to physically tear himself away from the spectacle. “Come, let’s go. We can walk to the carriage this way.”

  He strode briskly, almost as if he were running away from the clamor of the crowd. Messalina had to trot to keep up, glancing anxiously at Hawthorne. The carriage was on the other side of the hanging march. No matter which way they turned, eventually they would confront the madness.

  Hawthorne led her down a tiny alley and then turned into an even smaller lane. His muscles were taut beneath her fingers, his face grim and set. The shouts grew louder.

  Abruptly they met the parade at a crossroads.

  Hawthorne recoiled as if shot, pushing Messalina behind him.

  His broad back was heaving, and she saw sweat beading at the nape of his neck.

  She peered around him.

  Small, ragged boys were running alongside two dirty terriers, their faces nearly maniacal with glee.

  Messalina glanced worriedly at Hawthorne. “The crowd is thinning. We only have to wait a moment or two and the way will be clear.”

  She could see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. His face was harsh, his features drawn, the silver scar standing out vividly on his cheek. His hands were balled into trembling fists as if he’d explode at any moment.

  Anyone who didn’t know him would mistake his expression for something else. Something violent. Would think him remote and ruthless and awful when he wasn’t.

  She would’ve thought that a week ago.

  She laid her hand on his arm. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” He swallowed, his eyes still fixed. “Nothing. I dislike hangings.”

  Didn’t anyone with feelings? But this was more than simple dislike. She could see that clearly.

  “Come.” Hawthorne tugged on her hand, leading her across the now-cleared street, but Messalina hardly noticed, she was thinking so hard.

  What could cause such…revulsion?

  Chapter Nine

  The years passed and Bet grew into a fine young woman with laughing green eyes and a smile so bright it was like sunshine.

  On her eighteenth birthday her family gathered after their simple supper and her mother presented her with a small cake. Bet had just cut into the cake when there came a knock at the door.…

  —From Bet and the Fox

  Gideon felt a fool as they rode back to Whispers House. His hands still trembled slightly, and he was…disconcerted. A deep aversion churned in the pit of his gut, making him nauseous.

  He always had this—this revolting animal reaction—to the sight of a hanging parade. The simultaneous urge both to flee and to attack.

  To tear the bloody glee off the faces in that parade.

  He drew a calming breath and darted a glance at Messalina beside him.

  She was turned away, perhaps looking out the window. But she still clasped his hand, her fingers white and smooth against his darker, calloused fingertips. They shouldn’t fit together. Their skin was too different.

 
; He scowled. Did she think he needed to be comforted like a child? Because of a moment of anxiety?

  Fucking hanging parade.

  She said, not looking at him, “There was a stable hand at Greycourt where I grew up. He’d been in the war in the Colonies against the French. He was a big fellow, gentle with the horses. But when he heard a gunshot it was like all intelligence fled. He’d run to the back of the stables and stand there, just trembling. The fits might last an hour or more.”

  “I’ve not lost my intelligence,” Gideon snarled. “I’m not a half-wit.”

  “No,” Messalina said quietly. “Nor was the groom. He was—”

  The nausea rose again, acid in the back of his throat. “Stop. I have no wish to discuss this.”

  Messalina’s mouth snapped shut.

  They rode in silence for several minutes, Gideon still clutching her hand.

  He couldn’t make himself let go.

  Perhaps she’d never talk to him again. He’d barked at her, her feelings must be hurt.

  “You ought to throw a soiree,” Messalina said suddenly. “Or even a ball.”

  He blinked, his mind blank. “What?”

  “Yes, a ball.” She turned to him, her face alight with eager enthusiasm as the carriage came to a halt. “I’ve been thinking about this—your wish to enter society. If you want to show yourself equal to the gentlemen you wish to join your business—to prove to them that you are to be taken seriously—you need to invite them all to a proper ball. The ball of the season.”

  She was so excited, so certain, he didn’t like to burst the bubble of her plans. “In Whispers House? With the few servants I have and my lack of furniture?” He shook his head. “I don’t even know how to throw a ball.”

  “But I do,” she said, and then paused, her eyes wide and startled as if she herself was surprised by her assertion. “I do,” she repeated more slowly. “I can plan and throw a ball. I’ve done so for my uncle and my brother. And we’ve already ordered some furniture. We can buy more. We can furnish Whispers and hire servants.”

  “How long would all this take?” he asked, already calculating. “And how much money would I have to spend?”

  She ignored the question of money entirely.

  “Weeks,” she said, biting her lip, hesitating. Then she looked up at him, her beautiful gray eyes meeting his determinedly. “More than a month, if we do it properly, and we should. But the season doesn’t really start until late September. We have the time.” She swallowed, her face paling, though he couldn’t tell why, and said more slowly, “If we want to do it. If we want to take the time.”

  He searched her expression, trying to determine what had upset her. “Do you?” He lifted his hand to her cheek, not quite touching. “Do you want to take the time?”

  “I…” Her voice died as he trailed his thumb across her cheekbone. “Yes,” she said breathlessly. “Yes, I do.”

  He smiled at her—too wide, too savage—as something primitive rose inside him. “Beautiful girl. With you by my side I can do anything.”

  Messalina had never looked at him this way—soft and giving, her red lips parted.

  Those lips shone in the light as if she’d just licked them, and he wanted—

  The carriage door was wrenched open.

  Gideon had his hand on his knife when a bright-blue whirlwind tumbled into the carriage and threw herself into Messalina’s arms.

  “I’m so sorry!” Lucretia Greycourt cried. Her face was pressed against Messalina’s neck, muffling her voice. “We’ve failed you. I failed you.”

  Gideon looked out of the carriage and into two sets of familiar gray eyes.

  Quintus Greycourt frowned and glanced away, but the eldest brother held his gaze.

  “Hawthorne,” Julian Greycourt drawled, “what in hell have you done to my sister?”

  * * *

  Messalina wrapped her arms around Lucretia and hugged her tightly. She was shocked—startled—but so very glad that her sister had finally arrived. She hadn’t seen Lucretia since Hawthorne had forced Messalina into his carriage over a fortnight ago. Since then…

  Well, since then everything had changed.

  “Greycourt,” Gideon said. The sound of his voice—mocking and low—made her glance apprehensively at him. He was grinning in an entirely untrustworthy manner as he said to Julian, “Come to wish us felicitations on our marriage?”

  “Sod you,” Quintus growled, and had Julian not held him back, he would’ve stepped forward.

  Julian’s gray eyes were narrowed, and Messalina recognized the subtle signs of his temper rising. Julian might seem detached most of the time, but when his anger was engaged he could strike like a snake—fast and deadly.

  Which was the reason she’d instructed Lucretia to find him when Gideon had kidnapped her.

  Messalina hastily said, “Perhaps this is a discussion better had inside, where there aren’t so many interested eyes.”

  “Of course,” Gideon replied. He leaned out of the carriage and jerked his chin at Reggie, standing near the steps to Whispers House.

  The big man nodded and disappeared inside.

  For a moment Messalina thought Julian would challenge Gideon. Her brothers stood in front of the carriage door, effectively blocking them from descending. But then Julian stepped back silently, and Quintus grunted and shadowed him.

  Gideon ignored the moment, jumping down and then turning to help Lucretia from the carriage.

  Lucretia, however, glared at him and hopped down herself.

  Gideon met Messalina’s eyes and raised his brows as if asking if she’d allow him to help her.

  She took a breath and put her hand in his, aware all the time that Julian and Quintus were watching closely.

  Her brothers and Lucretia fell into step behind Gideon and Messalina as they entered Whispers House. Messalina felt conflicted. Just days ago, she would’ve welcomed Julian’s interference.

  But now—?

  Now she didn’t know what she wanted.

  She’d been on the cusp of kissing Gideon when Lucretia had interrupted them. Even now, Messalina couldn’t look at Gideon for fear that heat would rise in her face and her cheeks’ coloring would betray her. But she was aware of him all the same. Of his lean form prowling beside her. Of the muscles of his forearm shifting beneath her fingers.

  Of the heat of his body.

  They climbed the stairs to the second floor and the sitting room—such as it was. The only pieces of furniture in the room were a pale-blue settee with two gilt-armed chairs and a little table to the side. Messalina had bought all four pieces ready-made.

  Thank goodness.

  She led Lucretia to the settee, watching from the corner of her eye as her eldest brother stalked around the empty sitting room. He looked bored, but Messalina had no doubt that Julian was sizing Gideon up.

  Waiting to strike.

  Gideon, for his part, was standing to the side and just in front of Messalina in a none-too-subtle guarding position. His hands hovered near the pockets of his coat, and she wondered if he kept a knife there. And then she scoffed at herself and wondered how many knives he kept on his person.

  The tension in the room from the men was thick. Awful. She wanted to shout at them. They were acting as if they were dogs about to fight over a bone—and really, she was so much more than a mere bone.

  “I’m sorry I was so long in bringing Julian,” Lucretia murmured. “When Mr. Hawthorne took you out of our carriage and into his, I only waited until you were out of sight before I told our driver to make haste to Adders Hall.”

  Messalina nodded, squeezing Lucretia’s hand.

  Quintus had gone to lounge by the fireplace as if he was unconcerned. But she noticed that the hand not on the mantel was balled at his side.

  “It was ages traveling to Adders,” Lucretia said. Her mouth was thin and unsmiling. Lucretia was usually sly and gleeful, not this sorrowful girl, her gray eyes filled with tears. “And then when I arrived I
could find only Quintus, quite in his cups.”

  Quintus pressed his lips together, turning his face away from Lucretia’s glare. His wildly curling shoulder-length hair swung forward, hiding his eyes. Had he even put a comb to it today? He wore a beautifully tailored bottle-green silk suit, the material fitted expertly over his broad shoulders, but she could see from here that there were stains at the hem.

  Lucretia shook her head at Quintus and looked back at Messalina. “He was so drunk I couldn’t get any intelligible words from him for an hour. When I finally found Julian, we set off at once, but then the roads were muddy and we became bogged down…” She inhaled. “Perhaps I should’ve forgotten Julian and Quintus and made my way to London by myself from the start. If I had I could’ve somehow helped—”

  Messalina interrupted, “There was nothing you could’ve done. Uncle Augustus had already brought the bishop to Windemere House when we arrived. He had a special license.” She pressed her lips together. On the day of her wedding she would’ve welcomed help with open arms. Now…She glanced at her husband’s back. It was stiff and set. “I don’t know if anyone could’ve prevented the marriage.”

  “Did you try?” Julian asked in his velvet-soft voice. Sometimes Messalina wondered if he had practiced in order to attain a tone both melodious and threatening at the same time.

  How dare he?

  She glared at her older brother. He flanked the other side of the fireplace now, his arm, clad in silver brocade silk, propped on the mantel. Unlike Quintus he was meticulously turned out. His black hair was severely pulled back into a long, tightly braided queue. The ever-present pearl drop hung in his left ear, the gem matching the color of his Greycourt-gray eyes. Julian was handsome, she supposed, but he was cold. Ice cold, even with his family.

  Perhaps especially with his family.

  “Why do you ask, darling brother?” Messalina smiled. “After all, you don’t appear to care one way or the other.”

  Quintus straightened from the mantel even as Julian murmured, “Could you have not stalled for a time? Even a day or two? You seem to have arrived at Windemere House and without complaint married the day after. And now you’re busy making a happy home in this near-empty house in an unfashionably dingy neighborhood.”