When a Rogue Meets His Match Page 16

  In front of her Gideon growled, his fingers resting on his coat pocket.

  Quintus was watching Gideon, his head lowered, his hands clenching and unclenching. “He’s Uncle’s paid bully, Messy. He’s left men drenched in blood. There are rumors he’s killed.”

  Messalina felt her face suffuse with heat. She rose. “Do you really think I had any choice once I was at Windemere House?”

  She glanced anxiously at Gideon. He knew already how she had felt when they first wed, but after the kiss this morning and the almost-kiss in the carriage, it seemed a betrayal to discuss it in front of her brothers.

  “I think,” Julian enunciated with slow, cut-glass accents, “that I am disappointed in how easily you submitted to a—”

  “Watch your words,” Gideon snapped.

  “You ass,” Messalina said at the same time to Julian. “You pompous, selfish ass. I disappoint you? When have you done anything for me or Lucretia or even Quintus in the last decade? Have you thought to ask Lucretia if she has any suitors? Have you taken Quintus’s bottles and bottles of wine away from him? Have you ever inquired of me how my life is? No,” she said, dodging around Gideon and advancing on Julian. “All you’ve done is obsess over Uncle Augustus’s doings.”

  Julian simply looked at her. “With good reason, it seems.”

  But Messalina wasn’t done. She’d lived under the dictates of Greycourt men for years and years, had been forced into marriage against her will, and now was being blamed for it. She was sick of everything. “You failed Lucretia, you failed Quintus, you failed me, Brother, and before that you failed Aurelia.”

  Behind her Lucretia gasped.

  Julian merely blinked. Slow as a lizard. Had he any heart at all? Or had years of living with their uncle as a youth frozen any emotions he once had?

  In contrast Quintus went white and strode forward to grip her arm. “Don’t say her name.”

  “Quinn,” Julian murmured softly in warning.

  Just as Gideon shoved Quintus away from Messalina. “Keep your hands off my wife.”

  And with that Quintus swung at Gideon.

  * * *

  Gideon braced himself as Quintus Greycourt swung a meaty fist at his head. Quintus was broader and taller than Gideon, but he was an aristocrat.

  Not a fighter born.

  Gideon swiveled aside, the blow landing on his shoulder instead of his cheek. Gideon continued his turn so that he was sideways to the other man’s chest. Then he delivered a short, sharp elbow jab to the aristocrat’s stomach.

  Quintus oofed, reflexively curling inward. The man was determined, however. He straightened almost immediately, his lips pulled back from his teeth, and stomped on Gideon’s foot before driving his fist into Gideon’s side.

  Gideon swore, rage blooming in his chest. He shook his knife from his sleeve and swiped at the aristocrat, fast and dirty, catching Quintus’s forearm. Droplets of blood spattered to the floor.

  From the corner of his eye he saw Julian Greycourt advancing.

  If the elder Greycourt joined the fight Gideon could end all of this now. A simple thrust to the gut. A twist upward. The excuse that Julian had attacked first.

  In only seconds he could kill Greycourt and gain all the dowry money at once.

  Messalina screamed, the sound cutting through Gideon’s brain and jerking him from his thoughts. He couldn’t kill her brother in front of her.

  He couldn’t hurt her.

  Greycourt caught Gideon’s left arm.

  Gideon swiftly pressed the point of his blade against Quintus’s belly with his right.

  Both brothers froze.

  Gideon smiled into Quintus’s face and whispered so low no one could hear but the three of them, “Your waistcoat may be embroidered in gold, but I assure you it’ll prove no more barrier to my knife than worn wool. Your belly will spill your entrails just as fast as any pauper’s in St Giles.”

  Quintus hissed at him, his pale-gray eyes raging.

  “Pax, Hawthorne,” Julian Greycourt murmured. “I hardly think my sister would enjoy you spilling our brother’s blood in her sitting room.”

  No, she wouldn’t—which was why Gideon had no intention of injuring either brother further.

  Not that he need tell either Greycourt or Quintus that.

  “What makes you think he cares anything for Messalina?” Quintus muttered.

  “What makes you think I don’t?” Gideon arched a brow.

  Quintus’s eyes narrowed.

  Gideon smiled mockingly and pressed his knife more firmly into the man’s waistcoat, slicing the pretty embroidery. “I’ll stand down if you give me your word not to continue your attack.”

  For a moment it looked as if Quintus would decline the offer of a truce.

  Then Julian placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder, whispering, “Quinn.”

  Quintus flung himself away with a snarl.

  Gideon waited a moment and then palmed his knife, sliding it smoothly up his sleeve and into the sheath strapped to his forearm. He raised his voice, keeping his gaze on the two men. “Darling wife, will you take your sister to perhaps find some refreshment?”

  “Not unless both you and my brothers swear that you’ll not start fighting again,” Messalina replied, sounding angry.

  Stubborn woman. Gideon sighed. “Certainly. I swear not to lay hand on either Quintus or Greycourt.” Of course, he could kill both men without ever touching them…

  Julian eyed him as if aware of Gideon’s omission. “I swear not to fight as well.”

  Everyone looked at Quintus.

  He scowled. “Fine. Yes, I swear to you, dear sister, not to murder your husband.”

  Messalina lifted her chin, but she couldn’t quite seem to hide the hurt on her face at her brother’s sarcastic tone.

  Gideon felt a violent urge to force Quintus to apologize to his sister.

  “Very well,” Messalina murmured. “We’ll retire to the dining room.”

  She escorted Lucretia from the room.

  There was a moment of silence after the ladies left.

  Then Gideon took a deep breath and gestured to the settee. “Please.”

  Quintus turned his face aside, but Greycourt sat and glanced around the otherwise empty room. “Your house seems to lack a basic level of livability, Hawthorne.”

  Gideon shrugged. “Messalina is enjoying decorating and furnishing it.”

  That prompted a snort from Greycourt. “Cut line, Hawthorne. What is your game?”

  Gideon examined him. Julian Greycourt was a nobleman, born to luxury and power, yet stymied by his uncle, who held the family purse strings. Most aristocrats in his position would’ve cozied up to the Duke of Windemere and made sure to ingratiate themselves with the man.

  Not Greycourt.

  When Gideon had first started service with the duke, Greycourt had lived with his uncle. He’d been a silent, watchful shadow in Windemere House. When he turned one and twenty, Greycourt had either received permission to escape or he’d gathered the nerve to flee. In either case, in the years since he’d been frigidly polite with his uncle—and at the same time had made no bones of the fact that he loathed the man. That took either bravery or recklessness.

  In other circumstances Gideon might have liked the man.

  Might.

  “I would think my game—as you call it—was obvious.” Gideon spread his hands as if showing that he held no weapons—which was patently false, since his knife was still up his sleeve. “Riches and power.”

  His gaze moved between Greycourt, sitting still and watchful on the settee, and Quintus, prowling about the room. The latter’s eyes were shadowed and puffy in his red face. Did Windemere want Greycourt dead so the title would go to Quintus instead? Perhaps he thought Quintus with his rage and drinking would be a more malleable heir?

  But to what end?

  “You’re frank,” Quintus growled.

  Gideon arched an eyebrow at the younger man. “Would you prefer I l
ie?”

  Quintus barked a laugh. “Perhaps, since we’re talking about my sister.”

  Interesting. Did Quintus actually care for Messalina?

  Gideon glanced at Greycourt. The elder brother certainly didn’t seem to have any real affection for his family. His concern had always appeared to be more about besting his uncle in whatever obscure game they played.

  But then Greycourt was an icy fish.

  “You think I should tell you I married her for love,” Gideon said, ignoring Greycourt’s soft snort to address Quintus. “But since you know that’s not the case, I think such protestations would only make you scorn me the more.”

  “I doubt we could scorn you any more than we already do,” Greycourt replied, his thin lips stretched in a humorless smile.

  Gideon returned the smile—with teeth. “Oh, Brother, you wound me.”

  Quintus’s nostrils flared, and he started for Gideon, but Greycourt put his hand up, halting his brother in his tracks. Julian stared stonily at Gideon. “I will have this marriage annulled.”

  Gideon tutted, making very sure that his expression didn’t change. “And how would you do that when we were married by a bishop and with the Duke of Windemere’s blessing?” He shook his head gently. “We’ve been married nearly a week. I’m afraid the time is quite past when you could’ve interfered.”

  Quintus paled at his oblique reference to the marriage bed. Gideon was reluctantly impressed by his obvious worry for Messalina.

  But Greycourt had gone silent, his snakelike eyes narrowed and watchful, and Gideon felt a thrill of alarm. Did the other man suspect his lie? If he questioned Messalina, all Gideon’s plans would crumple to ash like a paper house set alight.

  Julian could have their marriage annulled if he realized it hadn’t been consummated, and then? Gideon would lose everything. The money. The chance to prove himself equal to any aristocrat.

  And Messalina. Sweet, stubborn, far-too-intelligent Messalina.

  He couldn’t let that happen.

  Gideon had to bed Messalina tonight.

  Chapter Ten

  Before her father could warn her, Bet had run to the door and opened it. There stood the fox, wearing a fine plumed hat and leaning on an ebony stick.

  “Good evening,” said the fox, tipping his hat with a foxy grin. “I believe you are my intended.…”

  —From Bet and the Fox

  “I do hope the cook has made something besides meat pies today,” Messalina muttered to herself as she escorted Lucretia into the dining room. There really wasn’t anywhere else to sit in the house, since the sitting room was occupied by the men. Well. Besides the bedroom.

  Lucretia looked alarmed at her statement. “Your cook only makes meat pies?”

  “Erm…yes.”

  “But…but what about sweet things?” Lucretia asked as if she were on the point of starvation. “Cakes or pies or jellies or tarts…?”

  Oh dear. Lucretia had always loved her tarts.

  “I’m afraid not. But he is learning,” Messalina added hastily. “Just yesterday he made shirred eggs. By himself. I just need to find a tutor for him. Well, and hire more servants.”

  Lucretia was muttering about “no scones for breakfast.” But she stopped at her sister’s words and stared. “No servants?”

  “I’m afraid not,” Messalina replied.

  “Not at all?”

  “There’s a scullery maid?” Messalina heard her own voice go up in an apologetic, questioning way. She cleared her throat. “Oh, and Gideon’s men, of course.”

  Lucretia’s eyes narrowed, and Messalina suddenly remembered how very cunning her sister had been with her revenges as a child. “Why are you suddenly calling that man by his Christian name? I thought you loathed Mr. Hawthorne. I brought our brothers here to save you.”

  “And I’m grateful,” Messalina said sincerely. “You did exactly what I wanted you to do. But the marriage is done now.” She added thoughtfully, “I’m not sure I can be saved from it.”

  “There must be a way,” Lucretia replied stubbornly. “We’ve plotted so long to escape.”

  “Hush.” Messalina glanced at the door warily. It would hardly do for the men to overhear them. She looked back at Lucretia’s expectant face and sighed. “I’ve an idea, but we must wait a bit. I’ll have a portion of my dowry soon, and then we can leave England.”

  The words brought a pang to her heart. Only this afternoon she’d promised to help Gideon.

  Lucretia frowned. “Why would Hawthorne give you that much money?”

  She wasn’t about to tell her younger sister exactly how she would get her dowry. “Just leave it to me. Have I told you that I’ve been preparing a room for you?”

  That successfully diverted Lucretia. She gasped. “A room? My room? Whatever do you mean?”

  “I’ve a room here already furnished for you—well, mostly furnished—but there’s definitely a bed. Your room was one of the conditions I made with Hawthorne.” Messalina smiled, glad both to deliver good news and that she’d bought Lucretia’s bed already made. “Before I married him, I told Gideon that I wanted you to live here with me, and he agreed. You need never live with Uncle Augustus again.”

  Instead of looking happy, Lucretia looked even more concerned.

  Messalina took her hand. “I thought you’d like the notion?”

  “I do,” Lucretia said, squeezing her hand. “Of course I do. You know I’d much rather live anywhere but with Uncle Augustus. But I hate that you had to marry that…that man in order to procure us a home.”

  “He’s not quite as awful as I first thought him.” Messalina felt guilty heat rise in her cheeks as she remembered his bath this morning and the passionate kiss. It wasn’t loathing she’d felt when he’d smiled at her.

  It was longing.

  She swallowed, chasing the thought away, and watched Lucretia’s expressive face.

  Her sister was eyeing her oddly now. Lucretia leaned forward, peering suspiciously at her. “He’s drugged you.”

  Messalina groaned. “Lucretia…”

  “No, but you might not even know that you’d been drugged,” her sister said with a perfectly straight face. “I’ve heard of concoctions that can sway a person’s thoughts, muddy them, and make the person more susceptible to suggestions.”

  Messalina nearly gaped. “Where have you heard of such things?”

  Lucretia looked shifty. “Here and there.”

  “I suppose at genteel afternoon teas.”

  “No need to be sarcastic!”

  Messalina shook her head. “In any case, I assure you I haven’t been drugged by my husband.”

  The suspicion didn’t leave Lucretia’s face. “But just a fortnight ago when he snatched you from our carriage you were afraid of him. I know you were, Messalina. How can your regard for him have changed in so little time?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know, but I think it truly has.” She searched for the right words to explain. “At least I’m no longer afraid of him. Gideon is much more…complicated than I realized. He’s been almost kind since we came to Whispers.”

  Lucretia squinted. “Kind.”

  “He agreed to let you live here,” Messalina defended Gideon—and perhaps herself as well. “He agreed to let me furnish the house and to invite whomever I please to visit.”

  A look of understanding suddenly dawned on Lucretia’s face, and she said quite kindly, “Is it the bedchamber? Has he won you over with…erm…his talented bedsport?”

  Talented bedsport? Messalina’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “Well, he is quite good-looking.” Her sister shrugged and said thoughtfully, “I mean, those hands and his shoulders and that mouth. I’ve overheard matrons discussing gentlemen using their mouths to—”

  “Lucretia!” Messalina felt heat suffuse her face as she imagined just what Gideon could do to her with his tongue and lips. She took a deep breath. “As it happens, Gideon agreed to postpone our wedding night.”
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  Lucretia blinked. “You mean…?”

  “I mean that although we share a room and a bed we haven’t—”

  The door to the dining room opened and the gentlemen strode in, none of them looking very happy.

  Messalina had leaned close to Lucretia during their conversation, and she straightened almost guiltily.

  Gideon raised a brow, looking amused.

  Julian, as always, merely seemed bored, while Quintus leaned against the doorjamb. Sometime in the last fifteen minutes he had gone pale.

  Julian spoke first. “It is growing late, and Quinn and I must find rooms at an inn for the night. Come, Lucretia. We’ll take you to Windemere House.”

  “No,” Messalina blurted.

  Both of her brothers looked at her.

  Lucretia lifted her chin. “I’m staying with Messalina.”

  Quintus groaned near the door. He was rubbing his temple as if it ached. “Not you, too.”

  Messalina bristled. “Not her too what?”

  Quintus waved his hand at Gideon. “She’s willing to sleep under the same roof with that.”

  Messalina opened her mouth, but Lucretia beat her to the reply: “I’m staying with my sister because I love her.”

  Quintus flushed blotchily, looking away.

  Julian sighed. “I understand not wishing to stay with our uncle, but I must point out that this house hardly seems livable.”

  “There’s a bedroom suitably fitted for her,” Gideon replied. “Thank you for your concern.”

  Julian ignored him. “Lucretia?”

  “I’m staying,” Lucretia said firmly.

  Messalina let out her breath in relief and took her hand.

  For a long moment Julian was still, and Messalina wondered if he would argue the point. He mustn’t. She had to tell him and Quintus—alone—that their uncle had threatened Lucretia.

  She glanced at Lucretia’s happy face from under her eyelashes. She didn’t want to wipe that expression away.

  Julian nodded. “Very well. I’ll say goodbye to you both.”