When a Rogue Meets His Match Read online

  The duke hesitated, clearly not pleased by Gideon’s suggestion, but he grimaced and strode into Windemere House.

  Messalina didn’t move. Her head was held high, but her eyes were wide and frantic. She was obviously shaken by the threat to her beloved sister.

  Gideon said quietly, “Will you stay here until you turn to stone out of pride?”

  “You wouldn’t care,” she shot back viciously.

  “You have no idea,” he said truthfully, “how much I’d care.”

  She stared incredulously at him.

  He held her clear gaze. Those eyes would be the death of him. “Better to go in, yes?”

  Messalina blew out a breath and muttered, “I don’t think I have a choice.”

  “No,” he said gently, “you don’t, but I’ll make it as easy as I can.”

  She huffed and went in.

  Windemere waited in the entry, his happy mood returned.

  Messalina eyed him warily, then said, “I need to refresh myself. If you’ll excuse me, Uncle.”

  Gideon let his hand fall, and she jerked away to hurry up the grand staircase.

  He fought a sigh. Now was not the time to tame her. That would come later.

  The duke growled, “She’ll try to escape out the back.”

  Gideon didn’t bother looking at him. “My men are already guarding the doors, Your Grace.”

  Windemere grunted. “Good. Come with me.”

  He turned and walked across the red-white-and-black marble floor of the entry hall, servants falling away before him. Gideon followed silently. A footman pushed open the door to the great library as the duke approached.

  “Shut that door,” Windemere snapped to the footman once they’d entered. “And make sure no one disturbs us.”

  The door closed without a sound.

  The duke sank into a high-backed chair. Gideon didn’t bother taking a seat.

  Windemere eyed him with a disgruntled expression, and Gideon felt his upper lip lifting.

  It was almost funny.

  His work under Windemere had been both unlawful and at times brutal. Gideon probably knew more about the old man’s dealings than any other person alive, which gave him a certain amount of power over Windemere. But at the same time, the duke knew exactly what Gideon had done in his service. Gideon had no doubt at all that the old man had kept records and whatever evidence there might be. The duke could have Gideon hanged with a word or two in the right places—if he didn’t mind falling with Gideon.

  Their past was a double-edged sword neither was particularly anxious to handle.

  Windemere grunted. “If she escapes, I’ll not offer her to you twice.”

  Gideon let a mocking smile twist his lips. “Which is why I’ll not let her escape.”

  “You had bloody well better not,” the duke growled, obviously irritated by Gideon’s insolence. “The wench is worth a fortune. Not only will you lose her as a wife, but I’ll take her dowry out of you if she runs.”

  Gideon didn’t bother replying. He’d heard this all before, an endless, dusty rant filled with grievances and threats.

  Windemere suddenly smiled, making Gideon come to full alert. “Although if Messalina were to disappear, it might save me much trouble.”

  “I would protest violently if that were to happen,” Gideon replied softly. “You’ve promised to give me Messalina.”

  The duke scowled at his threat and then waved his hand. “A fortnight locked in her room with naught but water and pap should make her soften. The gal has never wanted for a meal or anything else. She’ll soon come around.”

  “No doubt,” Gideon said carefully. If he showed too much concern, the old man would follow through on his threats, and Gideon didn’t want Messalina starving—or worse. “But you said you’d already sent for the bishop. Was that a bluff, Your Grace?”

  “No.” The duke scowled. “I’ll have to send him away again, and the bishop will want his guineas even if he does nothing in return. Churchmen are a greedy lot.”

  Then it was up to Gideon to convince Messalina to wed him if he didn’t want any further delays. He started for the door.

  “Where are you going?” the duke called peevishly from behind him.

  Gideon turned. “To persuade Miss Greycourt to attend her own wedding.”

  Windemere snorted. “Easier to find a Wapping Docks whore without the pox than to win over the chit.”

  Gideon lifted an eyebrow before turning back toward the door.

  The duke called behind him, “Just remember: no matter what she decides, you’ve already made the bargain and given your oath. You’re my man and you’ll do as I wish.”

  Gideon paused with his hand on the door handle. His knuckles went white as he tightened his grip. “I’m unlikely to forget. Your Grace.”

  With that he left the room.

  Gideon closed the library door behind him and took a moment to inhale, leaning against the door. Almost a year ago he’d decided that it was past time to leave the old man’s employ—both because he hated the tasks Windemere set him and because he wanted to concentrate on his own business.

  But leaving the employ of the Duke of Windemere wasn’t such an easy thing. Gideon’s knowledge was dangerous to the old man. He’d rather not end as a corpse floating on the Thames.

  So Gideon had waited, judging his exit carefully. When he at last told the duke that he planned to leave, Windemere had surprised him by offering a prize that Gideon simply couldn’t refuse: Messalina Greycourt.

  But first Gideon had to secure his lady—preferably without the duke starving her.

  He straightened and snapped his fingers.

  A slight shape slunk into the light, transforming into a disreputable youth with a broken nose and the innocent wide blue eyes of a baby angel. The youth—actually a young man, for Keys was older than he looked—straightened and nodded. “Aye, guv?”

  “Where is she, Keys?”

  Keys rolled his eyes skyward. “Upstairs in ’er rooms last I checked with Reggie.”

  Gideon nodded. Now he had to worry that she might try to escape and that the duke would follow through on his casual threat against Messalina. “Do the rounds, make sure Pea has his gang in the garden and at the sides. Then come in and stand with Reggie. Clear?”

  Keys merely touched a finger to his forelock and slipped away.

  Gideon mounted the grand staircase to the upper level, the red marble steps curving back on themselves like a coiling snake. The muscles in his arms and legs felt bunched, ready to spring after quarry. Perhaps it was the excitement of fighting off the highwaymen earlier. Perhaps it was the thought of all he so nearly had in his grasp.

  Or perhaps it was her.

  She’d been only a girl when he’d first entered the old man’s service. Young and long limbed, not a child at fourteen, but certainly not yet a woman. He’d made note of her along with all the Greycourt siblings: Julian, the eldest, as trustworthy as his uncle. Quintus, who had been a sot at the age of eighteen, still mourning the death of his twin sister, Aurelia. Messalina, grave beyond her years. Lucretia, the youngest, pretty and mischievous.

  To Gideon, Messalina had been simply one of the aristocracy. Born to lounge about in silks and jewels, eating Turkish delight with soft white fingers while the rest of the world slaved. She was just like every other highborn lady.

  And yet he’d watched her, even then. He’d spied from the shadows, a rough St Giles lad, invisible among the duke’s dozens of servants. Gideon might be only a couple of years older than Messalina, but they were worlds apart. He’d observed as she’d grown into womanhood, as she donned rustling dresses and put her hair into intricate loops on top of her head. Watched as she laughed at the young fops who gathered around her like wasps drawn to spilled beer.

  She wasn’t for him, that was always clear.

  Even so, he’d not been able to tear his gaze away. She made something inside him want.

  Messalina had been the star he longed for
but couldn’t reach—and the old man knew it.

  Gideon scowled as he made the upper floor. He didn’t like the fact that Windemere had been able to read him so easily. His desires and thoughts were his own, and it was simply too dangerous to let others see inside. But fourteen years ago, when he’d first entered the duke’s employ, he’d been young—seventeen—and less used to hiding his every expression.

  Her rooms lay down a long hallway. Gideon nodded to Reggie, large and looming in the shadows several steps from the door.

  “Careful, guv,” Reggie called softly.

  Gideon shot him a look. He hardly needed a warning from his own man.

  He pushed the door open, raising his right arm to protect his head at the same time. She came rushing at him, a small marble statuette in her hands.

  Marble. He couldn’t help a flare of admiration. He wrenched the statuette from her hands and caught her. “I see you’re bent on murder, Miss Greycourt.”

  She twisted like an eel, trying to escape, but he held her firmly by both wrists. When she realized she wouldn’t be able to free herself, she attacked, kicking at him, even though she was hampered by her own skirts.

  He crowded her with his body, forcing her to retreat until her back hit the wall. For a split second he studied her, trapped between the wall and him. Her heavy black hair was uncoiling around her face, her cheeks flushed pink from exertion. She glared up at him with gray eyes that held storms and dire warnings.

  But there was no fear in their clear depths, none at all. Something inside him exulted that she couldn’t be cowed, even by him.

  He bent his head, aware that he was close enough to seize her lips beneath his, and murmured, “Now then, I think we need to talk.”

  * * *

  Messalina stared into Mr. Hawthorne’s horrid black eyes. This close she could see how long and thick his eyelashes were, as if his eyes were outlined in charcoal. On any other man they might look feminine.

  Not on him. Never on him. She could almost smell his masculine musk. Few men had ever stood as close to her as he did now.

  “Let me go,” she growled belatedly, yanking at her wrists to no avail.

  One of his sloped eyebrows arched at her struggles. He looked amused, damn him! He leaned close to her, his breath tickling her lips. “Will you give me your word not to attack again?”

  She nodded once jerkily.

  He let go of her arms and stepped back.

  She found herself inhaling deeply, as if his presence so close to her had kept her from breathing.

  Perhaps it had.

  “I’ll not marry you,” she stated as calmly as she could. “No matter what my uncle says.”

  The duke might’ve had Mr. Hawthorne steal her pin money, but there must be other avenues of escape. The threat against Lucretia filled her with panicked nausea. If she could just delay Uncle Augustus’s schemes, she would find a way.

  “Really.” He turned his back on her—rather insultingly—and strolled to a table near her fireplace. Someone had placed a decanter of wine there, along with a repast of bread and cold meats. He poured a glass and returned to her. “Even if His Grace offers me your sister instead?”

  He held out the glass.

  She swallowed, ignoring the blasted wineglass. “He’d never do such a thing.”

  “Because your uncle is such a very reasonable man?” Mr. Hawthorne’s eyes widened mockingly before he took a sip of the wine. “No, His Grace will happily force Lucretia to marry me, both for spite and because he wants to retain my services.”

  He was right and they both knew it. She lifted her chin, seeking any way out of this trap. “What do your services to my uncle have to do with Lucretia or me?”

  “Your uncle wishes me to do a certain task. I refused. But then he offered a very tempting enticement.” His gaze wandered down her frame before that distracting mouth twitched and he met her eyes. “You.”

  She wanted to strike him. The intensity of the violent urge shocked her. Her words came out in a stutter, she was so angry. “So you’ll m-marry Lucretia if I refuse?”

  “No.” The wine had left a wet stain on his bottom lip, shining and mesmerizing. “I want only you.” He shrugged as her eyes widened. Her? “I merely point out that your uncle is fickle. If you hinder his plans, he’ll punish not only you but everyone you hold dear. He’s already suggested imprisoning and starving you. Do you want him to do the same to Lucretia in order to persuade her to marry some aged lord?”

  “No.” Messalina glared at Hawthorne. He was quite correct, unfortunately. Uncle Augustus was a monster who didn’t bother with even the appearance of the morals that guided other men. “My uncle is cruel—that I agree with you on, but I don’t understand. Why would you want to marry me?”

  He smiled then, as if he’d won a point—and maybe he had. “I think you’re forgetting your enormous dowry.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I’ve not forgotten it. Lucretia’s dowry is the same. Why me instead of her?”

  He looked at her from under his outlandish eyelashes. “Would you rather I marry your sister?”

  “Of course not.” He was trying to distract her and she mustn’t let him. She needed all her attention for this fight if she was to persevere. “Answer my question, please.”

  He was suddenly in front of her, so close he might’ve kissed her, his black gaze intent upon her face. “Because, Messalina, I want you. I want your wealth. I want your rank. I want the power and influence your family name will bring me. But most of all?”—he cocked his head, bringing his hand up to glide along her cheek, not touching but so close she felt the heat of his fingertips like the ghost of a threat—“I want you.”

  She had to fight to keep from trembling. The intensity in his gaze was overwhelming. Had any man ever watched her like this? As if no bonds of civility or man-made laws could stop him from seizing her in his arms?

  She looked him in the eye, this evil, awful man, and said crisply, “You can’t have me.”

  “No?” He stepped away, throwing back the rest of the wine in his glass. “But I think I can.” He sauntered to the table where the decanter of wine stood, unstopping it before glancing up at her. “Your uncle certainly intends to give you to me.”

  She was out of options. She was going to be forced into marriage, sold like a milk cow. How was she to retain herself—her will, her pride, her vow to escape from her uncle—in this debacle? “I am not a thing to give.”

  He paused, still holding the decanter of wine, eyeing her thoughtfully. “No, you’re not. I know that even if your uncle does not. Nevertheless, I’ll still accept his offer. I’m too ruthless not to. But frankly I’d prefer a wife who consented to this union.” He poured himself another glass of wine and set the decanter down. “So. Let us bargain, we two. What do you want?”

  “I want my life.” That was really all she wanted—that and Lucretia’s safety. “My life to determine as I will.”

  He shook his head, not even bothering to look regretful. “You cannot have that. Name something else.”

  Oh, she wanted to do him violence. To run at him screaming. To hit him or stab him. To shoot him with a pistol if she had one. She would, too. She knew it in that moment. She’d kill this man if it would do her any good. She’d kill him and flee all the way to the American Colonies and she’d be free then.

  Except that would leave Lucretia and her brothers, and while Julian could certainly take care of himself and probably Quintus could, too, even against Uncle Augustus, Lucretia could not.

  Lucretia was a woman. And even an intelligent, crafty woman like Lucretia was no match against a man in England—particularly a man as powerful as the Duke of Windemere. He was bloody-minded enough to destroy both Lucretia and Messalina simply because he could.

  Messalina took a deep breath and crossed to sit on a chair by the fireplace. The fire wasn’t lit—probably Uncle Augustus’s way of making her rooms less welcoming—but the night was warm. It was summer, after all
.

  She stared into the empty hearth and thought: What did she want? More importantly, what could she have?

  At last she looked up and found Mr. Hawthorne had taken a seat kitty-corner to her. He lounged as complacently as a king and sipped from his wineglass as he waited.

  She loathed him.

  “I want to be free from my uncle and his machinations,” she said. “But you can’t give me that, can you? You’re his servant, his lackey. How can you give me anything I need?”

  “I think,” he said softly, “if you use your imagination, you’ll find many ways I can give you what you need.”

  His black eyes watched her over the rim of his wineglass as he took a sip, his gaze frankly heated.

  Messalina recognized a double entendre when she heard one. It was quite obvious that the game he wanted to play was dangerous to her. But she’d moved in the most rarified London circles for over ten years.

  She knew how to play dangerous games with men and emerge unscathed. She might never have taken a lover—unlike some sophisticated ladies—but she had overheard talk, had gossiped late at night with women already married, and had dabbled a bit with gentlemen who were safe.

  She could do this—bargain with the devil and find some small benefit in this awful situation.

  Messalina straightened.

  It was past time she took control of the table. The single most important thing she needed was enough money to flee England with Lucretia. The question was, Could she get it from him?

  “Can you?” she asked carelessly. “Give me what I need?” She let her gaze wander down his form, past broad shoulders and a narrow waist, pausing for just a second on the bulge in the placket of his black breeches, and then perused his long legs and booted feet. When she met his eyes again she wore a doubtful moue. “Perhaps. But can you give me what I want, Mr. Hawthorne?”

  The corners of his devilish lips curled. “Ask me and see.”

  “Very well.” She leaned back in her chair, mirroring his relaxed pose. Best to start small. “I want Lucretia to live with me.”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Done. She’ll live with us.”