When a Rogue Meets His Match Page 4

  This was a dangerous process, stealing Messalina away from her uncle. Windemere was a man who liked control—one of the reasons Gideon had wanted to leave his employ.

  Had the old man offered anything—anyone—else, Gideon would be a free man right now.

  But that was the point: Messalina was his weakness. There was no way he could’ve let her go.

  The bishop pronounced them man and wife in a mumble, and the old man chuckled softly. “Congratulations, my dear. What an advantageous alliance you’ve made.” He caught Gideon’s gimlet stare and coughed, turning to the bishop. “Shall we celebrate with a wedding breakfast? I’ve instructed Cook to prepare a suitable repast.”

  The duke sauntered from the room, the butler trotting ahead to open the door for him and the bishop trailing behind. As Gideon turned to take Messalina’s elbow, he caught Keys’s eye. The man straightened and nodded.

  Gideon bit back a smirk. Keys had been in his employ three years now, and despite the carelessness of his dress, he was meticulous in carrying out Gideon’s orders. As Gideon guided Messalina from the room he glimpsed Keys waylaying the lady’s maid—apparently to the woman’s displeasure.

  Then Gideon was out the door and into the hall, walking with his wife—his wife—behind the old man as they made their way to the breakfast room. The long ebony table was already laden with a feast that would easily feed a dozen hungry men.

  The duke sat at the head of the table and snapped his fingers impatiently for a footman to bring him wine even as Gideon was pulling out a chair for Messalina.

  The old man drank deeply as everyone else’s wineglass was filled and then raised his own when it was refilled. “A toast to the happy couple!”

  “Indeed. Indeed,” the bishop murmured, and downed his entire glass.

  Messalina merely pressed her lips together.

  Despite the delicacies laid before them, his new bride hardly ate. Her uncle more than made up for it, greedily cracking a beef bone to scoop the marrow from it. Gideon watched both the old man and Messalina closely, and when the duke finally pushed back from the table Gideon was quick to rise.

  He bowed to the duke and to the bishop. “My wife appears fatigued. I shall show her to our rooms to rest.”

  Predictably, this prompted a leer from the old man. “Naturally you’ll want to get my niece alone as soon as possible, eh, Hawthorne? They do say the lower classes have stronger animal impulses.” He switched his regard to Messalina. “I suppose you’ll soon find out, won’t you, my dear?”

  Messalina didn’t give any indication that she’d heard—or even noticed—her uncle, instead laying her hand on Gideon’s proffered arm.

  For a moment Gideon thought the duke would make Messalina acknowledge him, but it seemed that the heavy meal had mellowed him. The old man merely waved them away with a lazy hand.

  Gideon strolled from the room, leisurely leading Messalina to the stairs and down to the hall.

  She frowned. “This isn’t the way to my rooms.”

  “Not your old rooms, no.”

  She looked around, then demanded, “Where are you taking me?”

  He glanced at her and couldn’t resist a wink. “To your new rooms.”

  Her brow was still knitted in concern, but she didn’t protest.

  They went out the back door and through an ill-tended garden and entered the mews behind the house by a gate.

  His carriage was waiting, Keys standing by the door.

  Gideon jerked his chin at him. “Did you get everything?”

  Keys snorted. “Not ’alf of it, guv, but all the important bits, or so the maid tells me.”

  He opened the door to the carriage.

  Messalina stared. “What—?”

  “Oh, miss!” cried Bartlett from inside. The woman’s face was red with what looked like indignation. “I didn’t know what to do. That young scamp said as it was orders from Mr. Hawthorne, which—”

  They hadn’t time for this. Gideon placed a hand on Messalina’s rump and leaned down. He could smell bergamot as he murmured in her ear, “Get in.”

  She shot him an irritated glare but obeyed, climbing into the carriage with his help. He took a seat next to her and then nodded to Keys.

  The man slammed the carriage door shut, and in a moment they were moving.

  Messalina said impatiently. “Well? What is this?”

  He could still smell bergamot—faint and elusive in the air. He wanted to turn and bury his nose in her neck. Chase the scent and find its source.

  That would probably make her scream.

  No. Better to woo her with craft and cunning so that when she fell to his bed she’d think it her idea. “I promised you a house, remember?”

  She turned to eye him mistrustfully. “Yes?”

  This close he could see whorls of crystalline gray in her eyes. “I’m taking you there.”

  For a second her eyes widened, making her look bewildered and vulnerable.

  He inhaled very carefully.

  Then her sooty eyelashes swept down and she turned away, hiding her face and her expression. “My uncle expected us to spend the night in Windemere House.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  She stared at him thoughtfully. “My uncle will be furious when he discovers that you’ve spirited me away from under his nose.”

  He shrugged. “I can withstand your uncle’s ire.”

  “But why do it in the first place?”

  He turned slowly to her. “Because I can’t bear the look in your eyes when you’re under his roof.”

  Her lips parted. “I really don’t understand you.”

  “Don’t you?” His lips quirked. “Perhaps you should make a study of me.”

  “Perhaps I should,” she said slowly.

  He shook his head. “In any case I’m taking you to Whispers.” He caught her puzzled look. “Our new home. Whispers House.”

  * * *

  “Will there be anything else, ma’am,” Bartlett asked in a weary voice that night.

  Messalina simply blinked at her maid for a moment—she was that tired. They’d spent the afternoon settling in her room with the few trunks and boxes Bartlett had been able to hastily pack. Hawthorne had deposited them, the trunks, and two of his rather frightening men at Whispers House. The house had turned out to be a huge, moldering mansion in a not-very-fashionable part of London. Before Messalina could ask any questions, Hawthorne had returned to the carriage, off on some errand.

  No doubt at the behest of Uncle Augustus.

  Messalina shuddered. Truly, she’d never wanted to marry at all, let alone to marry a man who enjoyed violence.

  She inhaled, pulling back her shoulders, standing up straighter. Now was not the time to give in to despair.

  Now was the time to plan.

  Messalina turned to her maid. “Did you pack my secretarie?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Bartlett replied promptly, and she bustled over to one of Messalina’s trunks resting against the wall.

  There were few furnishings in the room: a massive bed hung with heavy red drapery, two chairs and a small table, and an old brass-bound casket—locked. Messalina wasn’t sure if the lack of a wardrobe and a chest of drawers for her clothes had been a deliberate slight on Hawthorne’s part or if he hadn’t yet finished furnishing the room.

  Bartlett returned with a flat wooden box in her hands. Messalina sat at the table before the fireplace and opened it. Paper, quill, and ink were all neatly stowed inside, for this was a traveling secretarie.

  Messalina drew out a piece of paper, inked her pen, and paused, thinking of whom she might write to.

  Hopefully Lucretia had already tracked Julian and Quintus down, so there was no point in writing them.

  Messalina pursed her lips. Most of her friends were, like her, ladies and thus had very little real power.

  There was one, however…

  Freya de Moray had been Messalina’s best friend when they’d both been girls. Until Aurelia had
been killed and both their worlds had fallen apart.

  Ran, Freya’s elder brother, now the Duke of Ayr, had been accused of Aurelia’s murder. Aurelia, the golden girl, whom everyone had loved. That same night he’d been beaten near to death by Uncle Augustus’s men. Ever since, the Greycourts and the de Morays had been caught in a web of hatred and scandal.

  They’d been estranged for many years, but recently Messalina had reconciled with Freya. That returned harmony had closed a wound Messalina hadn’t even realized she bore.

  She’d also learned what Freya had been doing all those years they’d been apart. For Freya had told her—in the strictest confidence—that she was one of the Wise Women. This ancient secret society was composed entirely of women and worked only to help other women.

  And Messalina could certainly use some help now.

  She dashed off a quick letter explaining briefly her dilemma, sanded the wet ink, and sealed the missive. Then with a small smile she addressed the letter care of the Duke of Harlowe—otherwise known as Kester—Freya’s new husband.

  She turned to Bartlett and handed her both the letter and several coins. “In the morning post this. You must be very careful that neither Mr. Hawthorne nor his men see you doing so. Can you do that?”

  Bartlett looked affronted. “Course, ma’am. I’ll find a way to leave the house on an errand. No one will find out.”

  “Thank you, Bartlett,” Messalina said with relief. “You may retire for the night. That is, do you have a place to sleep tonight?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Bartlett replied. “I asked that Keys person earlier and he assured me that there would be a bedroom ready in the servants’ quarters.”

  Messalina frowned. The small amount of Whispers that she’d seen before retiring to her own room was appallingly uninhabitable—there was hardly a stick of furniture, and she wasn’t even sure there were proper servants. “If you have any difficulty, please let me know.”

  Bartlett drew herself up to her full five feet. “Pardon me, ma’am, but I think I’ll be quite able to deal with the situation myself.”

  For a brief moment Messalina felt a pang of pity for the absent Keys. Then she nodded to the maid. “As you wish. Good night, Bartlett.”

  “Ma’am.” Bartlett curtsied and slipped out the door.

  Messalina stood, smoothing down her chemise. Bartlett had brushed out her hair as she did every night, though tonight there was no dressing table or mirror in her bedroom. Messalina glanced around ruefully. Earlier she and Bartlett had shared supper—much to Bartlett’s scandalized senses—at the tiny table. Both it and the bed looked to have seen better days, and Messalina suspected that her new husband had bought a house without the funds to furnish it. Or perhaps he simply didn’t have the inclination.

  She glanced around the barren room, suddenly aware that her life felt barren, too. Without friends or Lucretia, here alone, did she have any purpose?

  She shook her head at her maudlin thoughts. It was late and she was tired. And this day…this day had been horrible.

  Messalina walked to the bed. Tomorrow she’d explore the house, find out what her boundaries were, and consider her avenues of escape. Tonight she simply needed to sleep. She pulled back the counterpane on the bed, relieved to find the linens fresh and clean, and placed her knee on the mattress.

  The door opened and Hawthorne strolled in.

  Messalina was all at once wide awake, her heart beating fast. “Get out.”

  “And a pleasant evening to you as well, madam wife.” He closed the door behind him, his saturnine eyebrows arching as he slowly surveyed her form.

  “I said get out.” She put her foot back on the floor and damned the fact that she wore only her chemise—made of the finest lawn and nearly sheer.

  “You’ve nothing to fear,” he said.

  She snorted. “I’m not a half-witted clam.”

  “Clam.” He tilted his head slowly sideways.

  She ignored his jesting. “I’ve been courted by the highest-ranked gentlemen in the kingdom—and I turned them down. Do you know why? Because those gentlemen were nothing more than worms, without intelligence or regard. I’m not about to submit to a bully boy like you.”

  “I’m afraid you’ve disregarded two things,” he replied coolly, his black eyes glinting. He looked the very devil and he could see her nipples. “One, that I’m no gentleman—”

  “Indeed?” she interrupted sweetly.

  “And two, this is my bedroom.”

  She blinked. “I’m not in the mood for games. Tell me why you’re here or get out. Better yet, simply leave me.”

  “I’m here to sleep,” he said, and took off his coat. He folded it neatly and placed it on a chair before spreading his arms. He actually had the—the gall to try to look contrite. “It truly is my bedroom.”

  Truly? She’d assumed that they wouldn’t be sharing a bed.

  Messalina felt her eyes widening in outrage. “What?”

  “This. Is. My. Bedroom,” he enunciated maddeningly as he began unbuttoning his waistcoat.

  “Stop that!”

  He suddenly stilled, his emotionless eyes pinning her. “Or what?”

  Fear raced through her veins; she knew what this man was capable of. And yet she sneered at him. “I’ll put an emetic in your beer or whatever you drink, see if I don’t.”

  “That’s…” He considered the threat. “Rather novel, actually. Not to mention effective. However”—the most untrustworthy smile she’d ever seen spread over his face—“You’ve spiked your own cannon by telling me your clever plan. Come. I’m weary and you must be, too.”

  She huffed. “I’ll have you know that most married couples have separate bedrooms.”

  “No,” he drawled, fastidiously setting the waistcoat on top of his coat. “Most people have but one chamber for their bed—and often only that.”

  That pulled her up short. For a moment she felt ashamed of her own class, imagining living in only one room.

  Then she squared her shoulders. “But I’m not most people.”

  She pivoted to face him as he briskly moved around her to sit on the bed.

  “You certainly aren’t,” he muttered under his breath.

  Messalina rolled her eyes. “Surely there are enough rooms in this house—”

  “Yes, there are,” he said, cutting her off. He untied his neckcloth. “You can argue all you want, but you’ve forgotten something.”

  She set her hands on her hips. “What is that?”

  “I don’t want to make my bed in another room.” He threw the neckcloth toward the chair. It missed. He shrugged, then glanced up through his ridiculous eyelashes at her, his black eyes glittering in the candlelight. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

  If he was attempting to look trustworthy, he was failing badly.

  An incredulous laugh burst from her lips. “You must be bamming me.”

  “I assure you I’m not. Despite any”—his gaze flickered to her barely covered bosom—“desire to consummate this marriage, I will not force you. That isn’t part of my plans. We’ve made a truce with benefits to both of us. Why would I want to destroy this détente? I’d be a fool to wrong you now. And before you say it, I am no fool.”

  Messalina could feel the heat in her cheeks from that brief, searing glance. She bit her lip, undecided. What he said made sense, and his reasoning was oddly reassuring. Still…“Then tell me what you intend to do tonight.”

  “I intend to sleep,” he said, flicking open the top button on his shirt. “I won’t touch you until the agreed-upon month is over, but I will share your bed. I don’t want this marriage contested.”

  For a second her gaze strayed to his throat, revealed by his open shirt. The tanned skin gleamed in the candlelight. She had an awful urge to touch.

  Her eyes snapped up to find him watching her with a smile playing about those wicked lips. She stiffened.

  “Messalina,” he said, his voice a dark purr. “Come to bed.”
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  She almost stomped to the door. But if she gave in to trepidation—or temper—now she’d have trouble regaining her footing with him.

  Besides. There was her pride.

  “Humph.” Messalina went around to the other side of the bed and slowly got in, watching him all the while.

  He ducked his head as if hiding one of his lopsided smiles, his fingers on the third button of his shirt.

  She tried to look away, but really it was impossible to do so. Another inch of his corded throat was unveiled.

  And then he stopped.

  Messalina pursed her lips in irritation.

  Hawthorne bent and removed his shoes and stockings. Something on a thin chain swung out from the top of his shirt.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  The object winked in the candlelight before he caught it in his hand and tucked it back inside his shirt.

  “Nothing you need concern yourself about.” He pulled the tie from his hair, letting his heavy, curling locks fall to his shoulders.

  He stared at her, looking like some pagan god—the kind that demanded human sacrifice.

  Messalina swallowed, aware that there was some part of her, inside and hopefully hidden, that found his physical form very, very alluring.

  He stood and deliberately pulled back the coverlet. He held her gaze as he got in.

  She looked away.

  The mattress dipped and shook and then was still.

  She tensed, staring up at the ceiling. The bed was wide enough that they didn’t even touch. Still she was unnaturally aware of him, big and solid, only inches away. She’d never shared a bed before—at least not since she’d grown—and certainly not with a man.

  He blew out the candle.

  She could hear his breaths, even and deep, and she realized suddenly that she could smell him—not unpleasantly. He smelled like a man, she supposed. A man in her bed.

  Her nipples tightened and she froze. She was afraid he would know somehow. That he might take her sudden awareness of him as an invitation.

  Tiredness finally conquered her vigilance. Her breaths became deeper, and she began to drift.

  The whispered male voice in the darkness sounded almost like part of a dream. “Good night, Wife.”