He lifted his eyebrows. What now? “I was thinking of our bedroom.”
She sighed as if terribly burdened. “One usually has chest of drawers, wardrobes, and the like. For that matter I’ve noticed that the rooms in Whispers are very sparsely furnished.” She glanced about the room, which of course held only the table and chairs. “Unless you mean for me to stack my clothes upon the floor?”
He was very tempted to tell her to do exactly that just to see her response, but a saner part of him ruled. “You know that most of London have only one set of clothes?”
“Yes, I know,” she said, the color rising in her cheeks. “Do you think if I rend my clothes it would help those people?”
“Rending them, no,” he said through gritted teeth. “I merely point out—”
“Besides,” she said, “you are no longer poor like the vast majority of London.”
He set down his wineglass and stared at her. “Your point?”
She lifted her chin. “Merely that you’re no longer living in Whitechapel or wherever you were born—”
“St Giles,” he cut in bitterly.
“St Giles? Then the rumors are true?” Her eyes were wide with interest, as if Seven Dials were someplace foreign. “Is it also true that you participated in competitive knife fighting?”
Competitive knife fighting sounded like a quite respectable name for a sweaty, bloody sport.
“Yes.” His lips curled. “I fought bare chested. Sometimes women came to watch the matches.”
“Humph.” She sobered, her expression turning lofty.
He found her almost unbearably endearing. “You were about to explain your point?”
“I know that many people don’t have clothes or shoes or even food,” she said slowly. “And I’m sorry for them. But you’ve employment and have made enough money with my uncle to afford this”—she gestured to the dining room—“mansion, and now you’ve married me—or rather you married my dowry. You’re rich.” She said the last with the sort of relish that seemed to indicate that she’d scored a blow against him.
He didn’t have her dowry, but she was quite correct on one thing.
He was rich.
Gideon leaned back in his chair, letting his eyelids droop lazily as he surveyed her from her neatly coiled black hair to the white expanse of her décolletage before flicking his gaze back up to her lovely gray eyes.
She tilted her head in inquiry.
“I might have your dowry”—or he would have it in any case—“but I married you, and it’s you I shall bed, not your moneys.”
The color rose in her cheeks again, and she caught her bottom lip between her teeth. She looked a little shy—not a word he’d normally use for Messalina—and at the same time completely alluring.
One month, he reminded himself, shifting discreetly to accommodate his swelling cock.
She let her poor abused lip go and said, “No, but you can spend it.”
He tore his gaze away from her glistening mouth and tried to remember what they were talking about.
He frowned. “What?”
She sighed as if trying to find her patience. “Hawthorne, you may enjoy living in a house without furniture or books or enough servants, but I do not. My sister will be coming to live with us, and there isn’t even a bed for her.”
He sat forward, reining in his wandering attention. “Very well. You may furnish a room for Lucretia and purchase whatever you need to house your vast collection of clothing.”
“And books for your empty library?”
He shook his head. “A waste of money.”
“Of course you’d think so,” she muttered under her breath.
He breathed in and out. “Messalina.”
Her eyes widened when she looked at his face.
“You do not want to bait me,” he said softly. “I’m not one of your aristocrats. I don’t play gently.”
“I beg your pardon.” She cleared her throat. “If you can assure me of how much I can spend, then I’ll take the carriage tomorrow—”
“No,” he said with rather more relish than was wise. “You aren’t shopping alone tomorrow.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Naturally Bartlett will accompany me…”
“If you must, but I think there’s no need.” He took a bite of the pie, watching her and trying not to smile. “I shall be going with you.”
She said in a very level voice, “You’re inflicting your presence on my shopping trip.”
He tilted his head, considering. “Is ‘inflicting’ a word that a devoted wife would use about her husband?”
“I thought we had agreed on merely content,” she snapped back.
He felt a corner of his mouth tilt up. “I shall be very happy to escort my content wife to the shops, then.” His voice lowered. “And I expect you to adhere to our agreement while we are out.”
She looked a bit as if she’d just bitten into a lime. “Naturally.”
He helped himself to another slice of the pie. “And whilst we’re on the subject, I’ve procured theater tickets for tomorrow night.”
That caught her interest.
She leaned forward. “What is the play?”
“I’ve no idea.”
Her lips parted as if she couldn’t believe his words.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, glistening, warm, and receptive.
“You purchased tickets for the theater and didn’t bother to discover what play you’re seeing?” She interrupted his lusty thoughts.
“We’re seeing,” he said with emphasis.
She waved the point aside impatiently. “Yes, yes.”
“The play doesn’t matter,” he said. “The point of attending the theater is to be seen by the aristocracy. Isn’t that what your sort does, after all?”
My sort, she mouthed, and then said aloud, “I suppose that’s what many people do.” She pursed her lips. “This is how you want to enter society?”
“I want to do much more than simply enter society.” He sneered on the last word. “I intend to be accepted as an equal, to become the confidant of dukes and princes, and of course to find rich aristocrats to invest in my business.”
“But…” She stared at him as if he were a dog performing a trick.
He emptied his wineglass and set it down firmly. “That is why we’ll go to the theater.”
“Very well.” She sat with her brows knitted for several seconds. Then she shook her head and abruptly rose from the table. “I’m tired. If you don’t mind, I’d like to retire to bed.”
He looked pointedly at his half-full plate. “I haven’t finished my supper.”
A small frown crimped those distracting lips. “I have.”
He looked at her. “Humor me.”
She scowled. “Why should I?”
He sighed. She was the most argumentative woman. “I wanted to surprise you, but you’ve forced my hand.” He raised his voice and called to the shut door. “Sam!”
The door opened and Sam entered, carefully cradling a puppy in his arms.
Messalina sat abruptly.
“What is this?” She sounded confused as she glanced between the boy and the dog, her eyes wide.
Gideon stood and walked to her chair, beckoning Sam over.
“This,” he said as he lifted the wriggling animal from the boy’s arms and placed it in her lap, “is a puppy. For you.”
* * *
Messalina looked at the puppy in her lap. It was small and sleek, an Italian greyhound, if she wasn’t mistaken. It was gray all over except for a white line down the center of its nose and a white throat and stomach. But instead of an adult Italian greyhound’s graceful demeanor and elegant lines, the puppy had triangle ears much too big for its head and the saddest button eyes she’d ever seen.
It whimpered.
Messalina hardened her heart and looked up into Hawthorne’s assessing face. This was a scheme to soften her, she knew. “Are you trying to buy my affections with a puppy?”
&n
bsp; “I merely thought you might like him.” A corner of that far-too-sensuous mouth twitched. “Besides, I’m sure you’re too intelligent to be won over by a puppy.”
“Correct.” Messalina ignored the silky fur, the pathetic whip tail, and the sad eyes and held out the puppy to Sam.
Sam looked at her with disappointment in his eyes. “Don’t you want ’im, ma’am?”
Two pairs of sad brown eyes were staring at her now.
“No,” Messalina said briskly and completely untruthfully.
“But ma’am—”
“You mustn’t contradict Mrs. Hawthorne,” Gideon drawled.
Sam looked crestfallen. “Will ’e ’ave to go away, then, guv?” he asked as he hugged the puppy.
“I’m afraid so,” Hawthorne said gravely. “Once Mrs. Hawthorne makes up her mind she rarely changes it.”
Messalina’s heart contracted. It wasn’t as if she didn’t like dogs…or little boys.
“Erm…” She cleared her throat and said, “I suppose we might keep him—just for a bit, mind—to see if he will do.”
Sam’s smile was incandescent.
It made her feel so warm inside that Messalina couldn’t help smiling back. “Do you think you can care for him for me, Sam? While I decide if I’ll keep him, that is?”
“Yes, ma’am!” the little boy exclaimed before glancing at Hawthorne with wide eyes. “Can I, guv?”
“Yes. If you’re diligent in your duties.” Hawthorne waved the boy and puppy from the room.
Messalina immediately turned on Hawthorne. “Where did you get that puppy?”
His eyebrows rose. “The day of our wedding I asked Reg to find me a suitable puppy for you. Something a lady would like.”
“I suppose that was thoughtful,” she said gruffly.
“Is that a compliment, Mrs. Hawthorne?” He grinned outright at her.
It came to her that when he smiled naturally, he was devastating.
A good thing, then, that his smiles were rarely real.
“What do you think?” she asked impulsively.
He cocked his head, studying her. “Frankly, I don’t trust compliments. When you fling your insults at me, you are honest. The rage lights your face, your cheeks redden, and your eyes glare. I find myself…provoked.”
“Do you,” she said just a tad breathlessly. “I assure you I have no urge to provoke you. But then I find that men are easily stirred to mindless excitement no matter a woman’s intent.”
“Mindless?” He touched his thumb to his bottom lip, pulling it slightly down. Messalina had trouble looking away. “No. My mind—and my imagination—are fully working.”
“Then perhaps you should let both your mind and your imagination rest,” she replied tartly. “They seem overfatigued.”
The curl of his lips this time was secretive, and yet no less enticing. “I’m so glad that I didn’t give you flowers or sweets or jewels. It would have been a terrible slight to your wit.”
“But a puppy isn’t?” she snapped. “I think you should add it to your list of useless gifts.”
“No,” he said softly. “Not when you looked at that puppy with joy in your eyes.”
She bit her lip, knowing she was blushing. What was she to say to that? “I…I…”
He leaned forward across the table and said low, “I would travel to the depths of Siberia to bring that look to your eyes.”
She stared at him, her blood thrumming in her ears. She knew he was playing with her, that he was not a truthful man, but those words.
How could any woman defend her heart against him?
“Messalina,” he whispered, his voice rough.
She looked away from him, taking a steadying breath. “I—I should retire for the night.”
She stood abruptly, nearly sending her chair crashing to the floor, and marched to the door.
Behind her she heard him murmur, “Coward.”
Messalina made very sure she didn’t react.
Maddening, cunning, awful man! She started up the staircase. The way he made her skin heat, the thoughts flee her head, truly was beginning to worry her. She knew he was interested only in her money, but when he said such romantic things to her, she couldn’t remember. And when he smiled…when those charming, sensual, much too wicked lips curved and that dimple appeared, she trembled like a veritable ninny.
She had the awful urge to smile back at Hawthorne. To let herself go and laugh.
No. That way lay her total surrender. Her letter ought to reach Freya soon and then—
Messalina stopped with her foot on the top step. Her notebook! She’d left it on the dining room table—and with it the incriminating question she’d written to Bartlett. Hawthorne mustn’t read it.
She turned and hurried down the staircase.
She walked swiftly across the hall and halted at the dining room’s closed door. What if he’d already picked up the notebook? She exhaled and pushed open the door, her head held high, ready to face down Hawthorne and his terrible charm.
But the room was empty and the little book still on the table. Messalina let out a sigh of relief and crossed the room to pick it up. She turned to leave, but as she did so she heard Hawthorne’s voice.
For a moment she thought she would be discovered. Except his voice didn’t come from the landing outside, but rather from the servants’ door nearly hidden on the other side of the hearth.
Messalina hesitated. She needed to go. Instead she tiptoed to the door. It was not quite closed all the way, a thin gap showing. She put her eye to the gap.
Hawthorne knelt on one knee, the better to look Sam in the eye. The boy was standing ramrod straight before him. Between the two was the puppy, sniffing at the floor.
“—make sure he doesn’t eat something nasty,” Hawthorne said seriously to the boy. “You’ll have to take him into the garden at least twice between the midday meal and supper. Do you understand?”
“Yes, guv,” Sam said solemnly.
“Good,” Hawthorne said, laying his hand on the lad’s shoulder for a moment. “I’m relying on you, mind.”
Sam nodded and bent to pick up the puppy, who immediately licked his chin. “I’ll take good care of ’im.”
“See that you do.” Hawthorne stood. “Off you go, then.”
Messalina jerked back, panic beating in her chest. She ran on tiptoes to the door, pushing it open and softly closing it.
She didn’t wait to see if Hawthorne had come back into the dining room. She rushed up the stairs, not breaking stride until she was back in her bedroom.
There she leaned against the door, feeling her heart beat hard. Hawthorne was so confusing. She’d thought him a monster just this morning when he’d berated Sam. When she thought he’d sent the boy away. But he hadn’t banished Sam. And tonight, he’d been almost fatherly with the boy. Which side of him was real? Or were they both?
She could withstand a violent rogue.
But Gideon’s gentleness toward the boy was more devastating to her heart than any flower or jewel.
It might well destroy her.
Chapter Five
“Sir Fox,” said the tinker with great respect, for he knew at once that this was no ordinary fox. “I am most hopelessly lost. Can you guide me from this wood?”
The fox took his pipe from his lips, blew a smoke ring, and said, “Well, of course I can help you, my lost tinker. The better question is: Why should I?”…
—From Bet and the Fox
Messalina sat in the carriage the next afternoon surreptitiously studying her husband.
Hawthorne lounged recklessly on the squabs across from her, peeling an orange, his long, nimble fingers utterly distracting. Apparently he’d had no luncheon—or any breakfast, as far as she was aware. Once again he’d disappeared this morning before she’d risen, presumably on whatever mysterious business he did.
This time, however, he hadn’t left before she’d woken. She’d been roused by movement under her arm. And as her muzz
y brain cleared, she’d been mortified to find that she’d somehow come to wrap herself around Hawthorne during the night. She’d frozen at the realization and like a coward had feigned continued sleep.
And the worst thing was, it was so nice, lying there, snuggled up to Hawthorne. He was warm, and she felt an intriguing bit of hair beneath her fingers. With her eyes closed and immobile, she wondered if she was touching the hair on his arm or perhaps even hair that might be on his chest. And he smelled…Well, she couldn’t describe it, but it was a nice scent. His scent made her feel safe and languid somehow.
She’d half expected Hawthorne to take advantage of the situation. To either caress her or mock her body’s ill judgment in sleep.
He’d done neither.
Instead he’d quietly slipped from beneath her arm—and knee, good Lord!—and left their bedroom. Almost as if he hadn’t wanted to wake her.
Almost as if he cared.
Messalina scoffed beneath her breath. Hawthorne was a bully for hire—cold, cynical, and emotionless. He didn’t care about another soul in the world.
Except…did she really still believe that? He’d not been emotionless last night with Sam.
He’d not been heartless.
If Hawthorne wasn’t an unfeeling villain, then her opinion of him had been wrong from the start. And that begged the question: What else had she gotten wrong about him?
Hawthorne glanced up as if aware of her thoughts, and the corner of his mouth quirked. “Orange?”
The segment he held out looked tempting—plump and juicy—but she pursed her lips and shook her head. “No, thank you.”
“No?” Her refusal seemed to amuse him. He bit into the segment, the scent of orange bursting into the air. Juice ran down his fingers, and he sucked on a knuckle before popping the rest of the segment into his mouth. “It’s quite good.”
Her mouth was watering—whether for the orange or something far darker, she didn’t know—but she looked away from him pointedly.
He chuckled, the sound making her stomach tremble, and she couldn’t help but glance back at him.
His black eyes met hers. “I don’t taint the fruit simply by touching it.”
When a Rogue Meets His Match Page 7