She lifted her chin. “Are you sure?”
His smile this time was hard. “If food could be spoiled by common hands, all of London’s aristocracy would be ill. Everything you eat and drink is made and served by the labor of commoners.”
She frowned. That hadn’t been what she’d meant. Her flippant reply had been a reference to him, not his rank in society.
Perhaps it didn’t matter at the moment. She’d insulted him in a way that was simply wrong. Her antipathy for him was for his actions, not for who he was.
And she no longer was completely certain who he was.
She impulsively held out her hand. “Very well.”
He stilled, his demonic eyebrows raised, before he slowly handed her a segment, brushing his fingers across her palm as he did so.
She had trouble keeping her breath even.
She bit into the fruit. He was right. The orange was sweet and acidic on her tongue, a single taste so acute to her senses that she closed her eyes in involuntary bliss. He made a small sound—a grunt or possibly a cut-off expletive—and she opened her eyes again.
He watched her with an expression that made her want to look away. Except she couldn’t. His sinful lips were slightly parted and his black eyes were predatory.
She ought to be frightened of such explicit male regard.
She swallowed. “It’s lovely.”
His lips curved almost self-mockingly as he held her eyes. “Oh yes, it is.”
Was he talking about her? They were such trite words, but the way he looked at her as he said them…
The carriage jerked to a sudden halt, and she was finally able to tear her gaze away. Outside the window, London bustled by. They were very near Bond Street if she wasn’t mistaken.
“Shall we?” Hawthorne asked as he stood.
The carriage door opened, and he climbed down before turning to offer his hand to her.
It was only as Messalina placed her palm in his that she remembered. This would be the first time she’d been in public with Hawthorne as her new husband. Had the news spread yet?
Silly question. This was London. Such ripe gossip would’ve wafted through society like the stink of rotten fruit.
Messalina lifted her chin and took the elbow that Hawthorne offered her.
He turned and nodded to Reggie and a man she’d not seen before, short but muscled. “Stay within ten feet, but wait outside any shops we enter.”
Reggie nodded for the both of them. “Guv.”
Gideon turned to her. “You look as if you’re going into battle,” he said. “I had no idea that shopping was such grim business.”
“Didn’t you?” she replied lightly. “Well, then, you haven’t done much shopping, I think.”
The summer day was hot and sunny. The carriage was only steps away from Bond Street, and they had to enter the streaming throng in order to make their way. Ladies at the height of fashion strolled arm in arm, footmen or maids following discreetly behind. A gaggle of army officers swaggered by, their voices loud and crass. Young gentlemen in curling white wigs and pink and lavender suits walked along, preening as they caught a lady’s eye. A flower girl bawled her wares, violets bundled in newspaper twists in a basket set upon her head. Liveried footmen hurried along on their employers’ errands. A sailor, missing an arm and an eye, held out a tin cup in mute supplication.
And on every street corner a gang of small boys with ragged brooms stood in the way of those wishing to cross and demanded pennies to sweep the street clean.
As they neared a cluster of the boys, Hawthorne withdrew a handful of pennies from his pocket and gave one to each. The children scampered into the street, ignoring the shouted threats from a dray driver passing by. They swept with great vigor, though Messalina wasn’t entirely sure that the street was any cleaner than before.
She leaned a little closer to Hawthorne. “I would’ve thought that you’d consider paying the street sweeper boys a waste of money.”
She felt him stiffen fractionally. “It’s just pennies.”
“Mm,” she murmured. “And yet it’s rather kind of you.”
She looked at him just in time to see him make a grimace of irritation. “Kindness has nothing to do with it. I was once a boy like that. The pennies they earn in a day might feed not just them but—”
“Miss Greycourt!”
Messalina stopped. It was either that or walk into the handsome gentleman before them.
Lord Coxson’s gaze flicked from her face to Hawthorne’s, and her heart dropped as a malicious smirk crossed his face. “Oh, but I beg your pardon. It’s Mrs. Hawthorne now, isn’t it?”
* * *
His knife slipped into his palm as naturally as breathing.
Gideon narrowed his eyes at the aristocrat blocking the walkway. The man wore a greasy grin beneath an overcurled wig and carried a long ebony cane as an affectation. Gideon couldn’t remember his name, but the face was recognizable enough—the lordling had courted Messalina two years ago. His self-importance had set Gideon’s teeth on edge. It had been all the more satisfying, then, when Messalina had turned him away.
He could feel Reg and Johnny behind him, and Gideon gave a hand signal meaning stay back.
He examined the fop blocking their way.
“Stand aside,” Gideon said, and for some reason that made the ass’s grin widen.
He’d wipe that grin right off—
Messalina laid her palm on Gideon’s chest, surprising him into immobility. “Now, darling, you mustn’t be so impatient with well-wishers.” She turned to the man with a suspiciously placid smile. “Lord Coxcomb, isn’t it?”
“Coxson,” the man snapped. His grin had slipped.
“I do beg your pardon. Lord Coxson, of course,” Messalina replied, waving aside his correction as if his name mattered little. “This is my dear husband, Gideon Hawthorne.”
The adoring smile she turned on Gideon made something in his chest trip. Fool! She was obviously acting for the dandy.
“Hawthorne.” Coxson tapped his forefinger against his chin, making a play out of pretending to think. “Why, don’t you work for your wife’s uncle? Please tell me if I misremember.”
Gideon rolled his shoulder in preparation for—
“Oh dear,” Messalina cried, looking concerned. “Forgetfulness at your age, my lord? Indeed, you must see a physician immediately. What if it’s a symptom of some concerning—perhaps fatal—disease of the mind? I should hate to see you die at so callow an age.” Coxson frowned, but before he could reply, Messalina pulled insistently at Gideon’s arm. “We must be away, but I do thank you for your gracious felicitations on our marriage.”
Gideon glanced at her.
Messalina widened her eyes pointedly.
He sighed and reluctantly slipped his knife back up his sleeve as they walked on.
They were several yards distant from Coxson when Messalina whispered, “Was that a knife in your hand?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t stab a man on Bond Street,” she hissed.
He glanced at her pinkened cheeks and pulled her closer. “I assure you I can.”
“That’s not what I mean!”
“No?” He suppressed a smirk. “Then what is?”
She heaved a gusty sigh as if terribly burdened. “You must be on your guard.”
“I rather thought I was.”
“Oh, my Lord,” she muttered under her breath. “Not that sort of guard.”
“Then?” he demanded. “What are you trying to say?”
She was silent for several steps and he was surprised.
He didn’t think her so easily silenced.
She said, slowly, “You need to watch for people like him, and you can’t use your knife, no matter the mockery and sly glances. There’ll be more of those, you know, especially if you truly want to somehow enter society. The aristocracy will close on you like wolves on an injured rabbit and tear you apart.”
“That’s quite a blo
ody image,” he said mildly. Did she really think an aristocrat could ever touch him?
She made a sound almost like a growl under her breath.
An elderly gentleman passing them shied away.
Messalina didn’t seem to notice. “Doesn’t it bother you? The manner in which Lord Coxson looked at you?”
As if he were a worm beneath Coxson’s shoe.
Gideon said grimly, “Oh, it bothers me. But unlike you, I’m used to that expression.”
She was silent as they strolled up Bond Street.
Finally he said, “Perhaps you think that dirty looks are no more than I deserve.”
She said pensively, “I’m not certain anymore what you deserve.”
“Aren’t you?” He watched her as she seemed to contemplate the matter.
“No,” she said, turning to give him a searching glance. “You’re so obviously a blackguard on the outside—you seem to revel in it, in fact. And yet I see these glimpses of another man sometimes.”
“And what do you think of this other man?” he asked politely, even though he knew well that there was no other man. He was exactly what he appeared—a man who would do anything to get what he wanted.
“I don’t know yet. I’ve only seen him once or twice.” She hesitated, then said, “I saw him last night, I think. When you gave Sam the job of taking care of that puppy.”
He grunted. “Don’t mistake practicality for kindness.”
“Practicality would have been dismissing a servant caught stealing.”
He frowned at that thought. “Sam has no family. Pea said that Sam stole the candlestick for a gang of older boys. I doubt they would still be friendly to him were he dismissed. He’d starve on the streets.”
“Starve?” Messalina stopped suddenly.
He turned to look at her.
Messalina’s eyes were wide in alarm. “But there must be places he could go?”
Gideon shrugged. “The poorhouse. But it’s overcrowded and nasty. He might beg on the streets. He’d probably not make enough to feed himself. If he did, any coin he gathered would be stolen from him.” Gideon didn’t mention the less savory ways a small boy could make money on the streets. “He’d likely be dead within the year.”
“That’s awful,” Messalina whispered. “I suppose I never thought of what happened when a servant is turned off.”
“You never had to,” he replied, urging her to continue walking.
“No, you’re right,” she said pensively. “But it makes your decision to keep Sam all the more laudable.”
The look she gave him was a new one—one he’d never seen directed at him by her.
She looked approving.
And something within him sank. Because he wasn’t a kind or gentle man. He was going to kill her brother.
That didn’t matter. What he did for the duke and his marriage to Messalina were separate things. And if she never found out how her brother had died…Well, then it wouldn’t affect him. He wouldn’t let it affect either him or Messalina.
She must never know the price he paid for keeping her.
He stopped and pulled open a door beneath a huge, showy sign that read, Harrison & Sons Fine Furnishings.
“After you,” he said, letting her precede him.
The room they entered was a wide space lined with all manner of furniture, from tiny ornate tables on spindly legs to massive bed frames with carved posts.
A young, bewigged clerk hurried forward and bowed. “May I be of service, sir, madam?”
Messalina smiled easily at the man. “Not at the moment, no. We would like to look at your wares first.”
“Naturally. Naturally. Please let me know at once should you have any questions.” The clerk bowed again and went to lurk near the door, most likely the better to pounce on any entering customers.
Messalina inhaled deeply as if tasting fresh ocean air. “Isn’t this wonderful?”
Without waiting for his reply, she strolled deeper into the maze of ridiculous furniture. Gideon trailed her, watching her skirts swish as she flitted from piece to piece. She seemed to be in her own dream, delighted by the wealth of choices before her.
Gideon’s lips twitched.
Messalina stopped to trace her fingers over the mother-of-pearl inlay on a small table. Both impractical and very, very expensive-looking. “So pretty.”
Gideon felt his jaw clench.
As if aware of his silent criticism, she peered up at him through her eyelashes. “You look as if you’ve swallowed something disgusting.”
“Such extravagance”—he gestured at the room—“makes me feel…”
“Miserly?” she cut in, and then, before he could answer, came back with, “Parsimonious? Closefisted? Penurious?” A smile was flickering about her lips.
Her smile could stop a man’s heart.
“Your vocabulary is excellent, madam,” he said drily. “All this makes me uneasy.” He laced his hands behind his back as they continued their meander. “It isn’t in my plans to furnish my house like a princeling. Why spend money on items made more for show than for function? One eats the same whether on rough boards or on an ebony table.”
“That’s true, but…” She was silent a moment, and then she said slowly, “You were born poor.”
His eyes narrowed. Was she mocking his past? “Yes.”
“Did you lack for food?” Her brows knitted; perhaps she was remembering their earlier discussion about Sam.
He laughed shortly, without amusement. “Every day. My mother was a charwoman, among other things.” He glanced at her and decided not to mention the nights that Mam had walked the streets. The nights when there was no food to be had and all their coin was gone. Gideon had spent those nights huddled with Eddie under shop bulks or in doorways. Even a bed in St Giles was a penny or two.
“And your father?” Messalina asked softly.
He shook his head. “Never knew him.”
“Yours must’ve been a lonely childhood,” she said with far too much sympathy.
That he didn’t like. He didn’t need her pity. “I had a younger brother, Eddie.”
Either she didn’t see his distaste for the subject or she didn’t care. “Where are your mother and brother now?”
“Both dead.” He stopped and said bluntly, “Do you pity me? You needn’t. I’m a man grown.”
His tone was aggressive, but her voice remained gentle as she answered, “I’m so sorry.”
He studied her face. He knew she hated him for forcing her into marriage, but the simple words seemed in earnest. “It was long ago. I hardly remember what they looked like.”
Her eyes widened in what seemed like horror. “That only makes it worse. At least I have miniatures of Mama and Papa and poor Aurelia to remind me of their faces. I don’t suppose…”
He laughed, the sound sharp. “There were no miniaturists in St Giles.”
She nodded. “I can understand, then, why you are careful with your money. Once you had none at all.”
He eyed her, suspicious as to where her words were leading. “What do you mean to say?”
She shook her head as if irritated at herself, walking away. “I…No matter. I shouldn’t interfere.”
“Messalina.”
His growl stopped her. She looked back at him, proud and aristocratic and unreadable.
But then her expression broke and she spoke as if unwillingly, her words urgent. “You aren’t that boy in St Giles anymore. He might be inside you, and some aspects of him may never disappear, but you are a wealthy man now. What is more, you wish to enter society. If you are to do that you have to understand that furniture, carpets, draperies, and all the small items that decorate a great house are important not simply for their beauty or comfort, but because society will judge you on how your home is furnished.” She stepped closer to him, her hand hovering near his chest as if she would touch him before she let it drop. “You aren’t a penniless orphan anymore. Don’t live like one.”
&nbs
p; He shouldn’t trust her pretty pleas. She wanted the furniture, and her argument served her wishes. What did she understand of him and his goals?
But.
But Messalina’s face was open and strangely vulnerable as she watched him. He shouldn’t trust her. He shouldn’t.
And yet he did.
“Very well.” Gideon took the hand she’d let fall by her side and tucked it into his elbow. “Let us buy furniture, then.”
* * *
Two hours later Messalina watched Hawthorne from under her eyelashes. They were in the carriage, returning home after an exhausting but fruitful shopping trip.
He was sprawled on the worn seat cushions across from her, watching her from under his eyelashes, his midnight eyes glittering. “Satisfied?”
“You know I’m not,” she said crisply. “I told you that you’ll need far more furniture for Whispers if you want to entertain the ton.”
No emotion crossed his face. “I see no need to throw balls or useless parties for my entrance into society. It’s a waste of both my money and my time.”
He dismissed her by staring out the window, arms crossed against his chest, long legs taking up far too much room in the carriage.
His stubbornness shouldn’t bother her. She would be gone from his house and his life in less than a month now. And yet she couldn’t help replying, “But that’s the way things are done in the aristocracy. There’s an introduction, polite discussions over several social meetings, a sort of dance between the partners, studying each other before the subject of business is even broached.”
He snorted. “The aristocracy are terrible at business—it takes them too long to come to the table.”
She pressed her lips together. This wasn’t her problem. “You are possibly the most obstinate man I know.”
He turned to look at her, his wicked eyebrows slanting devilishly. “And you are the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met.”
She widened her eyes in mock innocence. “You’ve known so many women, then?”
“A few.” His sinful lips curved at some memory.
Damn him.
She could feel the heat invading her cheeks, but she pressed on. “Were they women who were able to speak their minds freely to you?”
“What do you mean?”
When a Rogue Meets His Match Page 8