A frisson of horror went down Messalina’s back.
Their uncle had made that threat against Lucretia. But if they didn’t attend, Uncle Augustus would be enraged.
And he might take that rage out on someone closer to him than they.
Suddenly the tea was bitter on her tongue. She set down her cup. “Remember that Gideon will be there. He will keep you safe.”
“Even so…” Lucretia bit her lip. “Perhaps I should cry off with a headache or some such.”
Messalina shook her head. “That will only draw attention to you. Better that we seem to do as he bids like docile little sheep.”
Her sister wrinkled her nose. “Ew.”
“Quite.” Messalina grimaced in sympathy. “What if Julian and Quintus come as well? I’m sure they’ve been invited—or rather ordered—to the event. Then you’ll have three protectors.”
“Very well.” Lucretia knit her brows and then blurted, “The thing is, what if Uncle Augustus plans to arrange a marriage for me as well? He sprang yours on us without any warning. It would make sense that he has some awful man lined up for me as well.”
Messalina’s breath stopped in her chest. Should she tell Lucretia of the duke’s threat? But to what end? Lucretia was already nervous and on edge.
Would telling her do anything besides make her more fearful?
“I doubt he’d do it at Aunt Ann’s ball,” she said slowly. “There would be too many witnesses who might intervene. But you’re right. We need to get you away from Uncle Augustus.”
Which meant she needed her portion of the dowry.
Lucretia sighed. “I haven’t even heard from Julian or Quintus. Did they send word to you?”
“Blast,” Messalina muttered, rummaging in the pocket of her dress. “Yes, they did, and I meant to tell you. They’ve taken rooms. Here.”
She held out a note with the Greycourt seal.
Lucretia took it and opened the paper to reveal Julian’s elegant scrawl. She scanned the short note and handed it back. “I confess that I’m surprised they haven’t called on us today. After last night’s row I was sure they would storm the door and drag us both away.”
Messalina pursed her lips at the nymphs above them. “Perhaps Julian has lost interest.”
“And Quintus is probably in his cups.”
“They didn’t used to be this way, you know,” Messalina said quietly. “Before Aurelia.”
“I seem to remember Julian laughing,” Lucretia said musingly.
“He did laugh,” Messalina said, feeling a sharp pain in her breast. “They all did—Jules, Ran, and Kester.”
They’d seemed like young gods to her girlish eyes. It was difficult to remember that they’d been only seventeen.
Not men at all.
But Freya had made her peace, both with Messalina and with Kester, enough to fall in love with Kester and marry him.
“I don’t remember much before Aurelia died,” Lucretia said sadly.
“Well, you were only eight. It’s hard to explain.” Messalina thought a moment. “Aurelia was so bright. So golden. She seemed to glow with laughter and impishness and kindness. When she died, I think something in our family was lost.”
Lucretia sighed wistfully.
“Before she died I remember all three boys being the best of friends,” Messalina continued. “They ran wild in the country, were closer than brothers. At the time I never would’ve imagined them apart.” She smiled sadly. “But then I never would’ve imagined Julian so grim, either.”
“I wish I could remember more about that time,” Lucretia said softly. “More about Mama and Papa and Aurelia. More about what it was like before.”
Messalina didn’t say anything, but her shoulder bumped Lucretia’s. Papa had died when Messalina was eleven and Lucretia seven. And the next year Aurelia had died in mysterious circumstances, followed very quickly by Mama. They’d lived in Greycourt their entire short lives and it was a shock—a terrible shock—to lose not only Mama on the heels of Aurelia’s death but their home as well.
For the last thing Mama had done before she’d died was make sure that Messalina and Lucretia would be sent to her cousin. That cousin had been a bachelor gentleman, elderly and not interested in the sudden acquisition of girl children. They’d been comfortable enough, fed, clothed, and housed, but it hadn’t been home.
And when their cousin died, they were forced to live with Uncle Augustus. Their cousin had been indifferent, but the duke was malicious, and that was far worse. He’d never harmed them physically, but he enjoyed berating them nightly for the smallest of things—a torn hem, laughing too loudly, not finishing their porridge. His punishments had been petty and cruel.
In the end they’d learned to avoid their uncle at all costs. And, if they caught his notice, to show no reaction to his vicious moods.
That was why Messalina had always wanted a home of their own for her and Lucretia—always until very recently. Because of Gideon, she’d found her determination wavering. Guilt swept her at the thought. She needed to think about Lucretia and her safety.
She couldn’t give up their plan to run away—not with the duke plotting to marry her sister off.
She couldn’t.
Lucretia yawned again and put her teacup down. “Oh, I suppose I really ought to go to bed,” she said reluctantly. “Do you know when I was little I used to wish I was an owl?”
Messalina blinked, startled. “Why?”
“All the most interesting things happen in the dark of night,” Lucretia replied sleepily.
Messalina laughed. “I’m afraid even owls need sleep.”
She rose with Lucretia, and they made their way companionably up the stairs before saying their good nights at Lucretia’s door.
Messalina turned to go to her own bedroom. Gideon had said that he had work to do after dinner, but perhaps he would be done and waiting for her.
She remembered how he’d held her the night before and quickened her steps.
But when she arrived at their bedroom she saw that he wasn’t there. Instead Bartlett stood ready to undress her.
Messalina was forced to hide her disappointment.
Her evening toilet was quick tonight—Messalina wanted to brood by herself. Only minutes later she dismissed Bartlett and wandered to the fire. She wasn’t at all sleepy, and she wished she’d bought a book during the shopping trip with Lucretia.
She turned to the bed and for the first time noticed a folded piece of paper on her pillow.
Messalina bit her lip, quelling the smile that threatened to take over her face, and opened the letter.
I AM BATHING
That was the entire note, but Messalina knew an invitation when she received one.
* * *
When the door to the bathing chamber opened, Gideon didn’t raise his head from the rim of the tub. He knew who it was, and he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt and on the eternal damnation of his blackened soul, that to seduce Messalina now was immoral. Unethical. Sinful.
He couldn’t make himself stop.
His hunger for Messalina had grown beyond his control.
Every step of his every day had always been meticulously mapped out to eventually lead him to his ultimate goal: power and money. Yet since he’d married Messalina there had been a worrying amount of deviation from his plots and plans.
He was spending too much time with his wife. Spending too much time thinking about the day he’d lose her.
He’d never been so conflicted over a decision that should have been simple: kill Julian, receive his money.
But there was Messalina, haunting him with her kindness. With her tenderness.
He’d never flinched from a knife fight, no matter how big the opponent. He’d lived and worked in St Giles without any trepidation. Had looked a duke in the eye and made pacts with the man. But now?
Now he was afraid to his very depths—afraid of losing her.
Afraid of betraying her.
He o
pened his eyes and saw Messalina standing just inside the door. She wore her white wrapper, her black hair down about her shoulders in a glorious wave, and he longed for her.
She closed the door and leaned against it. “You owe me my dowry portion.”
“I do,” he said. “And you shall have it.”
“When?”
He calculated how soon he could get the moneys from his bank. It would nearly beggar him, but the only other way meant the death of her brother. He couldn’t make that move quite yet. “In four days’ time.”
She looked momentarily conflicted. Then she raised her chin. “Very well.”
“Let’s not talk money now.” He held out a hand to her.
She sauntered to the tub. “I thought you might want company?”
Her words were bold, but her fingers trembled as she laid them in his palm.
“I do,” he said, pulling her closer.
“Do you?” she asked, breathless, as she bent to him.
He slid his hand into her hair, leaving behind a wet trail on her skin. As if he’d marked her as his. The thought made his cock pulse with need.
“Take this off,” he rasped, his voice gravel-rough, tugging at the ribbon that held the wrapper closed.
She let the garment fall to the floor before she pulled her nightgown over her head. And then she stood before him, nude.
Beautiful, nude, and, in this moment, his.
He let himself look. From sweetly curved breasts to the indent of her belly to the long, smooth lines of her hips. To the black bush between her thighs, red lips peeking out from the curls.
When he glanced up at her, her cheeks were almost as red.
“Join me,” he whispered.
She looked doubtfully at the bathtub. “It’s too full. The water will spill out if I get in.”
He pulled her closer. “I don’t care.”
She braced her hand on his shoulder and stepped into the water, her legs straddling his. She hesitated, standing there as if uncertain how to proceed.
“Like this,” he murmured, tugging her closer. “Sit down facing me.”
She folded her legs, the splash of water on the tiles loud as she lowered herself. It was a tight fit, but in a moment she was on his lap and he was too busy gathering her plump breasts into his hands to care. Her soft arse was nestled right against his cock and balls, torturing him with temptation.
She lifted the farthing on the chain about his neck. “Do you never take this off?”
He pushed the thought of his dead brother away. “Never.”
“It must be important to you if you hold it so dear.” Her gray eyes searched his.
He shook his head, refusing to answer, and watched her eyes grow a little sad.
Then she leaned toward him, offering her lips, and he took them. Her mouth was sweet and hot and she suckled on his tongue as he flicked her nipples with his thumbs. Her hands were braced on his shoulders, and he felt her nails digging into his skin and didn’t care.
He didn’t care about anything save her at the moment.
He lifted his head to draw breath, to try to still the beating of his heart, to slow down, but he’d lost all reason, it seemed. He dipped his right hand into the water, feeling her maiden hair curl about his fingers, delicate and fine.
“Gideon,” she moaned. “Oh, Gideon.”
His name, whispered on her rose-pink lips, was the most erotic thing he’d ever heard.
He trailed his fingers into her valley, finding that little pearl sitting at the top of her slit. He caught it and rolled the nub between his fingers, bracing her back with his arm as she arched. She tried to widen her legs, but the tub was confining.
He stroked into her depths with his middle finger, feeling her heated velvet flesh catch and hold him.
God, he wanted his cock there instead.
But he was a canny man. A man who could wait and bide his time for the perfect moment. He thrust into her with one hand—slowly, gently—as he pinched her pearl with the other.
She moaned, loud in the quiet room, and it came to him that the door was not locked. That Keys or Reggie or one of his other men might come at any moment to see if he wanted more hot water.
He should quit and bundle her together. Take her away to hide her nakedness.
But he couldn’t. His prick was rampant between them, hard and demanding. The ruddy thing seemed to pound with need.
He turned his head to kiss her jaw. “Come for me, darling.”
She bit her lip as if in agony, and he pressed down on her clitoris, rubbing in a gentle circle.
“Oh,” she said. “Please.”
He felt a spike of desire and had to steady himself. Not yet.
She gripped his shoulders hard, her eyes closed tightly, her lips parted, her head thrown back.
Wanton.
As seductive as a siren.
“Come,” he whispered.
He wanted to rub his cock against her.
But this wasn’t for him.
Her hips arched up, shaking, splashing more water onto the marble floor in a wave.
She froze for a moment like that, moaning softly as he worked her through her bliss.
Then she sagged against him, limp and sated, her lips bitten red.
He lifted her, urgent, a bit clumsy. He was in danger of spending before he could breach her. He’d outsmarted himself by waiting so long as she twisted sensuously against him.
But she raised her head, lifting her hips for him as she looked him in the eye. He held his cock in one hand until he found her wet, hot, welcoming softness.
And then he thrust.
She moaned as he entered her, parting those folds, sinking into her, but not far enough. Only the head of his prick penetrated her.
Jesus.
He needed more. It was agonizingly frustrating.
He wanted to claim her, bury himself in her and make her his.
She rode him carefully, sheathing him and unsheathing his head, again and again, far too slowly.
Driving him mad.
Every muscle in his body shook as he held himself still.
“Gideon,” she slurred, teasing him with her cunt. “Oh God, Gideon.”
He wanted…
“Deeper,” he gasped. “Take me deeper.”
She shook her head.
He thought he might die.
She opened her mouth over his, hot and wet, as she ground herself against him. Her nipples brushed his chest and he wasn’t sure he could take any more.
Then slowly, almost lazily, she took his prick inch by inch inside her.
God. Her heat. Her tightness.
His tilted his head back and groaned, his cock pulsing. His come was pulled from him in almost painful ecstasy as he filled her.
As he marked her as his.
But he knew even then in his extremity: it was she who had claimed him.
* * *
Three days later Messalina placed her hand in Gideon’s broad palm and stepped down from their carriage. She shook out her skirts as Gideon turned to help Lucretia. Then she looked up.
Windemere House was alight with torches and lanterns as carriages delivered the cream of society to its front steps.
Messalina assessed the attendance. There would be more people in town in another month. She’d have to prepare for a larger assembly when she threw a ball for Gideon.
She realized suddenly that she was planning to stay with Gideon.
The thought made her smile tremulously.
“How do I look?” Lucretia asked, drawing her attention.
Messalina turned to contemplate her sister. Lucretia wore a shimmering ice-blue frock with white lace spilling from the elbow-length sleeves. Her bodice was embroidered with yellow and red flowers, and the edges of the dress were trimmed in silver lace all along the front. Lucretia’s glossy black hair was pulled back from her face and knotted at her crown, with pearls threaded through the locks.
If not for the fear in her
eyes, she’d be perfect.
“You’re lovely,” Messalina said with sincerity. “Every gentleman at the ball will fall at your feet, and every lady will turn green with envy.”
“Oh, good,” Lucretia replied with a nervous pat to her hair. “That was what I was aiming for.”
Gideon snorted and held out his arms. “If you’re ready, ladies.”
Messalina caught her breath at his smile, feeling herself blush. The last few days had been full of lovemaking—tender lovemaking—and she was both more comfortable with her husband and shyer. Which really didn’t make sense, but there it was. Gideon had held her all last night, his nude skin against hers in their bed, and it had felt so warm and cozy and right. As if they were married in more than just name.
Maybe they were.
But if she stayed…Her gaze went to Lucretia as she took Gideon’s arm.
If she remained with Gideon and had a real marriage with him, Lucretia would be in danger. Unless Julian could somehow take her away?
Then Messalina could enjoy a life she’d never expected to be granted.
Her heart squeezed at the thought of living far away from Lucretia. Perhaps Gideon and his men could be protection enough for her sister. Perhaps they could live together in London, happy and content. And if Messalina didn’t use her dowry portion to escape, then…
She had a vision of Sam’s eager face. Of other boys like Sam.
Her future held exciting new possibilities, precious and fragile like the skin of a newborn.
Right now, though, they had to run Uncle Augustus’s gauntlet. Messalina squared her shoulders and made sure her smile was in place. Gideon wore one of his new suits—hastily put together at a truly exorbitant price by Mr. Underwood and his tailors—and he looked as fine as any gentleman.
Tonight she planned to introduce Gideon into society.
She took a shaky breath.
Gideon caught her eye and winked, and she felt something perilously close to hope flutter in her chest. He was the reason she was doing this.
They mounted the stairs to Windemere House, and Messalina couldn’t help reflecting on how much happier she was tonight than the last time she’d entered her uncle’s residence. Their awful marriage seemed so long ago now, though of course it wasn’t.
When a Rogue Meets His Match Page 21