When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,12
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?”