When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,13

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