When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,25

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 muzzy 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