When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,26
if he hadn’t wanted to wake her.
Almost as if he cared.
Messalina scoffed beneath her breath. Hawthorne was a bully for hire—cold, cynical, and emotionless. He didn’t care about another soul in the world.
Except…did she really still believe that? He’d not been emotionless last night with Sam.
He’d not been heartless.
If Hawthorne wasn’t an unfeeling villain, then her opinion of him had been wrong from the start. And that begged the question: What else had she gotten wrong about him?
Hawthorne glanced up as if aware of her thoughts, and the corner of his mouth quirked. “Orange?”
The segment he held out looked tempting—plump and juicy—but she pursed her lips and shook her head. “No, thank you.”
“No?” Her refusal seemed to amuse him. He bit into the segment, the scent of orange bursting into the air. Juice ran down his fingers, and he sucked on a knuckle before popping the rest of the segment into his mouth. “It’s quite good.”
Her mouth was watering—whether for the orange or something far darker, she didn’t know—but she looked away from him pointedly.
He chuckled, the sound making her stomach tremble, and she couldn’t help but glance back at him.
His black eyes met hers. “I don’t taint the fruit simply by touching it.”
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