boards or on an ebony table.”
“That’s true, but…” She was silent a moment, and then she said slowly, “You were born poor.”
His eyes narrowed. Was she mocking his past? “Yes.”
“Did you lack for food?” Her brows knitted; perhaps she was remembering their earlier discussion about Sam.
He laughed shortly, without amusement. “Every day. My mother was a charwoman, among other things.” He glanced at her and decided not to mention the nights that Mam had walked the streets. The nights when there was no food to be had and all their coin was gone. Gideon had spent those nights huddled with Eddie under shop bulks or in doorways. Even a bed in St Giles was a penny or two.
“And your father?” Messalina asked softly.
He shook his head. “Never knew him.”
“Yours must’ve been a lonely childhood,” she said with far too much sympathy.
That he didn’t like. He didn’t need her pity. “I had a younger brother, Eddie.”
Either she didn’t see his distaste for the subject or she didn’t care. “Where are your mother and brother now?”
“Both dead.” He stopped and said bluntly, “Do you pity me? You needn’t. I’m a man grown.”
His tone was aggressive, but her voice remained gentle as she answered, “I’m so sorry.”
He studied her face. He knew she hated him for forcing her into marriage, but the simple words seemed in earnest. “It was long ago. I hardly remember what they looked like.”
Her eyes widened in what seemed like horror. “That only makes it worse. At least I have miniatures of Mama and Papa and poor Aurelia to remind me of their faces. I don’t suppose…”
He laughed, the sound sharp. “There were no miniaturists in St Giles.”
She nodded. “I can understand, then, why you are careful with your money. Once you had none at all.”
He eyed her, suspicious as to where her words were leading. “What do you mean to say?”
She shook her head as if irritated at herself, walking away. “I…No matter. I shouldn’t interfere.”
“Messalina.”
His growl stopped her. She looked back at him, proud and aristocratic and unreadable.
But then her expression broke and she spoke as if unwillingly, her words urgent. “You aren’t that boy in St Giles anymore. He might be inside you, and some aspects of him may never disappear, but you are a wealthy man now. What is more, you wish to enter society. If you are to do that you have to understand that furniture, carpets, draperies, and all the small items that decorate a great house are important not simply for their beauty or comfort, but because society will judge you on how your home is furnished.” She stepped closer to him, her hand hovering near his chest as if she would touch him before she let it drop. “You aren’t a penniless orphan anymore. Don’t live like one.”
He shouldn’t trust her pretty pleas. She wanted the furniture, and her argument served her wishes. What did she understand of him and his goals?
But.
But Messalina’s face was open and strangely vulnerable as she watched him. He shouldn’t trust her. He shouldn’t.
And yet he did.
“Very well.” Gideon took the hand she’d let fall by her side and tucked it into his elbow. “Let us buy furniture, then.”
* * *
Two hours later Messalina watched Hawthorne from under her eyelashes. They were in the carriage, returning home after an exhausting but fruitful shopping trip.
He was sprawled on the worn seat cushions across from her, watching her from under his eyelashes, his midnight eyes glittering. “Satisfied?”
“You know I’m not,” she said crisply. “I told you that you’ll need far more furniture for Whispers if you want to entertain the ton.”
No emotion crossed his face. “I see no need to throw balls or useless parties for my entrance into society. It’s a waste of both my money and my time.”
He dismissed her by staring out the window, arms crossed against his chest, long legs taking up far too much room in the carriage.
His stubbornness shouldn’t bother her. She would be gone from his house and his life in less than a month now. And yet she couldn’t help replying, “But that’s the way things are done in the aristocracy. There’s an introduction, polite discussions over several social meetings, a sort of dance between the partners, studying each other before the subject of business is even broached.”
He snorted. “The aristocracy are terrible at business—it takes them too long to come to the table.”
She pressed her lips together. This wasn’t her problem. “You are possibly the most obstinate man I