When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,30
know.”
He turned to look at her, his wicked eyebrows slanting devilishly. “And you are the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met.”
She widened her eyes in mock innocence. “You’ve known so many women, then?”
“A few.” His sinful lips curved at some memory.
Damn him.
She could feel the heat invading her cheeks, but she pressed on. “Were they women who were able to speak their minds freely to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“If they were beholden to you, they could hardly tell you what they thought of you,” she pointed out. “Servants, shopkeepers, ladies who, er…”
She floundered a bit at that point.
“Whores, you mean.” He was watching her still.
She nodded stiffly, refusing to look away from him. “Yes. Mistresses and streetwalkers. They are paid companions and thus are hardly likely to speak ill of you.”
“No woman has ever had occasion to speak ill of me.” His eyelids lowered, his face impossibly voluptuous.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Except me.”
“Except you.” He cocked his head mockingly. “But then you haven’t seen the best of me.”
“No, I haven’t,” she replied, leaning forward as the carriage swayed around the corner. “If—if—there is a good side to you. If there is something redeeming within you, why haven’t you shown it to me? Why did you hide your kindness to Sam?”
He shrugged, glancing away from her stare. “I don’t hide anything. I’m surprised you’re interested in the boy.”
She inhaled. “You think I wouldn’t care about the welfare of a small boy?”
His lips twisted. “A small poor boy.”
She felt the insult like a blow to her stomach. “I assure you,” she said, “that Sam’s station in life doesn’t matter to me.”
“Doesn’t it?” His expression was cynical.
“No.”
“As you will.”
She fumed silently as the carriage rattled through London. Why would he think so badly of her? Or did he have the same jaded view of everyone?
“I don’t understand you,” she burst out. “I can’t tell if you are simply a villain or if you’re something more.”
His upper lip lifted as he drawled, “It’s easier for you to think of me as a villain, isn’t it?”
“It is.” She stared at him. “I’m still not sure you’re not the villain, frankly.”
“Mm. Have you noticed that villains have no thoughts of their own?” He spread his hands and tilted them toward his own chest. “They are there only to be hated.”
“Is that what you want to be?” she asked softly. “Hated?”
He thought and then shrugged. “It doesn’t matter if I wish to be hated or not. I’m not the one who decides.”
She bit her lip, glancing down at her lap. Had she wronged him in thinking him a villain? But his actions toward her were villainous. This might be only a ruse to confuse her—a more subtle form of persuasion than the puppy. She simply couldn’t tell.
She looked back up at him. “What happens if I decide that you’re not a villain?”
He blinked—a small sign, almost unnoticeable, but she caught it. “Nothing.”
She cocked her head, feeling as if she’d scored a point in this obscure game. “Truly?”
He simply watched her, not answering, but his black eyes seemed puzzled.
Messalina smiled at him, suddenly feeling quite cheerful.
The carriage stopped, and she glanced out the window and saw they were back at Whispers.
Hawthorne helped her from the carriage and accompanied her into the house, where he hesitated a moment.
He seemed to come to a decision. “I want to show you something.”
He held out his arm, and though she was a bit suspicious, her curiosity won out.
She placed her palm on his arm.
They walked back through the house, past the mysterious door she wasn’t allowed to open, and to the kitchens.
As Hawthorne ushered her into the kitchens, a young redheaded man caught sight of them and jumped up from the stool where he’d been sitting.
“Guv!” the young man exclaimed. He was tall and thin and carried himself awkwardly, as if he didn’t know what to do with all his long limbs.
Beside him was a girl who couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen. She simply gawked at them, her hands tangled in her apron.
“Stand down, Hicks,” Hawthorne said.
But Messalina was distracted by what she saw near the fireplace. She walked over, Hawthorne following her.
Curled up there was Sam, asleep on a pallet with the puppy draped over his chest, the animal’s small head nestled into the boy’s neck.
Messalina turned to Hawthorne and whispered, “You are shameless.”
Hawthorne cocked a brow.
She huffed, turning back to the sleeping boy and puppy. They were simply adorable.