When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,32

mind had turned to the problem of Hawthorne. She was letting him in, finding herself too interested in how his mind worked, becoming sensitized to his nearness, his eyes, the wicked way he smiled at her. And all that?

Was dangerous.

* * *

Julian doffed his tricorne as he entered the small inn. Water spilled out from the curled brim and spattered into the puddle already on the flagstones.

He huffed and made his way to the tiny private room at the back of the inn.

“Well?” Lucretia immediately asked as he entered.

Quinn sat beside her with a tankard in his fist.

Julian shook his head and pulled a chair closer to the fireplace. “The road’s a river. The coachman refused to drive on it, and there’s no other road that will take a carriage.”

“Oh, but we can’t wait another day!” Lucretia looked near tears.

“I’m sorry.” Julian took a moment to wipe his face with an already-sodden handkerchief. He hated the delay just as much as she, and were he alone he might try riding to London.

But he wasn’t alone. He had Lucretia and Quinn with him, and while Julian ought to be able to leave his sister with his brother…Julian glanced at Quinn’s nodding head. How many tankards had he drunk already?

Julian sighed. If only he could find out how Aurelia had died that night fifteen years ago. How was the duke involved, had Ran truly killed her, and had it been murder or an accident? Perhaps if he discovered the truth, Quinn could have some peace.

He shook his head and glanced at Lucretia. “I’ve ordered dinner. We’ll stay here the night and leave when the roads are drier in the morning.” He caught Lucretia’s disappointed look. “I’ll save her from whatever nefarious plans the duke has. I promise.”

Chapter Six

The tinker felt for his purse and spilled its meager contents into his palm. “I’ve money.”

The fox grinned. “What good is your money to me?”

The tinker spread out the bundle holding his tools and wares: hammers, shears, nippers, a tin cup, two pie pans, and various bits and pieces of solder and tin.

But the fox shook his head before the tinker could speak. “I have no use for such.”…

—From Bet and the Fox

That night Messalina frowned at herself in the small mirror on her new dressing table. She’d spent the rest of the afternoon with Hicks and the little scullery maid, whose name turned out to be Grace. Fixing the problem of their meals had turned out to be relatively easy. She’d shown Hicks how to boil an egg and set about finding a more experienced cook to teach him the craft.

Hawthorne and her feelings for him presented a bigger dilemma.

Which was why she frowned now.

“Is the way I’ve dressed your hair not to your liking, ma’am?” Bartlett asked from behind her.

Messalina met the maid’s eye in the mirror and hastened to smile. “It’s quite lovely. I was thinking of something else.”

Bartlett nodded and resumed placing two jeweled pins.

Messalina’s smile slowly drooped. Ridiculous to spend the beginning of the afternoon enjoying her husband’s company like some brainless ninny. She could not forget that Gideon Hawthorne was using her. He kept secrets. She still didn’t know what was in that locked room by the kitchens. He hadn’t told her what Uncle Augustus wanted of him.

Really, she knew very little about Hawthorne.

Except…he’d been kind to Sam. He’d hired Hicks to cook even though the boy had hardly any skills. And what was more, he’d listened to her as she presented her case for buying furniture—truly listened, as if her ideas and thoughts were as important as a man’s.

As important as his own.

Men never did that. Oh, a gentleman at a social event might smile and nod as a lady babbled about frocks and gossip and the weather, but should she offer her opinion on something more serious—politics, philosophy, literature—his eyes would go blank. He’d gaze over her shoulder. He’d fidget. And—if he had nothing to gain from listening to her—he would simply walk away.

Men didn’t value women for their thoughts.

How odd to realize that even her brothers rarely engaged her in serious discussion.

And yet Hawthorne—a man without education, from the streets of St Giles—had valued her enough not only to listen, but to be swayed by her argument.

Such consideration was seductive.

The thought made Messalina uneasy. She had to remember that her plan was to leave Hawthorne. To get as far away from both him and her uncle as she could. It was her only chance to live

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