When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,33
her life freely.
Wasn’t it?
“There now.” Bartlett stepped back from Messalina and examined her handiwork. “I think that’s quite elegant, if you don’t mind me saying so, ma’am.”
Messalina turned her head from side to side to better examine herself in the mirror. Bartlett had pulled most of her hair into a simple knot at the back of her head, but the hair near her face had been curled into loose ringlets. The butterfly pins set with diamonds, garnets, and yellow gems were placed to highlight the curls.
Messalina touched one of the little pins. “You’ve done a superb job as always, Bartlett. I quite like how you’ve used Mama’s jeweled butterflies.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Bartlett replied briskly. “The pearl earrings?”
“Yes.”
Bartlett went to the open jewel box and retrieved the earrings, then bent over Messalina to affix them. “Had I two more lady’s maids, we would’ve dressed you within an hour or less.”
“I know,” Messalina replied, wincing. They’d been in the bedroom for two hours. “You’ve done a marvelous job on your own.”
Hawthorne really needed to hire other servants. A large house simply could not be run without them. She made a mental note to try again to persuade him.
Except…she was leaving. What did it matter to her if his house collapsed from lack of servants?
She suddenly wondered if Bartlett would want to come with her and Lucretia. The lady’s maid had never protested travel, but of course they always returned to London. If they journeyed abroad, would Bartlett be willing to leave England? Did she have family?
“Bartlett?”
“Ma’am?” The maid was busy positioning a curl.
“Where do you come from?”
The maid glanced up into the mirror, looking startled. “Why, I was born near Oxford, ma’am. My mother was a maid and my father a butcher.”
“Do you still have family there?”
Bartlett smiled. “A sister. She writes me often and tells me of her children—a boy and a girl.”
“Sisters are so important, aren’t they?” Messalina said softly, thinking of both Lucretia and Aurelia, forever lost to them now.
“Yes, indeed,” the maid replied.
Had Lucretia reached Julian yet? Or was she still trying to find him? Messalina sighed and rose. “We shouldn’t be too late. A little after midnight, perhaps?”
“Aye, I’ll be waiting, ma’am,” Bartlett replied as she busily put away the toilet items.
Messalina paused by the door. “Thank you, Bartlett.”
“Ma’am.” Bartlett bobbed a curtsy.
Messalina started down the stairs, contemplating how many years she’d employed Bartlett without knowing she had family in Oxfordshire. How could she have been so unaware of Bartlett? It was as if she’d gone through life wearing a scarf wound round her eyes, and now that scarf had fallen.
Or rather, Hawthorne had pulled the scarf from her eyes.
She saw him then, waiting in the entryway of Whispers, and for a moment her breath caught as she was struck anew by how magnetic he was. Hawthorne stood there, his long legs braced apart, his arms crossed, his full mouth curving just slightly at the sight of her.
She must remember that she couldn’t trust him. That if she did, all her hopes and dreams not only for herself, but for Lucretia would be lost.
She braced herself as she descended the last steps. She would not react to him.
Belatedly she noticed what he was wearing—the exact same suit he’d worn that afternoon. At least it looked the same. Black coat, waistcoat, and breeches without any ornamentation at all. Did he have any other suit? Whyever hadn’t he changed for the theater?
He walked toward her, moving with a feline sort of grace that made her swallow.
He held out his hand. “You are beautiful, Mrs. Hawthorne.”
Her silly, silly heart leaped at his words. She’d heard the same thing or similar from countless gentlemen, usually in much more flowery terms, but when Hawthorne said it with his black eyes glinting wickedly…
She swallowed and curtsied, taking his hand. “Thank you.”
Had her voice shaken? Lord, she hoped not.
He led her to the door, and she glanced down at her hand on his plain black wool coat sleeve.
Should she tell him he ought to change his suit? But surely he must know that people of quality wore, if not their best, then certainly clothing to be seen in when they visited the theater?
She glanced sideways at him as he opened the door, gesturing for her to precede him. She hesitated. Was he so arrogant as to defy all convention? If he planned to move in aristocratic society, he needed to dress as someone who belonged.
He raised a slanting eyebrow. “Is there a problem?”