When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,37
“Oh, erm…yes. Quite. Thank you.”
She darted a nervous look at her husband.
The duke ignored her. He’d regained his aplomb and was smiling beatifically at Messalina. “My dear, I haven’t seen Lucretia since you and she traveled to the north. I would hate to lose touch with her. It’s my duty, as head of this family, to see she marries as well as you did.”
Messalina sat still as stone at the clear threat.
Gideon gritted his teeth, fighting an urge to lay the old man flat for distressing her. If they’d not been in the theater—
Messalina stood suddenly and reached out to take the duchess’s hands. “Have you enjoyed the play, Aunt?”
The duchess’s eyes grew wide. “I don’t know.”
Messalina smiled. “Come sit by me.”
She led the duchess to the far side of the box.
Windemere turned to Gideon and said lower, “I’m surprised that you’ve found the time for such frivolity as the theater, Hawthorne. I thought I’d set you a task to occupy you, but if you find yourself free, perhaps I should give you another as well.”
Gideon raised an eyebrow. What game was the old man playing, discussing this matter in the open? In front of Messalina?
“The subject isn’t in town yet,” he murmured. “And when he is, I will move slowly and carefully. I’m sure”—his words dripped with irony—“Your Grace would hate for me to be caught.”
“Oh, naturally,” the duke said carelessly, his gaze drifting over Gideon’s shoulder.
Gideon felt sweat start at the small of his back. He refused to look behind him to see if Messalina was paying attention to their discussion.
The duke frowned as if disappointed. “Just as long as the job gets done.”
“It will,” Gideon replied, staring the old man dead in the eye.
“Good.” Windemere leaned close to him, washing Gideon’s face with the sour odor of his breath. “Because if you don’t, I shall destroy you so that you’ll never be received in society, my niece for a wife or no.”
Gideon didn’t think his expression changed, but he must’ve made some sign.
The duke smiled. “Oh yes, I know of your fantasy of obtaining titled business partners.” He cocked his head, watching Gideon. “You’re quite insane. Men of your ilk may serve us, may even run our businesses, but that doesn’t mean that they”—he gestured to the now-filled boxes—“would ever deign to sup with you. You ought to try being a secretary. With Messalina as your wife you may just be able to attain such a position. But not if I put a word in an ear or two. Do you understand?”
Gideon snarled, leaning into the other man’s face. “This works both ways. I know you and I’ve proof. Do you understand?”
Windemere’s nostrils flared as he whispered furiously, “How dare you. What proof do you have? I’ll—”
“It’s always lovely to chat with you.” Messalina’s voice interrupted whatever the old man had been about to say. The ladies had risen and were drawing closer.
Gideon merely smiled.
Windemere cleared his throat. “I’m glad to see that you haven’t been distracted by marriage…and its delights.”
Gideon lifted an eyebrow at this poor retort.
But before he could comment, Messalina, staring her uncle in the eye, said, “There’s certainly more delight for some than others.”
Windemere’s face convulsed with rage. It was well known that the duke desperately wanted a son.
The duchess turned pale and moved to the old man’s side.
He never acknowledged her, instead continuing to glare at Messalina. “I’m so glad you’ve found yourself satisfied in your marriage, Niece. Come, Ann.”
The duchess started to babble a farewell, but he pulled her out of the box before she could finish.
Gideon stared after the old man. He’d assured the duke that he’d fulfill his task. He glanced at Messalina. She was smiling shyly at him.
Could he really kill her brother?
* * *
Messalina watched Gideon after they sat. He’d seemed unperturbed by her uncle’s visit, but now his brows were drawn together.
She cleared her throat. “I shouldn’t have said that about delight and marriage. Poor Ann. She’s quite sweet, you know.”
At her words his brow smoothed. “You’re fond of her?”
Messalina shrugged, now feeling guilty. “We have little in common, I’m afraid. We tend to discuss fashion when we meet, which isn’t often. I avoid my uncle, as you know, and as a result don’t see Ann very often.” She sighed. “I remember when they wed. Ann looked so young and happy. Their match was the wedding of the season. Now she’s like a ghost of her former self.”