rose.
“Perhaps it doesn’t matter,” Gideon grunted. But as if almost in spite of himself, he leaned a little forward, intent upon the action.
Messalina felt a wave of…fondness? No, that couldn’t be. He was a brute, her uncle’s henchman. A man comfortable with violence according to Mr. Blackwell, his own friend.
She inhaled, mentally shaking her head. “I noticed,” she said carefully, “that you were in Lord Rookewoode’s box.”
She immediately regretted her words.
“What of it?” Hawthorne’s eyes burned with an alien hatred, and his hands were clenched into fists.
For the first time since her marriage she felt…fear in his presence.
Perhaps she should’ve paid more attention to Mr. Blackwell’s warning.
Chapter Seven
“This is all I have,” said the tinker in despair. “What else can I possibly give you?”
“Hmm,” said the fox, gazing contemplatively at the sky. “Well, I could do with a wife, and you, I hear, have a daughter.”
“Yes,” the tinker replied, trembling. “Her name is Bet.”
The fox smiled a very foxy smile.…
—From Bet and the Fox
Gideon couldn’t keep the loathing from his voice, even as he watched Messalina’s face shutter.
Damn Rookewoode and the rest of the bloody, smug aristocracy with him. The man hadn’t looked once in Gideon’s direction the entire time he’d stood in Rookewoode’s box. And the more he’d stood there without acknowledgment, the more Gideon had felt his anger mount, until now he couldn’t help but growl at his wife.
But Messalina was a woman who wasn’t easily cowed. “Why did you go to Rookewoode’s box?”
Gideon gritted his teeth as he stared at the stage. The play, so oddly distracting before, had lost his interest. There was no reason to confide in her. It wasn’t as if Messalina would understand—or even care—about his business.
She had asked, though.
“The entire point of attending the theater tonight was to see the earl. Blackwell and I have coal mines in the north of England, on the east coast. I’d like to buy more.” He inhaled, his nostrils flaring as he remembered his reception. “I went to discuss the possibility of investment with Rookewoode. He’s known to be quite rich and looking for suitable investments. A business association between us would suit both our needs, and yet he ignored me.” He sneered. “As if I were the dirt beneath his diamond-buckle shoes.”
“Ah.”
His head snapped to her.
Messalina’s face was in profile, and she looked pensive. She opened her mouth as if she wanted to comment, and then closed it again.
He rocked his head to one side and then the other, trying to loosen his shoulders. He wanted to smash something…or better yet, slash the fucking smile off Rookewoode’s face.
Determinedly he fixed his gaze upon the bloody stage.
Two minutes hadn’t passed before he couldn’t stand Messalina’s silence anymore. “What?”
She started and raised her brows. “I beg your pardon?”
He breathed deeply before saying evenly, “What was that ‘Ah’ about?”
“Oh.” She hesitated. “I doubt you’ll like my answer.”
His eyes narrowed. “Nevertheless.”
“Well.” She turned fully to him. “If you truly wish to converse with Lord Rookewoode—or really with any gentleman of quality—you’ll need an introduction. And what is more, you’ll have to look the part.”
He frowned impatiently. “I have money and I have a business that will make him money. Why should I—?”
“Because that’s the way it’s done.” She took a deep breath as if trying to calm herself. “I know you might find it silly and—and even offensive, but he’s an earl. One can’t simply walk up to him and ask for his money. Not, at least, if you want to truly do business with him.”
Gideon grimaced. He knew she was right. He might work for a duke, might ghost around the edges of the aristocracy, but he had done so as a servant. Now what he wanted to do was actually mingle among them. To be recognized as their equal.
An entirely different thing indeed.
Christ. He was going to have to ask for her help.
He sighed and asked grudgingly, with near-physical pain, “What did you mean that I need to ‘look the part’?”
Messalina’s entire face lit up, and for a moment he was startled that such a joyful expression should be cast his way. Her gray eyes were soft, her plush lips wet and open in a smile.
She was beautiful.
Something twinged within his chest—not his heart. He hadn’t much of a heart, and what he had was atrophied from long years of disuse. But it felt near enough, and the feeling filled him with something close to fear. He couldn’t care for her. She was a means to an