When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,49
to heat and haul water for a bath, but she’d never considered how impossible it would be simply to wash if one were poor.
She whispered, “You must’ve wanted to bathe very much when you lived in St Giles.”
“Always,” he replied, lifting his head a bit so that she could scrub the hair at his nape.
His neck was hot beneath her fingers. She felt intimate touching him in such a vulnerable spot.
“That sounds terrible,” she said as she rinsed his hair, causing it to lie flat and glistening against his skull. He might’ve been a selkie intent on seducing a mortal. “I can see why you would want a bathing room all to yourself.”
He opened his eyes, watching her with black, fathomless eyes. “Can you?”
She nodded.
“Your sympathy is quite dangerous,” he murmured thoughtfully. “You might very well be my downfall, madam.”
Her eyebrows winged up. “Me?”
“Mmm.” His sensuous lips twisted as if he were confused. “There is something about you that draws me, makes me lose my sense, my intelligence, my very control.” He inhaled. “You are like an exotic poison in my blood—one that should kill me, but instead keeps me alive. I truly do not know if I can live without you.”
Her lips parted in wonder. Did he know what he was saying?
She didn’t think before she leaned down and kissed him.
His mouth was warm and sensuously soft, as if the hot water he soaked in had infused his flesh and relaxed all his muscles.
He let her lead.
She tilted her head, suddenly breathless. She’d kissed a man or two before, but she’d never initiated the embrace. The feeling of control made her giddy with possibilities.
Slowly she ran the very tip of her tongue over his bottom lip, feeling for herself the wicked curve. His lips parted passively as if he waited for something.
It took her a second, and then she was licking into his mouth, tasting the smoky coffee he’d drunk, dancing dangerously with his tongue.
She gasped, inhaling the breath in the thin space between them, and reluctantly pulled away.
His eyes were hooded, sleepy and gleaming wickedly, and his voice when he spoke was a dark rasp. “If you stay, I may break our pact to wait a full month before taking you to bed. The decision is yours.”
She was tempted—so very tempted.
But something within her still hesitated. Did she truly know Gideon yet? Could she trust him?
It seemed somehow that she ought to trust him before letting him bed her.
Or perhaps she was simply making excuses for her trepidation.
“I’ll leave then,” Messalina said, shocked at how husky her voice was.
“How responsible,” he mocked gently.
Already she was regretting her decision, but she rose from the chair, her knees only a bit wobbly as she walked to the door.
She couldn’t help one last glance over her shoulder as she closed the door.
Hawthorne’s head was tilted back, his eyes closed, and his right hand moved beneath the water.
* * *
It was early afternoon by the time Gideon rapped on Blackwell’s door. His business partner lived in a modest house, one of a row in a solidly respectable part of London.
After a moment’s wait, Blackwell’s small maid opened the door.
She looked up at Gideon and bobbed a curtsy. “Will you come in, Mr. Hawthorne? Mr. Blackwell is in his study.”
She didn’t wait for Gideon’s reply, but turned to lead him into the house.
Gideon followed her past a hall table and mirror and to the door of the study.
“Mr. Hawthorne to see you, sir,” the maid announced as she opened the door.
Blackwell looked up from a desk covered in papers. He immediately put down his pen and took off his small square reading glasses. “Hawthorne! I was beginning to think you’d never come around to see me.”
Gideon raised his eyebrows as he threw his tricorne on a small table near the door. “I just saw you at the theater last night.”
“Indeed, but we couldn’t discuss business there—even if you’d wanted to. Not with your lovely wife in attendance.” Blackwell tilted his head. “How exactly did you manage to marry a duke’s niece?”
Gideon sat in a chair in front of the desk. “Not a subject I’m prepared to discuss.”
Blackwell threw up his hands in feigned disgust. “Of course not. You’ll just continue to be a cypher, even to your poor, beleaguered partner.”
Gideon snorted. “Why would I confess to such a gossip? You’re no better than an old woman.”
Blackwell turned to the little maid, who had reappeared with a tray of tea and cakes. “Molly, do