When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,6

“Because, Messalina, I want you. I want your wealth. I want your rank. I want the power and influence your family name will bring me. But most of all?”—he cocked his head, bringing his hand up to glide along her cheek, not touching but so close she felt the heat of his fingertips like the ghost of a threat—“I want you.”

She had to fight to keep from trembling. The intensity in his gaze was overwhelming. Had any man ever watched her like this? As if no bonds of civility or man-made laws could stop him from seizing her in his arms?

She looked him in the eye, this evil, awful man, and said crisply, “You can’t have me.”

“No?” He stepped away, throwing back the rest of the wine in his glass. “But I think I can.” He sauntered to the table where the decanter of wine stood, unstopping it before glancing up at her. “Your uncle certainly intends to give you to me.”

She was out of options. She was going to be forced into marriage, sold like a milk cow. How was she to retain herself—her will, her pride, her vow to escape from her uncle—in this debacle? “I am not a thing to give.”

He paused, still holding the decanter of wine, eyeing her thoughtfully. “No, you’re not. I know that even if your uncle does not. Nevertheless, I’ll still accept his offer. I’m too ruthless not to. But frankly I’d prefer a wife who consented to this union.” He poured himself another glass of wine and set the decanter down. “So. Let us bargain, we two. What do you want?”

“I want my life.” That was really all she wanted—that and Lucretia’s safety. “My life to determine as I will.”

He shook his head, not even bothering to look regretful. “You cannot have that. Name something else.”

Oh, she wanted to do him violence. To run at him screaming. To hit him or stab him. To shoot him with a pistol if she had one. She would, too. She knew it in that moment. She’d kill this man if it would do her any good. She’d kill him and flee all the way to the American Colonies and she’d be free then.

Except that would leave Lucretia and her brothers, and while Julian could certainly take care of himself and probably Quintus could, too, even against Uncle Augustus, Lucretia could not.

Lucretia was a woman. And even an intelligent, crafty woman like Lucretia was no match against a man in England—particularly a man as powerful as the Duke of Windemere. He was bloody-minded enough to destroy both Lucretia and Messalina simply because he could.

Messalina took a deep breath and crossed to sit on a chair by the fireplace. The fire wasn’t lit—probably Uncle Augustus’s way of making her rooms less welcoming—but the night was warm. It was summer, after all.

She stared into the empty hearth and thought: What did she want? More importantly, what could she have?

At last she looked up and found Mr. Hawthorne had taken a seat kitty-corner to her. He lounged as complacently as a king and sipped from his wineglass as he waited.

She loathed him.

“I want to be free from my uncle and his machinations,” she said. “But you can’t give me that, can you? You’re his servant, his lackey. How can you give me anything I need?”

“I think,” he said softly, “if you use your imagination, you’ll find many ways I can give you what you need.”

His black eyes watched her over the rim of his wineglass as he took a sip, his gaze frankly heated.

Messalina recognized a double entendre when she heard one. It was quite obvious that the game he wanted to play was dangerous to her. But she’d moved in the most rarified London circles for over ten years.

She knew how to play dangerous games with men and emerge unscathed. She might never have taken a lover—unlike some sophisticated ladies—but she had overheard talk, had gossiped late at night with women already married, and had dabbled a bit with gentlemen who were safe.

She could do this—bargain with the devil and find some small benefit in this awful situation.

Messalina straightened.

It was past time she took control of the table. The single most important thing she needed was enough money to flee England with Lucretia. The question was, Could she get it from him?

“Can you?” she asked carelessly. “Give me what I need?” She let her gaze wander down his form, past broad shoulders and a narrow waist, pausing