When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,67

mean arrange lovely Messalina’s marriage?” A slow smile crossed the duke’s face, revealing a dent in his left cheek.

Julian made himself continue looking at his uncle. The dent—indeed everything physical about Augustus—reminded Julian of his father. The brothers had been so similar, some had mistaken them for twins.

It was hard to stare into the face of the man he hated most in the world and see his father’s ghost.

Julian made sure his voice was calm, even, nearly bored when he answered. “Yes, my sister’s marriage.” He examined his nails. “You could have found a much more advantageous match—both for her and you—which makes me wonder how you’ve benefited from marrying Messalina to your guard dog.”

He flicked his eyes up on the last, watching for any tell, any revealing change of expression on his uncle’s face.

Naturally there was none.

“Bravo, Nephew,” the duke said. “You’ve learned well from my tutelage.”

Julian took a careful breath before he spoke. “I learned nothing from you.”

Augustus shrugged. “You certainly didn’t learn to look for your enemy’s motives from your father.” His upper lip curled ever so slightly. “Claudius never saw anything beneath the surface his entire life. I vow he died thinking I loved him.”

Julian cocked his head and said gently, “Instead of realizing what a monster of a brother you were.”

That hit Augustus. His face reddened as he leaned forward and hissed, “Your father was a thorn in my side all his life. I can still see his milksop face looking at me so sorrowfully, as if he pitied me.” He sat back panting. “But I won, didn’t I, dear boy? Your father died falling on his face, while I still live.”

The look Augustus sent him was wildly triumphant.

Julian would not remember Papa when he died. Would not remember the hideous apoplectic attack that had sent his father to his knees, half his face sagging before he’d indeed fallen and died.

Instead Julian yawned. “My father might be dead, but he was able to ensure his line. A line”—he stood leisurely—“which it seems will soon continue the Dukedom of Windemere.”

Strangely, Augustus smiled at this. Usually his temper rose at any mention of Julian’s being his heir. Instead he seemed to have calmed. “Well,” the duke drawled. “I suppose that might be so. Unless…” He trailed away as if a thought had struck him. “Oh, unless you prove to have as poor a constitution as your father.”

Julian’s eyes narrowed. “My father died at eight and thirty. I’m only two and thirty and far more likely to outlive you, dear uncle.”

“Are you?” Augustus shrugged as if it mattered little at all.

A chill went through Julian. The duke’s words were a clear threat on his life.

“Well, this has been a pleasant chat,” Julian said dryly, “but I fear I must be off on other errands.”

“A pleasure as always, Nephew,” Augustus replied lazily. “I do hope, though, that you’ll be attending the ball Her Grace has arranged to celebrate Messalina’s marriage? It’s in a week’s time.”

“Naturally,” Julian drawled. If nothing else, attending the ball might give him an idea of what Augustus was up to with Messalina.

The duke grunted. “Lucretia needs to return to Windemere House to help Ann plan. Where is the girl, anyway?”

“She’s at Whispers House with Messalina,” Julian replied carelessly. “Where she’ll remain.”

Augustus leaned forward, his face slowly reddening. His words, though, were calm when he spoke. “I have interested gentlemen I wish her to meet. Do make sure she attends the ball or I shall have to talk to her in private.”

Julian stared at the duke. Augustus was waiting for his reaction, nearly slavering for it.

He bowed. “Good day, Uncle.”

With that he strolled out of the room, making sure to keep his pace leisurely as he descended the staircase and strode out the door.

Outside he flipped a coin to the small boy holding his horse before mounting and setting off at a trot.

He still didn’t know what Augustus was planning with Messalina’s marriage to his lackey, but Julian did know one thing.

He had to make certain Lucretia didn’t suffer the same fate.

* * *

“Purple?” Lucretia wrinkled her nose doubtfully later that day.

“Purple,” Messalina said firmly. She smiled fondly at the swatch of fabric laid over the sturdy armchair, then nodded at the clerk standing hopefully beside her. “Four, please. All upholstered in the purple. Now.” She glanced around the cavernous furniture shop. “A dressing table for you,” she said to Lucretia.

“Guest rooms?” her sister asked, trailing behind.

“Well, naturally that as well.” Messalina pursed her lips. “At