When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,76
about what it was like before.”
Messalina didn’t say anything, but her shoulder bumped Lucretia’s. Papa had died when Messalina was eleven and Lucretia seven. And the next year Aurelia had died in mysterious circumstances, followed very quickly by Mama. They’d lived in Greycourt their entire short lives and it was a shock—a terrible shock—to lose not only Mama on the heels of Aurelia’s death but their home as well.
For the last thing Mama had done before she’d died was make sure that Messalina and Lucretia would be sent to her cousin. That cousin had been a bachelor gentleman, elderly and not interested in the sudden acquisition of girl children. They’d been comfortable enough, fed, clothed, and housed, but it hadn’t been home.
And when their cousin died, they were forced to live with Uncle Augustus. Their cousin had been indifferent, but the duke was malicious, and that was far worse. He’d never harmed them physically, but he enjoyed berating them nightly for the smallest of things—a torn hem, laughing too loudly, not finishing their porridge. His punishments had been petty and cruel.
In the end they’d learned to avoid their uncle at all costs. And, if they caught his notice, to show no reaction to his vicious moods.
That was why Messalina had always wanted a home of their own for her and Lucretia—always until very recently. Because of Gideon, she’d found her determination wavering. Guilt swept her at the thought. She needed to think about Lucretia and her safety.
She couldn’t give up their plan to run away—not with the duke plotting to marry her sister off.
She couldn’t.
Lucretia yawned again and put her teacup down. “Oh, I suppose I really ought to go to bed,” she said reluctantly. “Do you know when I was little I used to wish I was an owl?”
Messalina blinked, startled. “Why?”
“All the most interesting things happen in the dark of night,” Lucretia replied sleepily.
Messalina laughed. “I’m afraid even owls need sleep.”
She rose with Lucretia, and they made their way companionably up the stairs before saying their good nights at Lucretia’s door.
Messalina turned to go to her own bedroom. Gideon had said that he had work to do after dinner, but perhaps he would be done and waiting for her.
She remembered how he’d held her the night before and quickened her steps.
But when she arrived at their bedroom she saw that he wasn’t there. Instead Bartlett stood ready to undress her.
Messalina was forced to hide her disappointment.
Her evening toilet was quick tonight—Messalina wanted to brood by herself. Only minutes later she dismissed Bartlett and wandered to the fire. She wasn’t at all sleepy, and she wished she’d bought a book during the shopping trip with Lucretia.
She turned to the bed and for the first time noticed a folded piece of paper on her pillow.
Messalina bit her lip, quelling the smile that threatened to take over her face, and opened the letter.
I AM BATHING
That was the entire note, but Messalina knew an invitation when she received one.
* * *
When the door to the bathing chamber opened, Gideon didn’t raise his head from the rim of the tub. He knew who it was, and he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt and on the eternal damnation of his blackened soul, that to seduce Messalina now was immoral. Unethical. Sinful.
He couldn’t make himself stop.
His hunger for Messalina had grown beyond his control.
Every step of his every day had always been meticulously mapped out to eventually lead him to his ultimate goal: power and money. Yet since he’d married Messalina there had been a worrying amount of deviation from his plots and plans.
He was spending too much time with his wife. Spending too much time thinking about the day he’d lose her.
He’d never been so conflicted over a decision that should have been simple: kill Julian, receive his money.
But there was Messalina, haunting him with her kindness. With her tenderness.
He’d never flinched from a knife fight, no matter how big the opponent. He’d lived and worked in St Giles without any trepidation. Had looked a duke in the eye and made pacts with the man. But now?
Now he was afraid to his very depths—afraid of losing her.
Afraid of betraying her.
He opened his eyes and saw Messalina standing just inside the door. She wore her white wrapper, her black hair down about her shoulders in a glorious wave, and he longed for her.
She closed the door and leaned against it. “You owe me my dowry portion.”