When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,8
him long enough to take a lover. “Certainly.”
“You will live with me as my wife. You will sup with me every night. We will also move about society”—he waved a hand—“go to balls and the like.”
“What?” she interjected. “Surely you know you’ll not be welcomed in society.”
His nostrils flared, and suddenly she was reminded that he’d killed tonight. “With your money and name I can and I will.”
She simply stared at him.
He nodded as if the matter were decided and continued, “You can sneer at me as much as you like in private, but in public you will act like a devoted wife.”
The man was a delusional ass. “Devoted?”
He sighed again. Evidently negotiating with her was quite trying. “A content wife, then. Does that meet with your approval, madam?”
No. None of this obscenity met with her approval. However, it was what must be done to win her and Lucretia’s freedom. A tenth of her enormous dowry was more than enough to live on if they were careful. They could escape somewhere abroad.
Messalina studied Hawthorne. She didn’t trust him. She didn’t like him. And she had no other option. “If I agree to this—to pretending complacency—then you will fulfill the terms we’ve agreed to?”
He held her gaze. “Yes. You have my word.”
The word of a paid tough. How charming.
“You’ll regret this one day,” she murmured, low, spitefully, and sincerely. “Regret forcing me to marry you.”
“I don’t think I will.” He sounded entirely sure of himself. “Shall we marry?”
She reached over and took the glass of wine from his fingers and emptied it in one swallow. “Very well.”
Chapter Two
One day the tinker came upon an ancient wood. It was curiously untouched. Curiously still. Curiously shadowed. He journeyed deeper and deeper into the towering trees until he could no longer see the sky and the sun itself was blacked out.…
—From Bet and the Fox
Julian Greycourt woke to the sound of someone banging on the cottage door. He was instantly alert.
No one was to disturb him here.
He rose, nude, ignoring the sparks of pain burning across his back, and threw on a banyan. Thank God his companion had left hours ago.
Julian glanced around. The croft was simple—one room, a fireplace, a cot, and a chair. Nothing else. Nothing to indicate what he did here.
Good.
He strode to the door, unbarred it, and threw it open.
Lucretia looked up at him, her fist still raised, as if she would knock upon his chest. “Oh, thank goodness! Quintus said you were staying at one of the cottages, but he must’ve given me the wrong directions. I’ve been looking for you for the better part of an hour.”
“What are you doing here?” His words were perhaps too curt, but no one was supposed to know of this place.
Quinn had discovered the croft only because he’d followed Julian one night. Julian hadn’t spoken to his brother for almost a week afterward. He’d thought he’d made it very clear to Quinn to keep his damned mouth shut about the cottage. And yet here was their little sister, wide-eyed and pink-cheeked on the step of—
Julian cleared his thoughts. “Where is Messalina?”
“With Mr. Hawthorne,” Lucretia said, sounding exasperated that Julian didn’t already know this. “He stopped our carriage on the return journey from the Lovejoy house party. You know their estate near the border of Scotland? I must say it was a most unusual party—”
“What did Hawthorne do, Lucretia?” Julian asked impatiently.
Lucretia pressed her lips together. “He told Messalina to get out of the carriage and come with him. She just had time to tell me to find you.”
Julian frowned. “Why would Hawthorne do such a thing?”
“He said that Uncle Augustus wanted her—only her, not me.” Lucretia twisted her fingers together. “That was over a week ago—nearly two now. I told my driver to head straight to Adders and you, but what with the horses and the road being so terribly rutted—”
“Just a minute,” Julian said. “Stay here.”
He shut the door in her face and ignored the resulting squawk of outrage. Julian hurriedly threw on his clothes, hissing beneath his breath as his linen shirt scraped across the wounds on his back. What the hell was Augustus planning? And what had their uncle been thinking to force Lucretia to travel so far by herself?
He shrugged on his coat and pulled his long hair from the collar, tying it back with a bit of ribbon.
Then he opened the door again.
“I can’t believe Quintus is in his cups so early in the morning,” Lucretia remarked