When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,2

Windemere.

Mr. Hawthorne stirred immediately, sitting upright as alert as if it were morning, damn him.

He looked at her, and for a moment she had the idea that his hard eyes had gentled. He seemed almost as if he wanted to tell her something.

Then the carriage door opened, and a footman handed Messalina down. She glanced up from shaking out her skirts and couldn’t quite suppress a start.

Augustus Greycourt, the Duke of Windemere, was waiting at the top of the stairs. He was a jolly-looking man, short and round, with a face that might seem kind if one was unaware of the rot within.

Hawthorne came up beside her and took her arm. She glanced at his hand, confused. He had missed a bit of blood on his thumbnail.

She shuddered.

“Ah, Messalina,” Uncle Augustus said. “I was beginning to think you’d be late to your own wedding.”

Messalina felt a chill run down her spine. Her wedding?

Uncle Augustus continued, smirking, “But how could you be late when your bridegroom is also your escort?”

Slowly Messalina turned her head.

And met Mr. Hawthorne’s diabolically gleaming black eyes.

* * *

Gideon Hawthorne had always thought that Messalina Greycourt had the most fascinating eyes. They were gray—a cool, clear gray—with a ring of near black around the iris.

He watched as those intriguing eyes filled with loathing—for him.

Gideon looked away. He’d always known that she’d hate this plan. Still he felt a twinge—a very small twinge.

Gideon’s gaze slid to Windemere. What was the old man doing? Messalina was a headstrong, smart, and stubborn woman. The duke knew she wouldn’t agree easily to a forced marriage. And yet his words were calculated to make Messalina dig in her heels.

But perhaps that was what Windemere wanted: a fight that could end only one way—with the duke triumphant and Messalina humiliated.

Gideon would have to make sure no such thing happened.

Windemere grinned. “Come, girl,” he called to her. “Bring your fiancé inside so we can have a coze in my study.”

Messalina’s features were blank. Most would have no clue that she was frantically thinking underneath her guarded expression.

But Gideon had spent years watching Messalina’s face. He knew he had to prepare both his offense and his defense.

His grip tightened around her upper arm. It was unlikely that she’d run off into the dark streets of London—Messalina was no fool—but the old man was doing his best to provoke her. And Gideon would be damned before he lost her now.

His touch seemed to wake her. Messalina blinked and tried to pull her arm from his hand. She glared up at him when he refused to release her.

Gideon let a small smile curve his lips—better a scowl from her than to be ignored.

Windemere interrupted their silent skirmish. “You’ve declined all the suitors I’ve put before you, Niece, but you shan’t wriggle free from marriage tonight. I’ve already sent for the bishop. If you want to marry in something other than stained traveling clothes, you’ll have to hurry.”

Gideon shot a narrow-eyed glance at Windemere.

The duke beamed down on them, damn him.

Gideon leaned close to Messalina, murmuring, “We’d best go in.”

“Naturally you’d say that,” she snapped in reply, but she stepped forward to climb the steps.

As they drew level with the old man Messalina said simply and certainly, “No.”

There was his girl. Gideon couldn’t help his silent satisfaction even if her stubbornness wasn’t to his benefit.

Her flat refusal finally drove the idiot smile from the duke’s face. “What did you say, sweet niece? Pause before you speak, for I know you’ve been hoarding your pin money.”

She paled. “What have you done?”

“I have done nothing,” Windemere replied. “Hawthorne, however, has taken your little purse into his possession.”

“Of course Mr. Hawthorne did.” Messalina’s glance at him was searing. “I do hope you enjoyed rummaging in my trunks.”

Gideon raised an eyebrow, irritated by both her scorn and her words. “I assure you, I was quite bored.”

That for some reason provoked a blush. “You’ve rifled through that many ladies’ possessions?”

Before he could reply, the duke interrupted.

“Enough!” Windemere said impatiently. “Messalina, you have no hope—not even any expectation of hope—of escaping me. Go to your rooms and prepare yourself for your wedding.” He paused and then said with studied nonchalance, “Unless you’d prefer to have Lucretia take your place?”

Gideon felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. He’d agreed to marry Messalina and only Messalina. He had no intent—or desire—to marry Lucretia Greycourt.

Messalina inhaled sharply as the duke laid down his trump card. She lifted her pigheaded little chin, but the slight tremble in her