And he wasn’t a bloody saint, either.
Thorne turned. You’re a fool, Nick Thorne. The biggest goddamn fool. A pathetic piece of shit.
“There,” she said lightly, her eyes meeting his. “What did I tell you? Nothing you haven’t seen before.”
He was glad she couldn’t hear the riot of insults he gave himself—berk, stupid, imbecile. You let her leave four years ago? She still thinks she’s your mark?—because he was trying not to stare at his wife as she tossed her night rail to the floor. He couldn’t decide whether he should be grateful when she slid into the bathtub and hid her body from his desperate stare.
Her small hiss of pain snapped him out of his self-loathing.
“What is it?” Thorne asked.
She showed him the scrape along her elbow—something a rug might have caused. A wound she must have obtained while defending herself.
A haze of calm rage descended over him. Now was the opportunity to take stock of her injuries, count each one. Find the bastard who’d hired her assailant.
Make him pay.
He knelt beside the tub to get a better look. “Any others?” Calm. Keep your voice calm. Don’t frighten her.
“Yes.” She inspected her other elbow and found a few scrapes there, as well. “But nothing serious.”
“Let me see.” She extended her arm and Thorne gently ran his fingers down her skin. There were more cuts; some blossoming bruises at her wrists. He was glad she had killed the man who came after her, otherwise he would have knifed the bastard himself. “I’ll have one of the lads send for the doctor.”
“Perhaps they could send a message to your doorman, instead?” she smiled slightly. “I ought to apologize for being rude to him.”
“O’Sullivan? Aristos try to punch him in the face on a near nightly basis. A little rudeness is an improvement.” He found another forming bruise on her shoulder. “My messenger’s time would be better spent retrieving the doctor.”
“Don’t bother him tonight.”
“You’re my wife, and I pay his salary.”
“Nick.”
“Alex.”
When he rose to his feet, she grasped his wrist. “You will not take that doctor away from patients in need. I have dealt with worse.” When he hesitated, she released his wrist and made some amused noise. “What would the people of Whitechapel think, to see the King of the East End fussing over a woman?”
Thorne settled once more beside the tub with a soft chuckle. “Some might be glad at the sight. A few grannies have been after me to have a wife to fuss over for years.”
“Have they?” she murmured, reaching for the soap. She drew it up her arm and his eyes followed the sight. Her skin was soft there, on the inside of her elbow. His lips recalled the memory of it well. “And what did you tell them?”
Thorne’s smile was small. “Told them I ruined my chances with her.”
What else could he tell her? That he desired no one else? No, there hadn’t been another woman. There never would be another woman. It was just her.
Always her.
Thorne couldn’t help but notice how her grip tightened on the soap. “And what did the grannies advise?”
He leaned against the tub and propped his chin in a hand. “Told me to find a new woman or learn how to grovel.”
Alex’s flattened her lips. “You had four years to learn, and you know my address. Did you require further lessons or did you need help finding another rich woman to swindle?”
How could he tell her that he had stood in front of her door, dozens of times over the years, and every word in his fucking vocabulary became inadequate? Sorry wasn’t good enough. Flowers? Pathetic. Every apology he rehearsed made up for nothing.
Worse: when he’d gone by the Earl of Kent’s residence in St. James’s and seen her, she always seemed content, safe, comfortable. Her work made her successful in her own right. What need did this woman have for him? What purpose would he serve in her life, but as a reminder of her father’s betrayal?
And so he had gone back to the Brimstone—this building her fortune had built—and stopped scheming. What made him think he could possibly deserve her?
Thorne met her gaze. “Did you want me on your doorstep, Alex? Should I have gone on my knees and apologized? Would that have been enough after what I did?”
“Does it matter? On your knees or on your feet, you didn’t even try.” Alex gave a dry laugh. “Perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered. You are not Lord Locke. The man at my door apologizing would have been a stranger to me.”
The knife twisted. “Then I ought to have introduced myself. I am Nicholas Thorne. And I’m so fucking sorry.”
Alex shut her eyes hard. “The man who came into my bedchamber—do you know what he called me while he pointed the pistol at my head?”
“What?” Thorne asked, dreading the answer.
“Thorne’s wife. I didn’t ask for that name, Nick. I didn’t ask for any of this. Being foolish enough to believe a man’s lies should not come with a death sentence.” She made some soft noise. “Just leave the brandy and get out, Nick. I can’t stand the sight of you.”
Chapter 7
Stratfield Saye, Hampshire. Four years ago.
Alexandra fanned herself with her hat as she strolled along the country path.
It was a hot afternoon in Stratfield Saye. The sky was the lovely, bright blue of a robin’s egg, with no clouds to diminish the sun’s warmth. She ought to have been at home, shaded in the gazebo at Roseburn, but the village matriarchs tasked Alexandra with delivering a basket to the Stone family, who lived at the other end of Fair Oak Green.
By the time Alexandra finished her duty and reached her father’s lands, the walking dress she’d set out in no longer matched the weather. The feathers on her stylish hat drooped. It didn’t help that she was waving it desperately in front of her face to create a scant breeze.
She trudged up the path toward Stratfield Lake, at the south end of Roseburn’s property. At the edge of the water, Alexandra paused to admire the view. The lake stretched for acres into the woodland, and from her vantage seemed almost as vast as a sea. Alexandra and her brothers swam there as children, but she had not visited in years. The water glistened in the bright afternoon sun, as if in invitation.
Alexandra lowered her hat. No one was about. If she took a swim, who would see her? Who would—
Boots crunched along the path behind her. Alexandra was surprised to see Nicholas Spencer strolling down the trail as if he didn’t mind the heat. His jacket was tossed over a shoulder and his white lawn shirt was open at the collar. Alexandra fixated on the golden skin bared at his throat, for she had never seen a man so . . . disrobed. Why, he wasn’t even wearing a hat.
“Good afternoon,” Alexandra said, hoping she had imagined the squeak to her voice. Her heart was somewhere near her throat. “Fine weather today, isn’t it?”
If Nick noticed her gawking at him like a complete halfwit, he made no indication of it. He offered her the most beautiful smile she’d ever seen. “I would say so.”
His eyes were difficult to meet directly. They were too astute; he might uncover all her secrets. Like how often he’d occupied her thoughts lately. She had been foolish enough to risk loitering outside Marlowe’s, hoping he’d show up again. Three days ago, she considered making up some excuse to visit his property and knock on his door. Have you possibly seen Mrs. Langly’s dog, an adorable corgi by the name of Linnet? Of course, then he might suspect a thing or two when said corgi failed to show up—because it did not exist. She finally recognized her own feelings as the horrid disease of infatuation. And with that, the sudden awareness of Nick’s first impression of her.
He’d caught her stealing a book.
He’d caught her stealing a naughty book called Pandora’s Box.
Oh god, how she longed to have that lake swallow her whole. “I must go,” she blurted, backing away. Flee. I must flee. I must find my dignity at the bottom of the lake. �
�Enjoy your walk, Lord Locke.”
“Nicholas,” he said. “Nick. Remember?”
A jolt went through her at his reminder of their agreement. Nicholas. She loved that name; the way the long form rolled off her tongue, the way the shortened version sounded like a confession. Nick. “Nick,” she repeated, eager to leave now before she said something ludicrous and ruined everything. “Try the walk around the pond. It’s quite lovely.”
But he didn’t let her leave so easily. In an amused voice, he called out, “What if I preferred your company?”
Alexandra paused at the unfamiliar words. She thought she understood men, but she did not comprehend this one. “Do you?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. How at ease he looked, so elegant. “You seem surprised,” he said, frowning.
Had she grown so cynical? Had she internalized every insult from her peers and even her own father—future spinster, bitch, frigid, shrew—that she began to believe her company was a burden? That she had nothing to offer? It dismayed her, to value a man’s opinion so highly. She wanted Nick to like her.
She wanted him to be different.
But a thought occurred to her. “You are new to Stratfield Saye. I suppose you’ve had little time to make friends.”
“Yes,” he said. She was shocked by the strength of her disappointment until he added, “I could also tell you that five days ago, I met a woman in a bookshop and enjoyed our conversation so much that I haven’t stopped thinking of her.”
Alexandra was no longer aware of the heat. Not the lake, or their surroundings. No, only her heart and how it sped up at his words. She gave a laugh. “My, you must be starved for companionship if you’ll take it with a book thief.”
His beautiful smile returned. “Perhaps I enjoy visiting with thieves.” He gestured with a hand. “Come. Walk with me.”
This time, she agreed. They strolled in companionable silence down the path. The trail led through a copse of trees where the sunlight dappled the mossy ground. Beside them, the water of the lake lapped at the shore in gentle waves.
“Why did you seem surprised when I asked for your company?”
Alexandra let out a breath. “I thought I might have . . . scandalized you, that day at the bookshop. You might say it’s a habit of mine.”
He reached up and gently swatted a branch out of the way. “So what did you do to earn such a reputation? Start a fire?”
She laughed. “No.”
“No?” He tsked. “Steal something other than a book?”
“No.”
“You didn’t commit arson or petty non-book theft, then what’s left to make you such a bad, scandalous woman? Did you flash your knees to poor, unsuspecting bachelors?”
She made an indignant noise. “I talk about politics in public.”
His startled laugh warmed her. “My god, politics?” He mock gasped.
Alexandra edged around some tree roots. “I’m told it’s impolite to discuss whether women ought to be enfranchised—” She leveled him a fixed, steely gaze. “Do you think women should be able to vote, sir?”
Nick put a hand to his chest. “Every damn election.”
She stepped closer. “Do you believe women should be allowed to sit in the House of Commons?”
He was grinning now. “If she wants to shout at the opposition, why the hell not?”
“Do you, sir, find it acceptable that I wish to work, despite being the daughter of an Earl?”
Nick tilted his head a fraction. His expression had taken on its previous intensity. So keen, he was. “Yes, I do,” he said easily. Then, with some strange emotion: “What work?”
Would he judge her? Would this be what turned him away? Discussing her future often made even the most radical men uncomfortable. There was a difference, after all, between supporting a woman’s aspirations and considering her worthy of courting. Aristocratic wives, quite simply, did not do anything so vulgar as make money. Work was for the common classes.
But Alexandra would not silence herself. She would not be timid. She would not allow any man to make her feel so small, not even this one. She did not consider work to be vulgar.
Alexandra bent to retrieve a stone from the banks of the pond. She ran her thumb across the surface. “Have you read Mary Wollstonecraft? She died almost seventy years ago, but the things she wrote about are relevant even today. Women are still fighting for education. London University finally allowed nine women to matriculate this year. And do you know what I keep thinking?”
How patient he looked. How interested. As if he held his breath, waiting for what she’d say. “Tell me.”
Alexandra gave a bitter laugh and threw the rock. It skipped across the surface of the water three times before disappearing. “It’s 1868, and women are still arguing to receive even a fraction of what men have been offered for hundreds of years. We make one small movement toward progress and men in power pat themselves on the back and take the credit. As if rights were a bauble to be gifted at their will. Then they return to ignoring the fact that from the House of Lords all the way down to a mere university senate, the people who hold the most influence look like them.” She lifted her chin and regarded him frankly. “You ask me what work I wish to do? What if I said I wished to write about social reforms? What if I wished to write about the people society has made voiceless because it values the opinions of wealthy men over everyone else? What if, one day, I wanted to buy my own press and give people the means to speak their own truth?”
She heard him loose a breath. Nick stepped closer, his eyes never leaving hers. What a strange expression he wore, so intent and almost fevered—and not because it was warm out. He likes it, she realized with wonder. He looked as if he wanted to pull her close, kiss her fiercely.
And if he did, she’d let him.
“I’d ask what sort of desk I ought to purchase for you,” he said. “A woman who does such work needs a good desk.”
Her heart kicked in her chest and she smiled. “I would say that I shouldn’t accept a gift from you. But I may make an exception for a very large, very solid mahogany with many hidden compartments.”
“Compartments for pens, ink, sweets, and secrets,” Nick said with a grin. “Done.”
He adored her.
Nick almost laughed at the absurdity of it, some joke the devil would enjoy. Here he was: lying to her, making her think him some English lord. Using a fake accent. Dressed in these fancy clothes he’d bought just for the occasion of this swindle. He had his coat off because it was too damn hot and twill itched.
And he adored his fucking mark.
“What about you?” she asked, tossing another rock into the lake. “How did you earn your reputation, schoolmaster that you are?”
After crafting thousands of lies during his good for nothing life, this one chafed. Schoolmaster. Jesus Christ, what had he been thinking? “I’ll tell you a secret,” he said, loathing himself. She deserved better than this. “Schoolmasters must be a little wicked, to deal with wicked children.”
“My governess would call that poppycock.”
“And were you well behaved for your governess?”
She gave him a mischievous smile, one that he’d imagined these last five nights when he dreamed of her. “I drove her mad.”
“There, you see?”
She fanned her face with her hat. Sweat was beginning to bead at her brow from their walk. “I have the feeling your reputation comes from saying things you ought not, just as mine does.”
“And being shocking.”
“Indeed? I love a good scandal.” She lowered her hat. “May we rest a moment? I’m about to perish from the heat.”
As she perched on a nearby rock, Thorne stood at the edge of the lake. He had never seen water so clear, as if it were made of glass. Life in Stratfield Saye made him uneasy; the comfort of it, the cleanliness. Constant reminders of what he’d left behind, and what he needed to get back to fixing. Would he ever have an opportunity like this again? Cle
an lake, clear sky? Beautiful lady in the countryside? Walking without purpose?
The time to do these things was a privilege of the wealthy. Safety, too.
In a few weeks, he would have neither. The skies would be filled with coal smoke. The countryside replaced with crumbling tenements. The nearest shore would belong to the stinking Thames.
No, he would not have this opportunity again.
He dropped his jacket to the grass and began unbuttoning his waistcoat.
“What are you doing?” Alexandra asked.
He noticed her gaze linger on his body and that made him grin. “It’s hot. We’re near a pond. Surely you’ve made the connection.”
“Well, yes, but . . .” She glanced around, as if expecting someone to turn up and spot them. “We can’t.”
“Oh, but we can. You said you loved a scandal. Let’s have one in secret.”
She pressed her lips together. “You’re using my words against me.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You’re not a gentleman.”
“Thought we made that clear.”
“And I’m so hot, I really am going to die.” With a sigh, she dropped her hat and began taking off her gloves. “I hate you.”
“I think you like me.”
Alexandra made a face. “Turn your back, if you please.”
Thorne turned and bent to unlace his boots. Clothing rustled behind him and he pictured her unbuttoning that pretty blue walking dress. He was perverse, to imagine how she would look naked and wet. How her skin would feel against his lips and tongue. He almost let out a rueful laugh—she considered him safe enough to be open with her attraction.
She ought to remember that the devil was once considered the Lord’s most beautiful angel.
A splash sounded behind him. “Nick!” she called. “You’re dawdling.”
Thorne removed his boots and rolled up his trousers. When he turned to look at her, Thorne understood she had her own power. She swam with long, graceful strokes, the white of her undergarment trailing behind her. Never in his life had he seen anything so beautiful. She was luminous.
Tempting the Scoundrel (Private Arrangements Book 2) Page 6
