Tempting the Scoundrel (Private Arrangements Book 2)

by Katrina Kendrick

  Alexandra would be ruined.

  For now, she wanted Nick to remain her secret. To let their friendship flourish without obligation or societal expectations of courtship. So when her maid had tried to dress her that morning, Alexandra sent the girl away and performed the task herself. With her bathing costume hidden beneath a walking dress, she set out for Stratfield Lake.

  It was another hot day in Hampshire. The clouds over the distant hills were as fluffy and white as a storybook’s. Alexandra hummed as she strolled down the sun dappled path, smiling as the lake emerged into view.

  Her smile faded when she saw Nick at the shore.

  It’s only an infatuation, she told herself, swallowing hard. Only an—he turned and spotted her—infatuation.

  Oh. My.

  How had she never noticed that a gentleman’s bathing costume left so little to the imagination? His suit was black, in a sailor style, with a shirt that left his muscular arms bare. The shorts were no better; the material clung to his powerful thighs and ended at the knee to reveal long, shapely calves. It wasn’t only the smooth expanse of his golden skin exposed to her, but the corded strength of it. No, this physique was not achieved in a classroom; he had worked for it.

  His gaze met hers. And his smile—god, that smile—left her breathless.

  “Been there long?” he asked, with the satisfied awareness of a man who had caught a woman so blatantly admiring him.

  “If I was?” She kept her voice light as she approached.

  If he was surprised by her confession, he didn’t show it. He only looked pleased. “I’d ask if you enjoyed the view.”

  “My goodness,” she said, placing her towel on the nearest rock. “Next you’ll ask me to compose an ode.”

  His smile was slow. “An ode? Go on, then.”

  “ ‘The rose is red, the violet is blue, you are an arrogant arse, but I’ll tolerate you.’ ”

  Nick tilted his head. “I was hoping for something more like, ‘The rose is red, the violet is blue, your face is a poem, and your body too.’ ”

  “Ugh.” Alexandra made a face. “That is horrible. It barely even rhymes. I ought to shove you into the water and see if you live.”

  Nick leaned against the tree on the banks of the lake. “But if I die, who will do scandalous things with you? Who will you replace me with?”

  “You’re not my only friend in Stratfield Saye.” She had other friends. Older ones. Near their dotage. They enjoyed needlework and spoiling small dogs.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, watching her set down her basket of food. “The village ladies. What would they say about an unmarried lass such as yourself swimming unchaperoned with a bachelor? Composing odes to his arse?”

  “If I were composing an ode to your arse it would go something like, ‘The rose is red, the violet is blue, your arse is a nice view, it’s the best part of you.’ ”

  “Oh ho!” Nick laughed. “Quite a rhyme.” Nick crossed his arms and the movement distracted her. She had never seen a bare bicep before on a man who wasn’t one of her brothers. Nick caught her look. “And that,” he said, “is enjoying a view that isn’t my arse.”

  Alexandra snorted and unbuttoned her day dress. He watched as she shucked the heavy material and set it beside her basket. “I think I loathe you.”

  “I think you like me.” Then he studied her bathing costume, bemused. “Is it common for women to wear two complete dresses?”

  “Two . . . sorry?” She gestured to her outfit. “This is my bathing costume.”

  Admittedly, it was a shapeless garment. The suit consisted of a short blue dress worn over wide trousers. In contrast to his, it left as much covered as a nun’s habit. Nick stared at it like she’d made the absurd choice to don a horse blanket to their lessons.

  “That’s an entire dress. Christ, what’s it made of?”

  Alexandra rolled her eyes. “Flannel.”

  “Huh,” he said, clicking his tongue. “How can you even swim in it?”

  “Magic,” she said with a grin. Without waiting for him to answer, she gestured to the water. “Come, I’m going to teach you how to float.”

  “Float?” He said the word in bemusement, as if she’d just declared they were having eel for luncheon.

  “Learning to float requires trust.” She waded into the water and threw a look over her shoulder. “And perhaps I wish to learn to trust you before I teach you how to catch me in the middle of the lake.”

  He gave her a strange look. One she couldn’t decipher, for it held entire secrets that she hadn’t yet learned from him. “Is that what you’ll teach me? How to catch you?”

  Alexandra gave him a sly look. “I shall think about it.”

  She crooked a finger at Nick like some temptress beckoning him for a kiss. Even in that silly bathing costume, she was more enticing than any woman he had ever met. He watched water drip from her hair down the column of her throat and envied its journey.

  “Come into the water, Nick. You’re not afraid, are you?”

  Control yourself. She’s just like any other mark.

  So why, then, didn’t she seem like it?

  Nick waded in. The water was cool, but not overly so. It was a balm in such warm weather. “Not afraid of much.”

  “Oh? Here, recline against my arm.” She drew closer and slid a hand across his back. A jolt went through him, and—Christ fuck—his cock stirred. He curled his fingertips into his palm. Control. Control. He did as Alex asked.

  “Good,” she murmured, and sounded every bit as beautiful as birdsong. “Lean back now. That’s it. And relax.”

  He shut his eyes and let her take him farther into the lake. Her breath, the soft splashes of water—these lulled him to relaxation. He had few moments in his life that were this filled with comfortable silence. The East End was never quiet; sounds suffused from so many different sources: traffic along the roads, the populated tenements, tavern song, factory machinery. He had never experienced true stillness until his first night in Stratfield Saye, when he woke in the night and the only noise he heard was his own breath.

  Alex’s voice was every bit as soothing as the water that lapped around them. “So what are you afraid of?”

  Nick tried not to stiffen. The quiet shattered. Replaced with—

  The cold and dark. The dripping of the cellar, and the biting cold and numb limbs. Hunger that gnawed in his gut, the pain of it as sharp as teeth through skin. Failing the men who survived it with him if he didn’t seduce and marry one last mark.

  One. Last. Mark.

  The reminder forced him to relax once more. Thorne could not afford failure.

  “What if it were something silly?” he asked lightly. “Like rats?” Down in the cellar, the scratch of claws against stone. They could smell the lads closest to death.

  “Rats?” She sounded amused. “I’d say you’re in the perfect place to avoid them, in the middle of a lake.”

  She jostled him with a soft laugh, pushing him farther into the water. Thorne was floating now, but Alex had yet to release him. Not that he minded. He loved the way her hand lingered along his spine, the smooth press of her palm against his skin. How he longed for her to move her hand, touch him everywhere.

  “And what about on land?”

  “Why, Nicholas Spencer,” she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “I’ll just have to save you from the rats on land, won’t I? Mice, too, if your fear extends to other rodents.”

  Nick opened his eyes. Alex smiled down at him, her golden hair shining in the sun. He wondered if it were a trick of the light, if she were a vision he had dreamed up during hungry nights in Whelan’s cellar. But, no, she was tactile.

  He could feel her hands now, the soft stroke of a thumb against his shoulder. How easily she could leave him there, in the middle of the lake, to drown. No wonder she said this required trust. Thorne was learning to trust her.

  And she was learning to trust Nicholas Spencer.

  In that moment, he hate
d the schoolmaster. He hated the imaginary passel of Southwoldian children, the house that wasn’t really his, the title that didn’t belong to him, this accent that was as fake as his background. He wanted her to look down and see Nicholas Thorne, and to want him—scars and all.

  It wasn’t to be. The day she learned his true name was the day she’d learn to hate him.

  “You look so serious all of a sudden,” Alex said with a frown. “Was it something I said?”

  “Just thinking that I like you,” he said softly. “Rat catcher that you are.”

  She ducked her head, but not before he saw her blush. Nick felt her grip on his bathing costume tighten. “You are trying to distract me with your masculine wiles, I think.”

  “Masculine wiles,” he murmured as he leaned back into the water. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard of those.”

  “Oh, my brothers have them. They give women a certain look and it’s as if they’ve beckoned with a finger. But yours is more effective. I suppose it’s because your eyes are so black.”

  Thorne gave a short laugh. “You this candid with everyone?”

  “Yes.” She pressed her lips together. “That’s my problem. I say and do all the wrong things, which is why my father banished me here before the end of the season. He considers me an embarrassment. Said I was ruining my marriage prospects.”

  She said this last part with a forced smile that gutted him. Thorne longed to tell her the truth: that her father sent her to Stratfield Saye to be seduced by the confidence artist he hired to steal her money.

  Thorne had no right to be so angry. She was his mark. But he’d heard the hurt in her voice, and rage coiled inside him. He liked her. She deserved better than this.

  Better than him.

  “I’m certain you could never be an embarrassment,” he told her gently.

  “A woman who speaks her mind is amusing for conversation, but not in a wife. Suddenly, that entertaining conversationist becomes a political and social liability.” Water dripped from her lashes onto her cheeks. He wanted to kiss those droplets, hear her laugh again. Make her smile always. “But perhaps the ladies in Southwold are permitted to speak more freely.”

  Those damn nobs. They understood nothing of value. Tell them a rock was an antiquity, and they’d pay a fortune. Give them a sapphire covered in dust, and they’d ask, “Why have you given me a rock?” If any of them had bothered to care beyond appearances, they would have offered to marry this woman the moment she spoke. They would have seen her anger and passion and wanted her as desperately as he.

  Thorne thought of all the women he knew in the rookeries, and anger was how they survived. Sometimes, on a cold night, it was all you had left to burn. They would not understand these rules of social niceties, of keeping quiet. He certainly didn’t.

  “They’re formidable,” he said to her, thinking only of East End women. “And fierce. They speak their mind, and don’t find shame in work. I think you’d like them.”

  Her expression softened. “They sound wonderful.”

  Nick almost touched her, stroked his thumb across her cheek. He wanted to remove her bathing costume and know the feel of her skin, the look of it in the light. But her garments covered so much of her; fabric was another way to keep a woman hidden.

  “That they are.”

  “Nick,” she whispered. Then she leaned in, so close that he thought she might kiss him. But she only said, “I never told you what I was afraid of.”

  His lip quirked. “Not rats, apparently.”

  “Not rats.” Alex worried her lip. “I don’t suppose you’ve had occasion to meet my father?” At his head shake—another small lie, to add to his growing list—she said, “He’s not known for his pleasant company. Neither was my mother, from what I understand. Their marriage was arranged from a young age, and it was clear from the very first that they hated each other. She died whilst giving birth to me. My eldest sibling, James, practically raised my brother Richard and me—quite a responsibility for a mere boy. I saw my father four times a year, at most. It became clear that he loathed his children for how much we resemble our mother. None of us favor our father, me least of all.” Thorne felt her fingers brush the back of his neck in the water, an idle movement, perhaps, as she considered what to say next. “Nick, have you ever loathed someone so much that you’re angered by the mere reminder of them?”

  Nick held his breath and thought of Whelan. “Yes.”

  “Then you will understand my fear.” Her fingertips were at his nape again, stroking. “I am terrified that my father will force me to marry someone I’ll hate until the day I die.”

  Nick froze. Her soft words stirred something in his chest, tight and painful. He was to be that man she hated, the one forced upon her.

  A wild thought dislodged in his mind: if he told her everything, she might understand. Maybe even marry him, still. Give him the means to seize power from Whelan before the old bastard hurt someone else he cared about.

  No. You can’t risk that.

  O’Sullivan was hiding out in the East End, waiting for him to return. Callihan was still keeping an eye on Whelan’s movements. The others depended upon Nick to see this through—he’d told them he had a mark to end it all, and he couldn’t fail them.

  Play your role. You are Nicholas Spencer.

  And so he smiled Nicholas Spencer’s charming smile and said, “Perhaps you won’t marry someone so bad. You might even like him.”

  “I’m glad you think so. Perhaps we will meet in the ballrooms of London one day, long after you’ve learned to swim.”

  Christ, she was beautiful. He’d never felt like more of a bastard. “Will you save me a dance?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I’ll save you a dance.”

  When Thorne returned to Fairview House—the manor he borrowed for his scheme—the earl was waiting for him.

  Thorne entered the sitting room and found Kent staring out the window with a glass of sherry in hand. Thorne was not a fool; he understood the intent of these occasional visits. The earl would make himself comfortable as a reminder: he owned everything in this house. Thorne was hired help, paid for like a butler or a valet. His presence at Fairview House was to complete the ruse, nothing more.

  Kent was immaculately dressed in dove grey trousers and a coat. His blond hair was brushed back, every strand in place. His features were stern, made more severe by high cheekbones and grey eyes. They were the color of gunmetal, those eyes, and every bit as cold.

  That frigid gaze swept over Thorne’s clothes—still damp from his lesson with Alex. “Good god,” Kent said with a short bark of laughter. “Before today, and I had almost been fooled into believing you a gentleman. How uncivilized you look now.”

  Thorne went to the sideboard and poured himself some sherry. “You didn’t want a gentleman. So you got me.” He toasted with his glass and tossed back the spirits in a single swallow. Then Thorne splashed more sherry into the snifter, took a seat in the leather chair, and propped his boots up on the table—a pointed example of his incivility.

  Kent grimaced. “The servants tell me you’ve met with Alexandra. Several times now.”

  Ah, so the old man wanted an update. “She’s a fine woman. Has a kind heart.”

  He said those last words just to see what Kent would do, what he’d say. The man only sneered. “I don’t care about her heart. Have you seduced the chit yet, or not?”

  Thorne took a sip of the sherry, but hardly tasted it. “No.”

  Kent drew himself up. “If you’re wasting my time—”

  “You want to force her to marry me, catch us swimming alone, then,” Thorne said sharply. “But I’ll not force my attentions on any woman. Not for one-hundred thousand pounds, not for a bag of jewels, and certainly not for you.”

  “A thief with principles,” Kent sneered. “How shocking.”

  “Seduction and marriage was our deal. So make the choice: are you going to force her into a marriage with me or not?”


  Kent’s lip lifted. “No. Alexandra is too headstrong. She’d run to her brothers before I managed to drag you both to the altar, and neither of my sons would suffer if I cut off their finances in retaliation. She has to come to you willingly.”

  “Then let me do my fucking job.”

  Thorne didn’t intend to tell Kent of his certainty that Alex was growing to trust him. All he wanted was a bit longer with her before she understood that he was exactly the man she feared most: someone she’d hate her whole life.

  “I’ll concede your point, Mr. Thorne. ” Kent sipped his own sherry thoughtfully. “However, I can move to nudge things along.”

  Something cold settled in the pit of Thorne’s belly. “How?”

  “Leave it to me. Alexandra won’t be able to resist something I’ve forbidden her from having.”

  Chapter 11

  London. Four years later.

  Alexandra couldn’t concentrate.

  For the second night in a row, she barricaded herself in that opulent bedchamber at the Brimstone. Even with the connecting door to Nick’s room locked, every noise from that direction jolted her to awareness. After four years, her husband was only a room away.

  Separated by one door and a single lock.

  She did her best to throw herself into work. Notes were scattered across her bed, the tea table, and the small writing desk that was barely adequate for composing a letter. The chaos had some organization: these were times of shipments, these were men and women trafficked to Australia, locations, manifests, interviews. Crimes this intricate were filled with minutiae—and here was her problem. Minutiae required concentration, diligence.

  And all she could think was—It wasn’t all lies.

  “Stop this,” she whispered to herself. “Stop it.” She groped across the bed for the wooden box under her pillow, for what seemed like the thousandth time that day. “He is a liar, and these are his truths,” she continued, telling herself the same thing she had over the years.