Tempting the Scoundrel (Private Arrangements Book 2)

by Katrina Kendrick

  “I suspect he’s here to accompany me,” Alexandra said. “As Mr. O’Sullivan seems to have disappeared.”

  Her countenance was wary, uncertain. He thought of last night, that moment in her room after he returned to the Brimstone. He would have sold his soul to the devil to kiss her. But in the end, he’d retreated to his room and had sleep filled with nightmares.

  “O’Sullivan had work at the club.” Thorne turned to address Sofia. “I’ll be leaving one of my men to watch the premises. The children may have to keep inside after school for the time being. Do whatever you can to make sure Lottie can’t pick the locks.”

  Sofia froze, her small hands twisting at her skirts. Something in her past had her terrified, that much was clear. “Of course. I’ve . . . I’ve heard gossip of a few murders nearby—”

  “Nothing for you to worry over.” He gentled his expression. “O’Sullivan and I promised you safety, and we take our vows seriously.”

  Still looking worried, Sofia nodded. “Very well. My thanks.”

  After exchanging goodbyes, Alexandra and Thorne exited the orphanage. The East End had come fully awake in the short time Thorne had been in the orphanage. In the distance he heard men and women hawking their wares, the hum of machinery from the workhouses. He looked at Alexandra, wondering what she thought of the noise. For Thorne, these were the sounds of home. She had grown up in quiet Hampshire. Thorne still remembered the silence of the country, how restless it made him. How Alex had filled that space in his heart that longed for a home.

  And how he’d squandered it.

  Wordlessly, Alex started down the street—in the opposite direction of the Brimstone. Thorne caught up to her. “The Brimstone is back that way.”

  Without looking at him, Alex continued on. “It’s a shorter distance to hire a hack this way, and I need to make two stops.”

  He nodded in understanding. “Your sources?”

  “Yes. First St Giles, then Mayfair.” Alex hailed a hack, gave the driver the first address, and settled across from Thorne. With a soft sigh, she looked out the window. “I’m worried they’re already dead.”

  Thorne didn’t know how to comfort her with words. After a brief hesitation, he reached over and gently took her gloved hand. To his surprise and relief, she threaded her fingers through his. Four years since he’d held her hand like this. Four long years.

  His thumb brushed across her wrist. Even covered with leather, he felt the heat of her. He longed to slide his fingertips along her cheeks, press his lips to the curve of her neck where she liked it most. But this was the touch she allowed, and he would be content. He would ask for nothing more than she was willing to give.

  “You didn’t tell the children the rest of our story,” Thorne said.

  Alex stared down at their joined hands, watching as his thumb moved across her palm now. “How should I have ended it, then?”

  “You might have said that he held her in his arms for four days. For four blissful days, they travelled up north and back, and he woke up with her in his arms. But when she smiled and called herself Lady Locke, he didn’t correct her and tell her that name was a lie.”

  Something constricted in her features, a pain mirrored inside him. “The name might have been a lie, but what I felt for Lord Locke was real,” she said. As the carriage rolled to a stop, she pulled her hand out of his, and took all the warmth with her. “Let the children have the happy ending, Nick. It’s better than the one we got.”

  Chapter 17

  Stratfield Saye, Hampshire. Four years ago.

  Alexandra bit her lip and stared out the window of the private rail cabin. The scenery flew by, but Alexandra hardly noticed the change in landscape as the train travelled north.

  That morning had given her little opportunity to think. As the early light colored the sky a beautiful hue of pink, Alexandra packed a single valise and escaped out her window. She met Nick’s carriage at the end of the drive, and they made the hours long journey to London. The train from London to Carlisle had been their only option at the office, which would necessitate a secondary carriage to Dumfriesshire, where the only men available on such short notice to perform weddings were the blacksmiths in Gretna Green.

  Now that they were on the train, with nothing but time ahead of them, nerves made Alexandra’s heart race. Nick had been quiet since their dash from Stratfield Saye to London. It had been five days since their kiss. Five days for him to make arrangements that he hadn’t explained to her.

  Had it been long enough to waver his regard for her? For him to regret his choice?

  Alexandra studied him. Nick was dressed elegantly, in a trim dark gray suit that emphasized his broad shoulders and flat belly. At first, his casual posture had seemed relaxed, but now she noticed the tension in his hands as he gripped his hat and tapped it against his thigh.

  Say something, she mentally urged him. Look at me. Kiss me. Anything.

  The train rocked. Just outside their car, she heard the soft laughter of passengers elsewhere in the rail car. If they were to pass the door of Alexandra and Nick’s cabin and press their ear to the wood, they might think it empty.

  Fidgeting with her dusty travel dress, Alexandra cleared her throat. “Should we be worried about Scottish law for weddings? Twenty-one days’ residence prior to nuptials?”

  Nick didn’t even glance at her. He continued to watch the scenery with an unreadable expression. “If I pay the blacksmith enough, he’ll say we were born and raised in Scotland.”

  Their cabin fell silent once more. Nick tapped with his hat again. Tap. Tap. Tap. Somewhere in the rail car, glasses clinked. More laughter.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  “Will we live at your house in Stratfield Saye?” Alexandra asked, trying a different tack now. Maybe discussing their future might draw him out. “Or somewhere else? Perhaps we could buy another . . .” He’d turned to look at her now, some burning intensity in his gaze. Anger? Alexandra flushed. They had not discussed his finances, but her father had remarked on Baron Locke’s near-empty coffers. “I have money, Nick,” she told him. “My mother put it in a trust to ensure my father could never withhold a dowry. I can access it upon marriage.”

  His jaw tightened. “Let’s not discuss this now.”

  “Very well.” Alexandra’s voice was soft.

  She watched him cross his legs, as if to draw himself further away from her in the small space. The repetitive tapping of his hat continued. Tap. Tap. Tap. Alexandra couldn’t bear this—not the silence, not his terse responses, not the idea that he could be regretting an elopement made in haste.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Alexandra reached out and placed her hand over Nick’s, stilling the motion. “Nick,” she said quietly. “You’ve made me no vow. If you’ve changed your mind . . . if—if you regret—”

  “No.” Nick’s eyes met hers as he threaded their fingers together. “I don’t regret.”

  She swallowed. “Then . . . if it’s money—”

  Nick leaned forward and kissed her. His lips were soft against her own, a caress that left her breathless. “Not money,” he told her, shifting to sit beside her. He wrapped his strong arms around her waist and trailed hot kisses down her throat. “Not regret. Not you. Never.”

  Alexandra arched her neck. She could barely think. “Then tell me what’s the matter.”

  Nick breathed against her, his heart steady against her fingertips. Then he shut his eyes and kissed her again and again—until Alexandra forgot that he’d never given her an answer.

  They arrived late in Gretna Green.

  Thorne paid the smithy’s family a handsome fee to overlook the law that required twenty-one days’ residency before a wedding—intended to prevent elopements such as their own.

  But every man had a price, and the smithy had ten mouths to feed.

  His wife and eldest daughter stood as witnesses, watching with kind smiles as Thorne and Alexandra exchanged vows over the anvil and had the ribbon wrapped arou
nd their hands.

  Alexandra’s lips curved into a smile as the ceremony completed. She had the look of a glowing bride, unaware that she’d just completed one of the final steps in Thorne’s swindle. She embraced the smithy’s wife and daughter, didn’t even notice when her new husband signed the name Nicholas Thorne onto the marriage lines beside her own. If she had, she would have known him for a liar. She would have known to refuse the final step in his deceit.

  The marriage bed.

  “Don’t bother returning unless you’ve consummated the marriage,” the Earl of Kent had told him. “The last thing I need are my sons helping her obtain an annulment.”

  “You have that look again,” Alexandra said, sipping her wine.

  They were in their private room at the inn in Gretna. Though not as fancy as his suite at Fairview House, it was cleaner than anything he would have seen back in the Nichol. Their meal had been a satisfying meat pie and nice dark ale. Alex had grimaced when she first sampled her wine—Thorne smiled and teased her about expecting better wine from a country not known for its grapes.

  Sometime during their meal, Thorne noticed Alex fidget with the neckline of her dress. The innocent motion brought forth an onslaught of mental images: slowly removing the dress; kissing her throat again; trailing his tongue lower; putting his lips on her cunny until she came; fucking her; and fucking her; and fucking her.

  Until he forgot that this was borrowed time, and she was going to hate him for what he was about to do.

  “What look?” he asked, staring at the last dregs of his ale. He should smile for her. Play the happy new husband. It was only a few more lies.

  No one had ever told him that lying could hurt so much.

  “Like you’re somewhere else.” She made a soft noise. “Somewhere I can’t reach.”

  It was the cellar in the Nichol that had occupied his thoughts on the train. He had dredged up those old memories to renew his purpose, a reminder that this swindle was not only about her. It was about everyone back in the East End living under the weight of Whelan’s boot. Otherwise, he might have been tempted to tell her the truth. To get down on his knees and tell her, I’ll be the poorest fucking bet you’ve ever made, but I swear I’ll make it worth the gamble.

  But Thorne knew a thing or two about bets and playing the odds. If it were just him? He’d take that risk. Put himself at her mercy. Tell her the truth. Beg her forgiveness.

  But not for the others. Not for O’Sullivan or Callihan. This wasn’t roulette; not a game of luck. His was a game of power, and it took skill and cunning.

  And cheating.

  He’d bear the weight of his deception in the morning.

  Thorne rose to his feet and came around the table. Alexandra watched him as he took the wine glass out of her hand and pressed a kiss to her wrist. The pulse there fluttered against his lips. “I’m sorry,” he told Alex, gently tugging her until she was flush against him. “I have been distracted, haven’t I?”

  Ah, her laugh. Christ god, her laugh. He was going to miss it when she learned the truth. “It’s been a long day,” she said, voice a bit husky. Nick bit back a groan when she leaned in and flicked his earlobe with her tongue. “But you can make it up to me.”

  “Where shall I start?” Thorne had a thousand ideas.

  She nuzzled his cheek, then turned in his arms. “Undress me.”

  In the morning, he’d regret not telling her. He’d regret that she didn’t have a choice—not really. That when he put his hands on her and began to unbutton her clothes, he did it with guilt and something far, far worse: love.

  Thorne loved Alex.

  And he hated himself for what he was about to do.

  With a whisper of material, Alexandra’s dress fell to the floor. Nick had nimble hands. His movements were deft and practiced as he unlaced her corset and pushed her petticoats to the floor.

  A hitch of his breath. Alexandra knew what he saw: her combination was as gossamer thin as cobwebs, her skin visible through the material. She lifted her hands, a silent plea to remove it. Nick complied—but when she thought he might touch her, press his hands to her back, her shoulders, kiss her skin—he only stepped back. Why was he so hesitant now? If she turned to face him, would she find Nick in that same distant reverie that seemed beyond her? Some place in his mind she couldn’t reach?

  No, she could reach it. She did not want a distant husband. She wanted her lake kiss—like he couldn’t get enough of her. She wanted him naked and inside her.

  Alexandra shoved down her drawers and heard his soft hiss. There. He could still be reached.

  She turned and almost faltered at the hunger in his gaze. His eyes touched her all over—legs, hips, breasts, up, up. They were fevered when they met hers.

  “You will stay here with me,” Alexandra told him as she reached for his coat and shoved it off. Her hands were on his waistcoat now, undoing buttons. “Not that place in your mind, Nick. Here. With me.”

  Braces off his shoulders. His shirt was in the way; it had to come off. Alex lifted the material over his head so roughly that she heard the fabric tear. God, he was beautiful. His muscles were like carved marble, the lines of his body a work of art, lovingly crafted. It seemed a shame to cover them up, to hide him behind the bulk of clothes. She focused on the scars that lined his torso—long gashes, some of them. A star shaped mark over his pectoral. Long, thin lines along his ribcage that seemed deliberately cut there.

  No, he did not have the form of a mere schoolmaster. These scars were not obtained in a classroom. Where, then, had Lord Locke seen such brutality?

  His expression was so grave. So grim. The candlelight highlighted the harsh line of his mouth, the intensity of his dark stare as he regarded her. As if he challenged her to ask.

  She felt as if she were on the ledge of some great precipice, about to be thrown off. It did not suit her mood. She did not wish it.

  “With me,” she snapped, her hands going to his trousers. These buttons were easy; his small clothes were easier. When she had him naked, she reached up and touched his cheek. “In this room.”

  His hand pressed to hers. “Alex.”

  No. Why did her name sound like a confession? Why did it sound like guilt?

  She would not hear it, whatever it was. Not now. Not tonight. She did not wish to know what was down at the bottom of the precipice—what came after the fall.

  Alexandra slid her hands into the softness of his hair, grasped him roughly. “You and me, Nick. Nothing else. Nothing between us.”

  Nick seemed to come to a decision, some stark and somber choice. Because the next thing she knew, he was kissing her. Yes, this was what she wanted. Lips hard against hers, hands trailing down her ribcage, frankly addressing her topography.

  He walked her back until she fell against the mattress. Then his hot, hard body covered hers. His lips pressed soft kisses down the line of her throat. The muscles of his back moved beneath her palms as he arched into her touch.

  But this was not enough, Alexandra wanted more. She impatiently scrabbled her fingernails across his skin, opened her thighs wide until she felt his cock hard and ready against her.

  “Patience,” he said, nipping her in admonishment.

  “No,” she told him, arching her hips up until she was against his cock.

  Nick groaned and pressed her wrists into the mattress. Then he dipped his head to whisper in her ear, “If you’re patient, I’ll slide my tongue inside your pussy and make you come so hard, you’ll see stars.”

  Alexandra let out a soft breath. “I’m . . . I’m open to being convinced.” With a wicked smile, he released her wrists and trailed light kisses down the concave of her stomach, down and down.

  When he paused, it was with his mouth only a breath away from her quim. “Still need convincing?”

  “Nick.” She didn’t care anymore. She wanted his mouth on her, his hands on her skin, touching her, touching her, touching—

  He set his lips to her. Alexandra
arched up, gasping as he licked and sucked the sensitive skin between her legs. He knew just how much pressure, just where to press his tongue and use his fingers.

  Trembling, Alexandra said his name in a ragged breath, barely coherent. Then: “Please,” she begged, not knowing what she was asking for. “Please.”

  Nick rose up over her, the muscles in his arms straining. When he stared down at her, those black eyes glittered like the ocean at midnight. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered.

  Alexandra slid her legs against his, cradling his hips between her knees. “It’s only the once, Nick.” She smiled at his grave expression. Was this his earlier worry? Hurting her? “Make it up to me next time,” she said, and kissed him.

  “I’m sorry,” he breathed against her lips, shutting his eyes hard. “I’m so sorry.”

  Nick flexed his hips and slid into her. The pain was quick and fierce—Alexandra hated that she flinched. That Nick saw it. For he was pressing kisses to her throat and whispering incoherent apologies. But Alexandra did not wish for apologies. She had dreamed of this for months, imagined how he’d feel inside her.

  Alexandra lifted her hips off the bed, gratified by his soft intake of breath. Fine, he would not move? She’d move. She’d break his control.

  She lowered her hips and lifted them again, arching her back as she pressed her face into Nick’s shoulder. She let him feel the set of her teeth, the flick of her tongue—

  Nick grasped her wrists and held her down. His eyes were bright and fevered again. “Tell me how you want it,” he panted, voice hoarse. “If you want it slow, tell me now.” His voice had taken on some soft lilt she’d never heard before, one that made her flex her hips again. Nick made some rough sound and pressed her wrists harder into the bed. “Alex.”

  Alexandra smiled, for she could tell his control was waning. Her name on his lips had sounded like a plea. “I don’t want slow.”

  His gaze sharpened, alert now. “Speak plainly. How do you want me to fuck you?”