“My husband—you’ve read the broadsheets, I assume?”
“I have.” Now Alexandra could hear the smile in her voice. “Nicholas Thorne. Not a choice I expected.”
Alexandra ignored that. “A man from my husband’s past has returned to the East End. We believe Lord Seymour paid him to murder me and my informants, and he took the contract as a . . . personal vendetta. He’s already killed two of my contacts—possibly a third. You are the only one left.”
Alexandra could feel the Madame studying her. “I see,” she said. Her voice betrayed nothing of her emotions.
“I will not ask your identity,” Alexandra continued. “I’m here to suggest that leaving London might be a safer for you.”
There. The Madame’s veil fluttered with her agitated breath—a sign of her alarm. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. I have obligations I must see to here.”
Alexandra considered that. She may not know the Madame’s true identity, but she thought of her as a friend. “My husband’s men could guard you. They would not reveal your identity, even to me.”
The Madame rose and approached the large bay window, bracing her gloved hand against its frame. “As you may have surmised during our time together, I am skilled at hiding.” The sunlight went through the lace of her veil, revealing her profile, the slope of her nose. “I don’t need to leave this city to disappear, Alexandra. I can do that standing in the most crowded ballroom in London.”
Not for the first time, Alexandra wondered if she, too, had allowed the Madame to disappear into the woodwork of a grand house. If she had made the grave error of overlooking this woman, and if she should apologize for her foolhardiness. Instead, she studied the Madame’s stacks of books—tomes of knowledge that were creased and tea stained. Suddenly those books suggested a different view of the club’s elusive owner. It seemed strange to wonder if a woman surrounded by such intimacy might be lonely. If those books became a refuge for a clever mind surrounded by people who could not remember her name or her face.
“Do you wish differently?” Alexandra couldn’t help but ask.
She thought of all the women on the perimeter of the ballroom, waiting for acknowledgment. Alexandra’s reputation was scandalous—in ruins, now—but she was never ignored. Never forgotten. Never invisible. Her visage had graced countless illustrations. Her name the topic of countless articles and hushed whispers. It was a curse of opposites.
The Madame straightened. “If things were different, I would have no secrets to share with you.”
“But your club is—”
“You misunderstand,” The Madame said gently. “I don’t learn information in this club. I don’t encroach on the privacy of those in my rooms. I certainly don’t partake. The Masquerade is not for me.”
This information surprised Alexandra. After all, part of the Masquerade’s allure was anonymity. It allowed members to take new lovers and explore their desires, free of judgment or expectations. While they had never spoken of the Madame’s own role at her club, Alexandra had assumed the other woman had taken lovers—or sent invitations to sate her own personal desires.
“If you don’t partake, then why . . .”
“Start a den of iniquity?” Beneath the dark lace, Alexandra saw the slight curve of a smile. “The truth is, I’m a hopeless romantic. I hope, beyond all else, that some of my members fall in love and have no further need of this place.” Alexandra sensed that the Madame was smiling now. “I’ve heard your brother and sister-in-law are very happy.”
James and Emma had met at the Masquerade some months back. Alexandra had let Emma borrow her own Masquerade mask to attend—though her friend’s affair with James had come as a welcome surprise.
“They’re still away on their honeymoon, and the post has been slow,” Alexandra replied. “I expect they’ll be along when my brother hears of my marriage. I never told him.”
Once she confirmed she wasn’t pregnant with Nick’s child, Alexandra only wanted to forget. Pretend her folly never happened. Over the years, her marriage to Nick had taken on its own mythology—it became easier to look on those days as a dream. Something she had imagined while floating in Stratfield Lake on a warm day.
Again, Alexandra felt the Madame’s assessing gaze. She could make out the soft curve of her mouth beyond the lace veil. “Were you ashamed, then? Of your husband’s background?”
“No. Marrying a nobleman never mattered to me.” Never that. “He hurt me a long time ago. I’ve spent all this time hardening my heart, and now . . .”
“And now?”
It ought to have astonished her, how freely she could speak in front of this woman. But the Madame held so many secrets. Alexandra didn’t need to see her face or know her name to understand that this woman was worth trusting.
Alexandra shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve spoken with my solicitor of my intent to petition for divorce.”
She had to ready herself for the scrutiny of her peers, the cruel gossip that would only grow worse. A divorce meant revealing to society what they had long thought: that no man would want her, except for her money. That she had nothing else to offer.
The Madame fidgeted with the trimming of her veil. “On what grounds have you decided?”
Alexandra pressed her lips together. “My solicitor tells me adultery is easiest. Nick won’t keep me in this marriage against my will. I know him that well.”
“Mm.” Through the lace of the veil, Alexandra saw the Madame’s lip lift in a small smile. “And if he loves you?”
Alexandra didn’t know what to say to that. It wasn’t all lies, he’d told her. No. She shook her head. It didn’t matter. She harbored too much resentment in her heart to let him near it again. She couldn’t trust that he told her the truth, or that he ever loved her at all.
“It’s been four years,” she said softly.
For once, Alexandra was grateful for the Madame’s veil. It hid a gaze she knew that was as penetrating as sharpened steel. “Is that enough time for forgiveness?” Alexandra didn’t answer. The Madame turned to the window with a short laugh. “As I said: hopeless romantic.”
Chapter 20
Nick straightened as Alexandra descended from the Madame’s room. “Everything all right?”
Alexandra gave a nod, avoiding his searching gaze. She didn’t wish to think of the memories the Madame had dislodged, all those feelings that she had tried so hard to bury. Every moment in his presence brought some foolish new longing: to see him, to touch him, to kiss him. The ship she longed to take her across the sea became more difficult to picture.
Think of the ocean lapping the sides of the boat, the waves carrying you far away. Think of how wonderful freedom will be. The engine of the ship will take you across the ocean with a speed of fourteen-point-five knots. Or the Continent? You can choose anywhere you want. Go to Germany to see the Striezelmarkt at Christmastime.
Alexandra straightened her shoulders—holding onto the image of an endless sea, new sights in other countries—and pressed the latch beneath a painting of Ares and Venus. “Come,” she said, swinging out the door behind the painting. “The Madame asked that we use this route. She has guests due to arrive, and it would be best if we weren’t caught without a mask.”
“I’ve seen fewer hidden entrances in buildings populated by spies,” Nick said, following her.
“And what do you know about government spy passages?”
“Plenty enough.”
Alexandra gaped at him. “Never say you have Home Office operatives in your pocket?”
His smile sent a jolt of longing through her. “A few of them might be decent operatives, sweetheart, but they’re shite at hazard, and some information is as valuable to me as currency.”
Some foolish part of her liked when Nick called her sweetheart. That when the word rolled off his tongue, it made Alexandra flush as if he’d touched her. “How much is a secret worth to you?” she asked him.
“Depends on how well kept
it is.”
“For instance?”
“For instance?” Nick repeated softly, coming to a stop. The corridor was dim, with only candlelight to illuminate his features. Alexandra had noted in Gretna how the shadows favored him, how they made his eyes glitter like the sky on a moonless night. Time had done little to change that; the darkness still caressed him like a lover. As he shifted closer, Alexandra felt the hard press of the wall at her shoulder blades. He dipped his head and breathed in her ear, “I would forfeit every pound, shilling, pence, and property I have to know your secrets. I would sell the clothes off my back.”
Alexandra’s breath caught. “Would you?”
Nick made some soft noise and turned his face from her. “Yes,” he said. “But you should not sell them so cheaply.”
If she wished, she could hold her cheek against his. She could slide her hands under his shirt to feel his skin, just like she did back in St Giles; he’d let her. Alexandra curled her fingers into her palm. Such a simple action that took so much effort. “Do you consider everything you have to be of such little value?”
“No.” His exhale slid across her shoulder. She thought she felt fingertips at her nape, but it might have only been his whisper: “I consider you to be worth everything.”
Were she not standing against the wall, Alexandra might have stumbled. His words sank into her bones, past the thorns she had erected around her traitorous heart. For beneath its protections, she was still so vulnerable.
I can’t. I can’t do this again. I won’t recover if it ends the same.
As if he heard those thoughts, Nick stepped away. “How about an easy secret, no payment required?” he asked lightly, avoiding her gaze. “What do the colored knobs on some of these doors mean?”
Of all the questions he could have asked to smooth over the moment, he chose to inquire about the red and blue doorknobs. And she, without even a moment to compose herself. Not one second.
Alexandra straightened, overcoming the urge to flee the corridor. “They’re . . . er . . . specialty rooms. Red, for those who like to be watched”—bloody hell, and now she was blushing—“and blue for those who like to watch.”
Oh, she was certain her cheeks were red now. Her entire face felt hot. For it wasn’t enough that she’d answered, now she wanted to know which room Nick would choose: to watch, or be watched?
Nick’s smile was slow. It sent a lick of heat between her thighs. “Do you have a preference?”
The flush spread across her entire body. “Of course not.”
“Very well.” Then he winked. “I’ll choose.” He grasped a blue doorknob and went inside.
“Nick.”
Alexandra muttered a curse and went after him. The room was smaller than some of the others she’d seen, but no less opulent. The dark furniture gleamed from the efforts of the Masquerade’s fastidious team of servants, and the air was lightly perfumed with the scent of roses. To her left, the four-poster bed beckoned, but Nick walked past it and dropped onto the chaise pushed to the far wall. There, in the middle of the wallpaper, was a sliding panel—currently closed. Was there a couple in the next room? Did he really intend to—
Stop it. Stop it.
Alexandra shut the door behind her. “We shouldn’t be in here.”
“If some toffs in the next room wish for us to take a look, I’ll give them what they want. Just this once.” He dropped onto the couch and crooked a finger at her. “Come here.”
The thorns around her heart were beginning to recede, driven by her some mad desire. It’s lust, she told her heart, burying it deeper behind sharp thistle and vines. It means nothing.
When she didn’t move, Nick draped his arm across the back of the chaise and asked, “You afraid?”
She watched his fingertip coast down the upholstery as if it were the long line of a lover’s hip. “Of what?”
“That you’ll like it.” Oh, he had a wicked smile. She’d forgotten the effect it had on her, how easily it made her picture him disrobed and beneath her.
Stop it. He is baiting you.
Furious with herself, Alexandra marched over to the panel. Get this over with. She grasped the panel and slid it open. The strength of her disappointment surprised her—the next room was empty.
“There,” she said, hoping the word passed as relief. “No one. Now let’s—”
Nick gripped her arm. “Wait.”
A masked couple stumbled into the observation room. Their laughter faded to soft sounds as the man pressed the woman to the door and they shared a fierce kiss. Some desperate desire must have taken over, for they scrambled to undress. Buttons skittered across the carpet, fabric rendered in their haste. Their whispered words barely reached Alexandra’s ears through the glass, but she imagined the vocabulary. All those words she’d wielded over Nick, demands she’d made of him in Gretna, and again on the train to London.
Fuck me.
Fuck me.
Fuck me.
Alexandra told herself to shut the panel—look away, stop, look away—but her body had other ideas. She sat beside Nick on the chaise, the sight in the next room riveting her. They conjured so many memories, so many things she only allowed in dreams. Nick had kissed her like that, at the inn outside of Gretna. Had peeled away the dusty travel dress that served as her wedding gown, and slid his lips across her skin inch by inch. Her dreams over the years had begun to blur the details, add new words, different scenarios. Sometimes it was fast. Sometimes it was achingly slow. Sometimes, when she was angriest with herself for still wanting him, she would take him beneath her and press him into the mattress and use his need as an instrument of torment until he pleaded with her.
And sometimes, when she forgot her anger, she would imagine the look in his eyes that night.
Is it always like this?
No. Only with you.
“What are you thinking of?” Nick’s voice was husky, the warmth of his exhale at the shell of her ear. When she only shook her head, he whispered one word, a question: “Us?”
She couldn’t say yes, couldn’t answer. Wouldn’t that betray everything she had vowed never to reveal? The pieces of her heart that she had spent years stitching back together?
The man in the next room carried the woman to the bed.
Nick slid closer, his warm thigh touching hers. His lips were so near her neck she could feel the heat of his breath. A fraction of an inch and he’d be kissing her. “I dream every night of Gretna,” he told her, his words coasting along the curve of her shoulder. “Sometimes I wish I had gone slower. The man in there? He has the right of it. Watch him slide his lips down—ah, there. Remember?”
Alexandra’s breath caught as the man knelt between the woman’s thighs and licked, and feasted, and devoured. “Yes.”
Nick made a small sound of encouragement. “In my dreams, sometimes we don’t even get to fucking,” he murmured. “Some nights I lick your cunny until you come so hard and so often that you can’t leave my bed for hours. Then—”
The man caught the woman around the waist and lowered her onto the bed. In a single, swift move, he pushed his cock inside her.
“—I fuck you just like that. You liked it hard and fast.”
Heat stroked between her legs. Alexandra’s dug her fingernails into the upholstery of the chaise. She required something to anchor her, for if she let go, she would grasp him by the collar of his jacket. Nip at his skin. Lose herself in him as easily as being swept into the sea.
Control. Control.
But he leaned in once more, his low voice sending a shiver through her. “Answer me one question, Alex.” His lips brushed the skin of her throat. “Are you wet right now?”
She swallowed hard. Part of her wanted to pretend she hadn’t heard, but his question burned her ears, and she couldn’t stop the answer anymore than she could stop wanting him. “Yes,” she breathed.
Nick dropped his forehead against her shoulder with a groan. “Christ god,” he whispered. “I misspoke b
efore. I would give up every fucking thing I own if you let me kiss you just once.”
Yes. Say yes. It doesn’t have to mean anything. He’s not asking for your heart. It doesn’t have to—
Below stairs, a door slammed shut. It jolted Alexandra to awareness: they were in a club in Mayfair where anyone could discover them. She jerked away from Nick and stood. “We have to go. I need—” You. “I need air.”
Without waiting for him to follow, Alexandra fled the room.
Chapter 21
When they arrived at the Brimstone, Alex strode past the kitchens and up the stairs to the club’s private wing. Thorne ignored the curious stares of his staff and hurried after her. The entire hackney ride home, she had huddled to one side, her face a silent message: Not now.
But he had to say something. Apologize? Tell her he loved her? Christ if he knew.
“Alex.”
She paused at her bedchamber door, but didn’t turn when he approached. Thorne reached for her, settling a hand gently on her arm. Some ragged sound left her, almost like an acknowledgment. An admission of her feelings.
Alex wanted him.
Look at me, he willed her. Look at me.
But she only shrugged his hand off her shoulder and disappeared inside her bedchamber. The door closed behind her.
And she bolted the lock.
Thorne went into his own room, wondering at her confession of a sound. Did she spend the journey home imagining, like he had, what might have happened back in Mayfair? He had lost all sense of himself. Of where they were. His entire attention had been on her, noting every slip of her calm facade. Her teeth pressed to her lower lip. The hard grip of her fingernails on the chaise. The soft noises she made—had she even been aware of those? Had—
His breathing came hard as Thorne leaned over his desk. He shut his eyes and reimagined that room in Mayfair. In his fantasy, Alex had let him kiss her, had taken his hand in hers and slipped it beneath her petticoat. She would have guided him unerringly to the juncture of her thighs, and left him there to explore as he wished.
Tempting the Scoundrel (Private Arrangements Book 2) Page 18