Tempting the Scoundrel (Private Arrangements Book 2)

by Katrina Kendrick

  Alexandra went over and kneeled beside the bathtub. There, she thought, when she noticed him tense. His hands betrayed him. He clutched the side of the tub with a hard grip, his knuckles white beneath the dried blood there.

  “Look at me,” she said, reaching out to cup his cheek. As if he couldn’t help himself, he leaned into her touch, gently nuzzling her palm. “Nick. Look at me.” When his eyes opened, Alexandra found herself almost off-balance. No, he was not indifferent to Miss Dawes’ letter. He was not indifferent at all. “Do you wish to divorce?”

  His expression gentled. Instead of answering, he asked, “What would you do, if you weren’t married to me? Would you wed someone else? Make plans?”

  “Would that make your decision easier?”

  Nick kissed her palm. “Tell me.”

  Alexandra slid her thumb across his jaw. “After our marriage became public, I was . . . melancholy. James had been away on his honeymoon, and he seemed so happy in his letters. Richard, too, had found such bliss with Anne. There was a loneliness in knowing that my brothers were so content in their marriages whilst my own was a disaster. I began to make plans to travel.” She skated her fingertips down the line of his cheekbone. “With every terrible illustration of us in the dailies, I would immerse myself in descriptions of far off places where I could escape after our divorce was final. I even memorized my favorite passages from the guides.”

  Nick brushed his lips against her wrist. “What was your favorite? Recite it for me.”

  Alexandra exhaled, leaning forward to press her cheek to his. She whispered into his ear, “ ‘We were standing on the verge of a lofty cliff that stretched precipitously forward like a crescent, and formed a bay on whose waters the moon, which had just risen, poured a flood of trembling silvery light; while, on one side, dark, ominous, and frowning, rose the mount, projecting far into the sea, and towering in its sullen grandeur above the rippling waves which bore their snowy wreaths of foam in tribute to its feet.’ ” She nipped his earlobe, gratified by his helpless noise. By how his hands gripped the side of the tub as if for balance. “ ‘Clear and defined against the moonlit sky,’ ” she continued, trailing her fingertips along the wet, muscular line of his shoulder, “ ‘with no trees or verdure to clothe its rocky steeps, there was something inexpressibly sublime in the aspect of this mountain, and the lonely character of the surrounding scenery.’ ” Nick tipped his head back with a groan as Alexandra licked the water from his throat. “ ‘No sound invaded the perfect quietude of the hour except the reverential murmur of the sea, and faintly in the distance, the voices of some fishermen, whose barks were gliding forth, their sails filling with the evening breeze, and glistening in the moonbeams.’ ”

  “Where?” It was a breath of a word, as if he could barely find his voice.

  “Ancona,” she said. “Italy.”

  Nick’s eyes met hers. “I can produce witnesses who will testify to my adultery, if that’s what you want,” he told her, almost gently. “You ought to go to that place in Ancona and watch the moon rise over the sea. You ought to go wherever you wish.”

  Five years they had spent apart, flouting the laws of physics when gravity should have pulled them together. And now it had, and their lives had collided, and Alexandra found that the ship she had imagined in her future was a lonely one indeed.

  “It was never about Italy,” she said, taking his hand. She grasped the soap from the tub’s edge and lathered around his fingertips, massaging blood out of his skin to reveal the scars of his childhood. She ought to have asked him about these so many years ago. “It wasn’t about New York, or Greece, or France, or any of the other places on my intended journey. I always imagined a ship at sea, putting miles of ocean between us. I told myself that each place was an opportunity to write about new experiences, but the truth is, I wanted to be someone else for a while. Someone who did not know you, and couldn’t be hurt by you. I wanted to rebuild my heart.”

  “Then you should write back to your solicitor. Tell her I will help with your case.”

  Alexandra pressed a kiss to his fingertips. “You didn’t answer my question before. Do you wish to divorce?”

  “If you want—”

  “Nick. That’s not what I’m asking.” She held his gaze. “Do you wish to divorce me?”

  His expression softened. “No.”

  “Good. Because I understand now that the reason my imaginary journey felt so lonely was because I wanted you with me. As my husband.”

  Chapter 24

  Thorne had to be dreaming.

  What other excuse did he have for his wife telling him everything he had dared not hope? Dreams. Waking reveries. Some fever from which he’d wake and find her gone, returned to the sanctuary of her bedchamber, with their connecting door firmly shut. She had seen him, after all, when he’d returned from killing Sean Gibbons. He was not like her; he had not been covered in the blood of another in some mad dash to escape. It was no accident.

  It was retribution. A message to Whelan: Thorne was no powerless, desperate lad scraping by to survive. He would not be threatened.

  But when he had returned to the Brimstone, his old memories took hold. Once nudged loose, those recollections spiraled into a dark wave inside him, and he had staggered into his room with the intent of bathing and finding oblivion in a bottle of Irish whiskey.

  His wife had burst through the door, this fey woman with her siren-like gaze. Not for the first time, he had stared down at blood on his hands and worried over sullying her, for what use did sirens have for mere men when the ocean promised freedom?

  The letter she brought confirmed his worst fears, after all. She wished to leave him. To take a ship to other destinations. To find her freedom with the expanse of the sea. To object to a divorce meant holding her back. It meant caging her when she had made the choice to fly.

  But no. She still had his hand in hers. Her touch was solid. She did not wish to leave him.

  She wished for him to go into that ocean with her.

  Wonder prickled over him, a sudden awareness that everything between them had shifted. On some level—in the outer edges of his mind—he had already accepted that he had lost her. That the time between them in Stratfield Saye had long passed, and there was no mending the harm he had caused. She had given him something precious: the days ahead. Without fear of discovery. Without the regret of dwindling time and its eventual loss.

  It was a future of days spent with her.

  And not a single one of them stolen.

  “Are you all right?” she asked him, with a smile that exposed her nervousness. He understood, in that moment, how much her words had cost. She was allowing him to climb into the fortress she set around her heart. This, he knew, must have been terrifying; he had made that same choice for her so long ago. “Say something. Or are you—”

  Thorne grasped the front of her dress and set his lips hard against hers. He was gratified by her laugh of surprise, by the light brush of her tongue against his as she kissed him back.

  “You’re pleased, I take it,” she murmured against his lips.

  “So fucking pleased,” he replied. She was so much more than he deserved. “Come here.”

  He dragged her back against him, but it was she who took charge. Her kiss was fierce, her touch urgent. Such small gestures, but each one was a miracle: one hand sliding beneath the water to stroke his ribs, the press of her fingertips to his shoulder, her body set against his without a care for the bathwater sloshing over her dress. He had never before touched her without some sense of desperation, without a reminder that his time with her was as finite and fleeting as a summer storm. It seemed impossible, that he could take his time. That, as he slid a fingertip down her nape, he could pause to appreciate the texture of her skin. There was so much of her body he had yet to appreciate properly, so much that had not yet been given its due.

  But Alex, bless her, had her own ideas. “Come out of that bath.”

  Thorne nipped at her
lower lip. “Always bossing me.”

  “You had best get used to being bossed,” she murmured, her voice husky. “In bed and out of it. Now stand.”

  Thorne did as she asked. As water cascaded off his body, his wife gave him a look of frank look of appreciation that had his cock instantly hard. Alex’s lips curved into a wicked smile. Aye, it was clear she knew the effect she had on him.

  Alex grasped the towel beside the bathtub. She dried him off, running her hands across his skin as she did so. In Stratfield Saye, he had marveled at the softness of her palms and fingertips. Writing had altered her right hand over the years. The changes suited her. Her fingers were rough from holding a pen, the ridges of her fingertips stained with black ink, her nails short. He realized then how few people saw her without gloves. No one but Thorne would ever know the hours she spent bent over a desk putting her brilliant mind to paper. Her bare hands were a treasure just for him.

  Alex dropped the towel to the floor. Lips replaced hands, pressed to the muscle of his shoulder, collarbone, throat, chest. This, a different sort of gift: petal soft lips, the dart of her tongue against his nipple. A breath shuddered out of him as she reached the lines of his ribcage. She must have felt his response—the hard, jutting length against the front of her dress, ragged exhales, slamming heart—for she gave him a knowing look. Intimacy held a different sort of power, after all. He praised God that she would never hesitate to take it for her own. He was only too glad to yield it to her.

  She dropped to her knees and took his cock into her mouth.

  A sound exploded from him. It didn’t matter that she was not practiced, for she was eager. Her hands slid around to his buttocks and her nails scored his skin as she worked him with her lips and tongue. Then—Christ god—she slid her hand beneath her skirts to rub her cunny. Her soft moan almost brought him to completion.

  God. God. He was so close to climax. Too close. If she didn’t—

  Thorne grasped Alex up and lifted her into his arms. Her laugh was husky as he carried her into the bedroom and set her down. “I think you enjoy seeing me at your mercy,” he said, undoing the buttons at the back of her dress.

  “I enjoyed having your cock in my mouth,” she told him with that wicked smile.

  He fumbled with the buttons. Where in god’s name had she learned such language? He loved it. He loved her.

  Too many buttons. Fuck the buttons. He took the material in a hard grip and tore. The heavy, damp fabric of her dress fell to the floor.

  “I liked that one.” Her breathing was fast as he shoved down her petticoat and deftly unlaced her corset.

  “I’ll buy you a new one. I’ll buy you a new dress every day if I have to,” he said, finishing off her clothing.

  There was no part of Alex that wasn’t beautiful. Everything from her breasts to the generous flare of her hips were fashioned from his most perverse fantasies. There was no shame in her regard; she stood before him without an ounce of shyness. Her expression was a dare, and he was more than happy to meet it.

  He set his lips to hers, hands on either side of her face as he kissed her deeply. It had been so long since he’d held her naked, since he had been given the privilege of touching her. He felt fevered as he slid his hands down her back to the lush curve of her arse. She gave a soft moan as he pressed his thigh against the core of her—she was wet. So fucking wet.

  Alex shoved him onto the bed and crawled on top of him. “Arms up,” she commanded.

  Thorne gave a slow smile, and put his arms over his head. “Bossing me?”

  “Always.”

  “Proposal?”

  She leaned down and gave his earlobe a lick. “Me on top.”

  Oh, he loved the sound of that. “Conditions?”

  Her lips trailed down the line of his jaw. “You are not to touch me until you beg for it.”

  Christ, she was going to drive him mad. Nick went for nonchalant: he gave her gorgeous body a frank once-over. “What if I have you begging?” he asked her in a low voice.

  Alex seemed both surprised and delighted by his suggestion. She gave a laugh. “Then you may do whatever you like,” she said. “Agreed?”

  He swallowed back a soft groan as she slid her wet heat against his cock. “Agreed.”

  She pressed her lips to his pulse, then scraped her teeth down the line of his neck. With a roll of her hips, she rubbed herself against him once more. Teasing. Slow. When she straightened, she stared down at him as if she were a conquering force, seeking his weaknesses. Understanding that he was so close to yielding. And he was. Thorne’s hands tightened in the sheets, a fight against some animal instinct to take her beneath him.

  When she rose up and took his cock inside her, he arched beneath her with a sharp cry. Christ, he almost begged her. Almost uttered some unintelligible plea to touch her, cup her beautiful breasts, gather her hair in his fist as she plundered his defenses and left him gasping.

  But no. He bit his lip. He would wait, bide his time, let her pleasure herself. Watch her make new discoveries, learn which things brought her satisfaction. For this was uncharted territory, a new lesson they were learning together. She moved against him, tossing her head back with a soft groan. She was some work of art, a study in ecstasy: golden hair coming loose from its pins, lips parted, the long pale line of her neck betraying a frantic pulse at her throat, the sway of her breasts as she rode him.

  Thorne gripped the sheets to keep from touching her. He had other ways of making her beg. “If you let me touch you,” he said, very softly, “I’ll kiss every inch of you.”

  “God,” she breathed.

  He lifted his hips, timing his movement with hers. “I’ll fuck you into the bed, just the way you like it.”

  “Nick.” She bit her lip, her fingernails scratching against him.

  He moved faster. “Do you want it, sweetheart? Tell me you want it.” Christ, if she didn’t let him soon, he’d beg her. “Look at me,” he said, an echo of their last coupling. He wanted to see her eyes. Meet them directly.

  She did as he asked, staring down at him. Hungry eyes, she had. And he was all too eager to leave her sated. He stretched once more, let her understand his intent. “Command me, Alex. Order me to take you beneath me and fuck your pussy.”

  Her fingernails scored him. “Do it,” she whispered. His hips lifted again, and she made a keening sound. “Nick. Do it. Please.”

  Thorne rolled Alex under him. As he pressed into her again, some ragged laugh came from him, triumphant. God, but she was magnificent. She lifted her head and kissed him, swallowed his victory, took it for herself. For she was every bit as in control as he. She was canny; she knew how close he’d come to pleading with her, begging her. In that bed, losing was another form of pleasure.

  He moved faster, focusing on her, on what she needed. She arched against him, fingers grasping his shoulders. His hand gripped the sheets as his own climax drew close. A hoarse cry left her as she came, her body going soft in his arms. And that was all it took for him to find his own release. A long breath left him as he leaned down and gave her a kiss. She stroked a finger down his cheek and smiled as he rolled off her.

  “I suppose you won,” she said.

  Thorne laughed. “I think we both did.”

  “Very well. I accept being co-winner.” She sat up and held out her hand. “Excellent game, husband.”

  He shook her hand, biting back a fucking ridiculous grin. She’d called him husband. “Until next time, wife.”

  The clock on the mantel struck the hour. Thorne looked over at the time—it was the start of prime business hours. If he tilted his head just so, he could hear the murmur of the crowd below. He often made appearances on the floor, even if they were brief.

  Alex followed his gaze. “Work calls?”

  “Does yours?” he asked her.

  “I may . . .” she cleared her throat. “I may be willing to ignore it. If you ignore yours, that is.”

  His smile faded as he reached for he
r. Touch was his only reminder of the truth: this was real. “You will sleep here?”

  “Yes. I will stay tonight.”

  Chapter 25

  “Where the hell is she?”

  The angry voice filtered into Alexandra’s blissful sleep. She was slow to wake, aware first of her sore limbs, then—she smiled. Nick was curled at her back, his arm around her waist. If she pressed back against him, she—

  The voice came again. “I asked where the hell my sister is.”

  Her eyes flew open.

  Oh god. It was James. Her eldest brother.

  “Nick?” She shook his arm. “Nick, wake up.”

  “Mmmm?” He muttered something and then pulled her more firmly against him. His erection brushed her arse as he settled his lips to her nape. “Me on top?” he breathed into her ear. “Or do you wish to fuck me again?”

  Oh, lord, she couldn’t think. Wait! James was—

  Someone beat the door with a fist. “Nicholas Thorne, get out of that room, you bastard!”

  Her husband released her and sat up, his gaze narrowed on the locked bedchamber door. “Excuse me, sweetheart,” he told her, “I need to murder someone. And my doorman. And my factotum. Three someones.”

  Alexandra gripped his arm. “Wait—”

  Nick bent down and kissed her, leaving Alexandra breathless. “I’ll be back after I deal with this fucking idiot.”

  The slamming came again. “Thorne! Where the hell is my sister?”

  Nick froze, and Alexandra smiled apologetically. “That idiot is James,” she said.

  “Jesus Christ, Kent,” another voice said from the hallway, “I told you not to go charging in after Alexandra like a goddamn lunatic.”

  Alexandra winced. “And that idiot is Richard.”

  Nick shoved a hand through his hair. “Shit,” he muttered, getting out of bed. He reached for his trousers and shoved them on, grimacing as her brother slammed his fist against the door again. “Speak to the angry one before he breaks my door down, please,” he told her.