Alexandra sighed. “James?” she called.
“Alexandra?” James rattled the knob. “Come out of there right this second.”
“Unless you need to put clothes on!” Richard added. She had a sneaking suspicion he was enjoying this, damn him to hell. “In which case, for the love of god, get dressed first.”
James made some animal noise, then said something in a low voice that sounded like a threat.
“We shall be out in a moment,” Alexandra said. Good god, this was ridiculous. “Meet us in the sitting room upstairs, please. Third door on the right.”
She heard muttering and footsteps and then, blissfully, silence. When she turned back to her husband, she found Nick leaning against the bedpost still holding his shirt. She bit her lip and stared at his naked chest, admiring the beautiful, sculpted lines of muscle. It seemed a shame to cover it up. “The post in the Americas may be slow, but it does reach its destination,” she told Nick, a touch regretfully. “He was going to come along sooner or later.”
Her husband glared at the door. “Was hoping for later.”
Alexandra pushed off the sheets and stood, catching her husband’s heated gaze. He slid an arm around her naked waist and pulled her against the hot length of him. “Proposal,” he said, his lips brushing her cheek. “We ignore the interruption and stay here.”
“Counterproposal: be nice to my brothers and let me do the talking. I’ll reward you later. In bed. Thoroughly. For hours.”
“You drive a hard bargain.” He stepped away to put on his shirt. “Very well. I’ll be nice.”
Alexandra paused at the doorway of the sitting room. It had been six months since she had seen her brother James, the Earl of Kent.
He had left without any goodbyes, in a hurry to catch the ship that Emma had taken to Boston. And he had succeeded: James and Emma married, and had gone on an extended tour of both America and Canada.
From the look of things, travel had agreed with her eldest brother. He had always been hale and athletic, but now he sported a deep tan that indicated a great deal of time spent out of doors. His blond hair was a shade paler than she remembered, distinguishing him from Richard, with whom he bore an uncanny resemblance.
James looked up and saw her. He gave Nick a murderous glare and then held open his arms to Alexandra. With a resigned sigh, he said, “Come here, you troublesome girl.”
Alexandra stepped forward and embraced him. Her brother smelled of the sea; she wondered if he had rested at all after the ship docked. “I missed you,” she said. “How is Emma? Is she with you?”
He pulled back and shook his head. “She put up a grand argument, but I had to suggest she leave for Roseburn after the journey. She’s visibly . . .” He cleared his throat. “In the family way now.”
Alexandra’s jaw dropped. Emma, with child! She could hardly fathom why her friend or brother didn’t mention it in their letters. “So I am to be an aunt twice over, and both of you”—she shot a glare at Richard—“kept it from me?”
Richard settled on the settee and crossed his legs. “Oh, so now we’re comparing secrets?” he asked with a mocking smile. “How long have you been married, again? Four years, wasn’t it?”
Oh, very well, so she was guilty of her own secrets.
“Fair point.” She felt Nick’s touch at her back and it gave her comfort. “It was . . .” She hesitated, worrying her lip for a moment. “Complicated.”
James flickered his gaze to Nick. “Does he need to be here for you to tell it?”
Her husband was tense. She could tell by the way he tightened his hand at her spine, the set of his shoulders. “Would you like for me to leave?” Nick asked. Alexandra wasn’t sure if he was asking her or James.
“No. On second thought, do stay.” James’s smile was menacing. “It’s convenient to have you right here if I wish to punch you in the face.”
“Oh, Thorne already offered that honor to me,” Richard said brightly. “I didn’t take him up on it at the time, but I’ve been mulling it over. I do enjoy giving a good pummeling. Go ahead, Alexandra, tell Kent how you came to be married. I can’t wait for him to hear it.”
For god’s sake. She loved her brothers, but sometimes she wanted to throw them out of a window. Even James, who was usually the stoic one, seemed to have his brain dribble out his ears when it came to performative male posturing.
“I’m not saying another word until I have a promise you won’t hit Nick. Yes?” James crossed his arms and muttered something that sounded like the words I promise, but it might also have been what piss, but she’d take it. “Just know that I didn’t tell either of you because I wished to forget the whole thing ever happened. It was . . . difficult, after what our father did.” She gave Nick some apologetic look, and he stroked her back in response. It encouraged her to keep going. “During my first season, the old earl discovered I was illegitimate. In a scheme to get revenge on our mother, he sent me to Roseburn and hired a criminal—no offense, darling—to play the role of a lord and earn my confidence. His intention was to humiliate me in the worst way: by getting me to elope with the man he hired, who would then gain control of my trust. I would find myself married to someone who lied to me for money. And . . . well, here we are. There. Now you know.”
Silence followed. Alexandra realized too late that she had done nothing to blunt the story. Nothing to assure James that while Nick couldn’t undo the hurt he had caused, he had proven worthy of a second chance. “It was four years ago,” she hastened to assure her brother, seeing his face go red. “Father is dead. Things are different now—”
“Move,” her brother told Alexandra, his expression a mask of cold, calculating fury.
Behind her, she heard her husband whisper a very, very low, “Fuck.”
“No,” Alexandra said. “You promised.”
James’s hands curled into fists. “You made me promise not to hit him,” he growled, “so I am gleefully going to murder him.”
Oh, lord. As her brother stepped forward, Alexandra shoved herself in front of Nick. “James.”
But her brother wasn’t listening. He tried circling around her. “Get out of the way, Alexandra.”
Even Richard stood and tried reasoning with their sibling. “Kent, this isn’t—”
“Shut up, Richard. If you had dealt with this while I was gone, I wouldn’t be here.” He made some quick move, but Alexandra darted in front of him again. “Choose your second,” he snarled.
“Shit,” Richard muttered.
“Still trying my best to be nice,” Nick told her in a low voice, “but he’s making it difficult.”
“He’s being an idiot,” she hissed back. To James: “You are not challenging my husband to a duel! First of all, no one duels anymore. Second of all, no one duels anymore because it’s stupid.”
James’s lips flattened. “He has fifteen fucking seconds to change my mind, or I will come back with a pistol and shoot him.”
“He doesn’t need to change your mind. You’re not—”
“I love her.”
That got everyone’s attention. Alexandra felt something in her heart shift, the thorns and vines that had protected her for so long pulling back. He had told her those words before, but she had always looked back on them as one more lie. Even when he insisted they were truth, the vines and thorns around her heart would not recede. They had formed her last defense; she could not believe him without weakening the aegis she had built.
But this . . . was different. She had spent time learning the truth of him. She knew his scars. She knew why he had taken her father’s offer. And last night he had been willing to give her up if she wished it. He had been willing to let her take that steamer alone to wherever she wished—because he’d believed she deserved the life she wanted.
His words were truth.
James went still, his eyes intent. “Do you?”
She felt Nick’s hand on her again, pressed between her shoulder blades. “Common tale, a confidence
artist falling in love with his mark,” he said wryly. “Yeah, I love her. Always will.”
Her brother’s expression softened. He and Richard seemed to communicate silently, in the way of overprotective siblings, before James gave a small nod. “Fine. But I need one more answer.” James regarded Alexandra with some inscrutable expression. “Do you want to be married?”
The hand at her back fell away. Did Nick think she had changed her mind? If anything, this morning had only clarified her intent. “Yes. I do.”
James gave a curt nod. “Good. I’ll menace him time, then.” He held out his hand to Nick, and her husband took it. “Welcome to the family, if you break her heart, I’ll break your face, etcetera, etcetera. Now I really must go home to my wife.” He embraced Alexandra. “Do come visit us before she threatens to come back to town, yes?”
They all said their goodbyes, and James and Richard left the Brimstone.
The silence in the sitting room seemed to stretch. Alexandra suddenly felt shy—an emotion she had not felt since that summer in Stratfield Saye.
Nick had said he loved her.
He had told her brothers he loved her.
As if sensing her apprehension—or, perhaps, her need for space—Nick gave her an understanding smile. “Work calls,” he told her, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Hours later, in her dark bedchamber, Alexandra felt someone pluck the pen from her hand. She realized she’d fallen asleep at her desk after writing into the night.
She could recognize Nick by his scent anywhere: the sharpness of his soap with a hint of peated whiskey. It had always been thus, even in Stratfield Saye, when he was pretending to be someone else. Then his hands pressed to her back and began kneading her weary shoulders.
Magic. His hands were magic.
“Hello,” she said with a sigh, turning her head on the desk. “What time is it?”
“Early morning. The sun will be up in a few hours.” He started on her shoulder blades. “Been working all day?”
“Yes.” She yawned. “I should get back to it.”
He made some noise and kept massaging. The room was quiet, the only sound was rustling of her clothing as he continued his gentle ministrations. “You should sleep,” he finally said, pausing to take her hand. He brushed his thumb across her fingertips. “You work so hard. I hear you pacing, your pen tapping. Seen how much your stack of papers grows at night. I noticed the callus on this hand where you hold your pen. Ink stains on your fingertips. No gloves?”
“I don’t like writing with them. Do you mind the look of my hand?”
“‘Course not.” He gave her wrist a kiss and resumed rubbing her back. “My wife is determined to destroy a bad man. She’s brilliant and talented. What’s not to like?”
“You always were a charmer, Nicholas Thorne.”
She let out a sigh and pressed her forehead to the desk as he worked down her spine. She was so tired. She must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew, Nick swung her up in his arms. He carried her through the connecting door to his bedchamber and set her down on the bed. With deft, silent movements, he set about removing her clothes, then his own.
When they were both naked, he pulled her under the blankets and settled his arm around her waist. She let herself enjoy him: his scent, his solidity, his warmth. It wasn’t indulgence; it was necessary. He was necessary.
“Nick?”
“Hmm?”
“Will you . . .” She swallowed. “Will you say the words again? What you said earlier?”
He breathed against her. He was quiet for so long that she wondered if he had fallen asleep. But then he kissed her shoulder and whispered, “I love you.”
Chapter 26
Contentedness was too close to hope, and Nicholas Thorne knew that hope was dangerous.
He’d watched toffs bet their entire fortunes based on some foolish notion that they’d win the gamble, that luck had blessed them, that their winning streak wasn’t a fleeting victory. The more a man won, the more confident he became in playing the odds.
And the more he lost when that winning streak turned sour.
A sense of danger that had settled inside of him like a stone: he was just another fool on a winning streak, and at any moment, he’d lose everything.
He’d lose her.
If Alex noticed his strange moods, she gave no indication of it. Over a sennight, they had fallen into a routine of sorts; like Thorne, she worked during the hours after dark. He would spend time availing toffs of their money, then seeking leads on Whelan. When he returned, it was to find her scratching away at her manuscript. She had an impenetrable focus when she wrote; he could stand at the door for whole minutes without her notice. When he studied her . . . he couldn’t help but long for the future, but to have it with her still seemed unfathomable. So much could go wrong.
Whelan was out there. And Thorne’s enemy was waiting for the right opportunity.
Now Thorne watched as Alex crouched among Sofia’s children in the zoological hall at the International Exhibition. She laughed at something Sofia said, then lifted one of the smaller lads so he could get a better look at the exotic birds. Such an ordinary thing, unremarkable in the grand scheme of the world’s moments, but that only made it infinitely precious to Thorne. There was a pleasure in mundanity, for it was a new experience with her. Their marriage had never existed within the scope of everydayness, the contentment of routine.
And it was a comfort: waking up to her, going to bed with her, kissing her, touching her. Ordinary moments.
For Thorne, miraculous.
Alex’s laughter came again as she took hold of a lass’s hand and showed the child how to gently pet a lizard at the exhibit. The mood in the hall was boisterous and loud, filled with hundreds of people gawking at animals from far beyond Britain’s shores. But they might as well have been the only two people in the room —that’s how attuned he was to her. It was easy to seek her out in a crowded room, he knew her that well.
“Mr. Thorne! Mr. Thorne!”
“Oi, my little devils,” Thorne said, scooping Fi and Lottie up in each arm as he followed the others through the exhibit. “Anything caught your eye?”
Fi pointed her hand, which had grown pudgy with weight since Sofia became the orphanage’s manager. She fed her charges well. “There’s them animals, Mr. Thorne. I likes the . . .” she frowned, trying to remember the word.
“The birds,” Lottie corrected. “They’re ever so colorful, Mr. Thorne. From the Indies, they are. I’ve never seen any so beautiful.”
“Neither have I, sweetheart,” Thorne murmured, watching as Alex smiled at the children. “Neither have I.”
He had some wild urge to step forward, take her in his arms and kiss her senseless. In front of everyone. Let them look; let them see he belonged to her. Let the whole damn world know he was hers. She looked up and caught his stare. Thorne was fairly certain his desire was apparent, because she flushed and hid a smile. That smile was a gift for him alone.
Fiona tugged on Thorne’s neckcloth. “Mr. Thorne,” she whispered in his ear. “I likes the lady.”
Thorne grinned. “Do you?”
“Me too!” Lottie said, looping her arms around Thorne’s neck. “She gives us pastries. And she don’t mind so much when I pick the lock on ‘er door.”
“Good, because I intend to keep her.”
“Do you love her, Mr. Thorne?” Fiona asked.
Thorne followed as Alex and Sofia took the children through the hall. “Aye, girls,” he said. “I love her very much.”
Lottie sighed. “That’s ever so romantic.”
An image struck Thorne—one he would have once deemed impossible—of the children Alex might give him. He would carry them in each arm. Marvel at how much they looked like their ma. And he’d tell them how, after so many years, he adored his wife as much as the day they met.
Two real, squirming children interrupted his reverie. Fi gave a delighted
squeak and wriggled to be let down. “Lottie! It’s the monkeys! I wanna go see up close!” Thorne released the girls and watched as they ran over to the primate exhibit.
Alex took that moment to approach him, leaving Sofia to watch over her charges. Any onlooker might think her smile polite and ladylike, but Thorne noticed the wicked glint in her eye. This was an intimate look for him alone. “Thank you for today,” she said, slipping her arm through his. Her gloved fingers brushed his palm, and he loathed that layer between them. He wished to see her ink stains, her callouses, the signs of her work, hidden beneath the soft leather. “As magnificent as your palace is, I was growing tired of staring at my manuscript.”
Thorne laughed softly. “One of the maids came to me in a state, said you shooed her away from cleaning again.”
Alex made a face. “Morag keeps eyeing my notes in distress.”
“They’re rather hard to miss, being all over the floor and on every available piece of furniture.”
“They’re organized!”
“Pfft.” He gave a soft laugh. “Looks like a bomb explosion. Even your bed is covered in bits of paper. I don’t see how you find anything.”
“That bed is where I keep my interview notes, and I know exactly where everything is. Which I informed Morag at length when she shifted the December interviews closer to the March interviews thinking I wouldn’t notice. It ruined my focus for two days.”
“I can’t pretend to understand any of that, so I won’t.”
“Good. That means you are learning.” She looked smug. “And anyway, there’s no use in clearing off the bed now that I sleep in yours.”
Thorne grinned. Now he was imagining her back in his bed, naked and negotiating a new bedroom game. He let his gaze drop down her body and trail up again. Her pink day dress, modest thought it was, could not hide her curves. He knew what lay underneath: the dusting of freckles along her thighs, the soft arch of her hips, beautiful breasts, pink nipples. Utter fucking perfection.
She caught his stare and flushed. “You are thinking wicked things.”
Tempting the Scoundrel (Private Arrangements Book 2) Page 22