Tempting the Scoundrel (Private Arrangements Book 2)

by Katrina Kendrick

  “Sure am. Want me to describe them to you?”

  Alex cast a look around them, but they hardly drew notice in the middle of such a crowded hall. In a low voice, she said, “Perhaps I do.”

  “Mr. Thorne? Lady Alexandra?” Sofia’s voice drew their attention. The manager waited there with an understanding expression on her face. “The children are ready to progress to the India Annex.”

  “Go ahead, Mrs. Ainsley,” Thorne said. “We’ll join you in a few moments.”

  Sofia nodded. “Of course. Come along, children. Adam, darling, stop gawking at the lizard and take my hand.” The statuesque lady and the gaggle of children continued to the next stalls.

  Nick tugged on Alexandra’s hand. “Come with me.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere.”

  Alexandra laughed as she kept up with him. People watched them curiously as they passed, perhaps wondering why he sped her through the long hall of the Exhibition Center in a hurry. At a quiet end of the center after the Queensland Annex, Thorne pulled them through a door and into a small, hidden alcove. The crowd noise was muffled, filtered through the quiet of the little used chamber.

  Alex’s breath caught when he set his hands to the wall on either side of her.

  “And what now?” she whispered.

  Thorne bent his head and pressed his lips to hers. Alex gave a little groan as she opened her mouth to deepen their kiss. He marveled at that sound: a confession that she was as much a victim of their desire as he. They had four years to make up for. Four years that suddenly felt like a fucking foolish choice he’d made, never to beg for forgiveness.

  But, now, he had other things he could do on his knees.

  Nick sank to the floor and reached for the bottom of her skirts.

  “Nick—” Her next words were cut off with a helpless moan as he pushed up her petticoats. Then he grasped the waistline of her drawers to push them down. “If someone sees . . .”

  “They won’t.”

  She jumped when he pressed a kiss to her bare thigh. “What if they hear?”

  Thorne lifted his eyes to meet hers. She was a picture of arousal: parted lips, flushed cheeks, hair in disarray. When had that happened? Christ, she looked debauched already. He smiled. “We’d best be quiet, then.” He handed her the gathered fabric. “Hold this?”

  She took it, murmuring, “You, Nicholas Thorne, are a rogue, a scoundr— ”

  He leaned forward and flicked his tongue against her quim, and her head thumped against the wall.

  “Dear god,” she whispered.

  “Shall I continue?” he asked.

  Alex grasped his hair, fingernails scraping his scalp. “I never told you to stop.”

  Thorne gave a soft chuckle and pressed his lips to her once more. Her hips jerked, but he held her fast, running his tongue along the slit of her pussy. Their ragged breathing filled the small alcove. The little noises she made—helpless, her fist pressed to her lips to keep quiet—became their own directives: she liked his tongue flat against her clitoris; his two fingers inside her, moving in and out at the same pace he knew she loved with his cock. Her hand scraped across his skull, grasping his hair to pull him closer. A silent encouragement to keep going.

  Close. She was close. He could tell by her shuddering movements, the staccato of her breath.

  Ah, there.

  She bit her fist to muffle a cry of release. He licked her gently as her tremors ceased, prolonging her pleasure as long as he could. Then, with one final kiss, he slid her drawers in place and stood.

  Alex dropped her dress and all but collapsed against the wall. “I think you’ve killed me,” she told him with a laugh.

  Thorne brushed her lips with his thumb. “Not a bad way to die, is it?”

  “Shall I return the favor?” she asked him.

  He shook his head and tucked her hair back into its pins. His efforts were adequate —most onlookers wouldn’t notice that she’d been debauched in public. Sofia, however, wouldn’t be fooled. “Only so long Sofia can distract the children. But later, in bed?” He gave her a wicked smile. “I’m open to more negotiating.”

  Chapter 27

  When Alexandra and Nick walked into the India Annex, Sofia gave them a knowing look. “See anything interesting?” she asked with a smile.

  “A fascinating room,” Nick said, casually. “I’d say our exploration there was quite thorough, wouldn’t you, Alex?”

  Sofia covered her laugh with a gloved hand.

  Alexandra flushed and gave Nick a bump with her elbow. “You are terrible.”

  Nick only grinned.

  As they strolled through the India Annex, the children ran between the stalls. They all marveled at unfamiliar instruments that had come from Calcutta and Bombay and Punjab. Art depicted Indian landscapes with rugged cliffs and intricate temples. Alexandra loved the textiles, the chintzes and floral embroidery that comprised beautiful garments. Paisley patterned shawls, directly from Shāliāt, hung from the stalls in a dizzying array of colors. As they moved to the furniture, Alexandra resisted the urge to touch the beautifully painted vases and furniture carved from rich wood.

  “Oh,” she breathed as she caught sight of a large writing desk. She looked up at the proprietor and, indicating a wish to inspect it, asked, “May I?”

  “Of course, madam,” the man said. “Do let me know if I may be of any assistance.”

  It was made of rosewood, the red color of it deep and gleaming. Alexandra knelt and studied the intricate geometric carvings along its legs. Much of the wooden furniture in English homes were smooth and simple. This desk had been lovingly designed and engraved from floor to top, where it had a smooth and broad surface.

  Perfect for writing.

  “See something you like?” came Nick’s husky voice behind her.

  Alexandra sighed and straightened. “Isn’t it lovely?”

  Nick studied it with a practiced eye and ran his fingertips across the smooth surface. “Good quality wood, unique look to it. If a toff who owed me money had this piece, I’d consider an exchange.”

  Alexandra raised an eyebrow. “Is that how you evaluate things? Based on whether it’s worth taking from a man with a gambling debt?”

  “Not all things, but most,” he said with a wink. To the seller: “How much?”

  The seller looked over from helping another customer. “Eighty pounds, sir.”

  “Tch.” Nick clicked his tongue and said in a low voice, “Tad overpriced, sure, but when my wife is stuffing paper in her tea cups and covering her bed with interview notes . . .” He slid his fingers across the drawers, pulling a few open. “And look, hidden compartments for pens, ink, sweets, and—”

  “Secrets,” she finished.

  His eyes met hers. “You remember.”

  It was strange, how their time at Stratfield Saye could seem equally recent and like a distant memory. Compared to their time apart, it had been so brief—not even a whole summer. Less than a season. And yet she had held onto every conversation they ever had, even when they’d brought nothing but hurt.

  “I remember,” she said softly.

  Nick gave a small smile. “Then if you’ll recall, I promised to buy one for you. Besides, you ought to have someplace to compose your brilliant work in my home. Might as well—” He frowned. “What’s that look?”

  Alexandra hadn’t held back her flinch. Despite her forgiveness—despite their blissful week of trying to overcome their past—she still had a box of his criticisms. He had written those things. Meant for her to see them.

  Meant for her to understand that he considered her station too far above his.

  She could not reconcile it with the man before her, who casually complimented her essays. Who handed her a pen as if it were a weapon and told her to wield it as she wished. He had published those things.

  “You don’t like my work,” she said flatly.

  His brows went up. He looked . . . bewildered? “The hell I don’t,” h
e said in a low voice. “I’ve read every word. Practically memorized them.”

  Alexandra drew herself away from him. So he was to pretend he’d never published those things? Never wrote about how she came and went from the East End as if she were doing something as shallow as changing a dress? Did he not write them to send a message? Stay away. I have no need of you.

  So she had. For four years.

  And she could not pretend it didn’t hurt.

  “Don’t lie to me,” she hissed, mortified by the sting of tears in her eyes. She darted a look around, praying no one noticed. “You promised. You promised no more lies.”

  Now he looked alarmed. “Lie? What are you—”

  The loud scream of a child echoed through the annex. Alexandra looked over to find Sofia soothing the sobbing girl—one of her youngest, Mary. Grateful for the interruption, Alexandra hurried over. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  Sofia made soothing noises and stroked little Mary’s hair. “She’s left her doll on a bench in the main gallery, beside the fountain.”

  “I’ll go see if it’s still there,” Alexandra said. “Don’t worry, darling. Wait with Mrs. Ainsley.”

  Nick placed a hand on her lower back. “Let me accompany you.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Alexandra said, shifting from his touch. She kept her expression neutral, even as his eyes darkened. “I shall return shortly.”

  She hurried out of the India Annex and towards the main hall. As she passed the crowds of people gawking at the different displays of items, she tried to blink back her tears. How embarrassing, to still be so upset over Nick’s criticisms. It was never what he wrote—the words were honest. From another source, she might have used them for improvement.

  From Nicholas Spencer, the alias of the man who lied to her, they were meant to inflict further harm.

  You are no longer needed.

  “Stop,” she told herself. “Stop, stop, stop.” There was no use crying in public. She had a doll to find.

  As she reached the fountain, Alexandra scanned the benches—ah, still there. The cloth doll was frayed, likely holding sentimental value more than monetary. Relieved to have something to bring back to little Mary, Alexandra picked up the doll.

  A hand closed hard around her upper arm, making her drop the doll. She was hauled up against a large male body and felt the tip of a knife at her lower back.

  “Don’t scream,” the man hissed into her ear. “If you so much as try, I’ll shove this blade in and by the time anyone notices, I’ll be gone. Now walk.”

  Her heart slammed against her ribcage. Alexandra did as the man instructed, walking past crowds of people who wouldn’t have noticed if she were in distress. They were so overwhelmed by the sights of the exhibition, by the hum of machinery demonstrations, and the bright silks from other parts of the world. He was right; he could stab her right here and disappear so fast.

  “Would you happen to be Patrick Whelan?” she asked, trying to keep her voice calm.

  “No,” he said shortly. “But I have blunt waiting for me if I bring you to him.”

  This confirmed Nick’s stories about a man who rarely did his own dirty work. Rather, he employed and manipulated others to do the crimes for him. “You don’t have to do this,” she murmured. “Whatever he’s paid you, I’ll double it.”

  “And have Whelan for an enemy?” he said. “Fuck that.”

  “Triple.”

  He shoved her. “Shut up and walk.”

  If she went with him, Alexandra’s chances of survival were slim. She also knew this man expected her to follow along in fear. It was likely that his experience with aristocratic women was limited to seeing them in passing: their frothy dresses, their carefully coifed hair, the way they moved through this world with either chaperones or footmen. This was to her advantage: Alexandra had dealt with dangerous footpads before. She had learned to defend herself; after all, the women in the East End did not have the luxury of safety. She learned from them.

  And those lessons would save her now, just as they had back in her bedchamber, with another man who would do her harm.

  Focus, she told herself. And it became simple: survival. That was all. A basic animal desire to make it from one day to the next. She let the entirety of her mind concentrate on three things: the knife pricking through her dress; the man at her back; the crowd around her. Once she left this building, the last factor would disappear. The crowd would slow him.

  Opportunity: take it.

  Alexandra took it. She slammed her boot back into his shins, tore out of his grip, and took off running.

  His shout echoed behind her. She ignored the gasps and shocked expressions of the other patrons as she sprinted through the exhibition hall. The man’s footsteps were at her heels. Alexandra tried to disregard everything but her task: survival, remember? The mind, once cleared of doubts, made uncomplicated decisions. She could not lead him to the children; she’d have to lose him in the street. If he didn’t know the area of South Kensington, that would work to her advantage.

  Alexandra made for the exit, bursting out onto the street.

  When she dared peek over her shoulder, she caught the man’s determined gaze. So close. Slowed only by a slight limp she’d caused by her hard kick in his shin. Alexandra darted up the street. The exhibition road was long, she was too visible. Alexandra swung into an alley, but he stayed behind her.

  Another alley.

  A whistle left his lips.

  Alexandra nearly careened into the two men who stepped out from behind a building. One was a short, squat man barely taller than herself. The other was thin and lanky, with blond hair coming from beneath his dirty cap. Their expressions as they advanced were smug. Predatory.

  They were hunters who had caught a deer in their snare.

  The voice behind her sounded amused. “Figured you’d run. I’m not taking any chances with Whelan. He doesn’t take too kindly to failure.”

  “Ye didn’t tell me she were a looker, Elijah,” Blond said.

  “Looker or not, we take her.” Alexandra gasped as Elijah seized her by the arm and shoved her into the building wall, setting the tip of his knife to her cheek. His hard grey eyes glinted as he studied her face. “Whelan’s said to bring her alive. He has plans for this one.” To Alexandra, he said, “Come without a fuss, or I will carve up that pretty face, though.”

  Three against one. Alexandra didn’t like her odds.

  Nick, she thought to herself, as she got ready to act. She wished she’d kissed him one last time. Had kept to the last words she’d spoken to him.

  I shall return shortly.

  Perhaps she wouldn’t.

  But she would fight to make certain she did.

  As he eased the knife away, thinking he had won, she slammed her forehead into his and smacked the knife out of his hand. Elijah shouted in surprise, and she swung her fist into his face. He staggered, colliding with the brick wall of the closest building.

  Alexandra dove for the knife. The other men came at her, one grasping her by the hair. A hard strike to her face made her cry out. Stars burst in front of her vision.

  Do not lose consciousness, she thought. Stay awake!

  Her hand closed around the hilt of the blade and she struck. The blond man gave a sharp swear and shoved Alexandra back to the ground.

  “You should have come quietly, bitch,” the blond breathed in her ear. “You should’ve—”

  His heavy weight left her. The ugly crack of a fist breaking bones filled the alleyway, and the man screamed. Alexandra blinked to clear her vision, lifting her head as two of her assailants sprinted away in a hurry. What had scared them?

  A growl came from behind her. Alexandra turned in time to see Nick slam his fist into the squat man’s jaw. Blood smeared across her abductor’s burly face as he sagged against her husband.

  Nick pushed him into the wall. He bared his teeth in a savage grimace that was so unfamiliar to her. She had only seen the remnants
, once, of this mood: after he’d killed another of Whelan’s men. For Nick’s expression, as he touched the tip of his blade to the corner of the man’s eye, was one of silent calculation.

  “You know who I am?” he asked in a low voice that was as frigid as a winter sea. His accent gave it some lulling cadence that made Alexandra shiver. “Your friends knew, which is why they fled like fucking cowards.”

  The man hesitated, then gave a nod.

  “Yet you still came after my wife.” Nick’s smile was cruel. “How much did Whelan offer you to do such a stupid thing?” The man hesitated, and Nick’s smile disappeared. “How much.”

  The blond man swallowed. “Two quid.”

  “Two quid,” Nick repeated in a clipped voice. Then he said it again, more softly, as his eyes sought Alexandra’s.

  He regarded her with a narrowed stare. Alexandra was suddenly aware of how she must have looked. The blood and dirt on her cheeks, her dress torn. Her lip was swollen from where one of her assailants had struck her.

  Nick’s lip curled in a snarl.

  He reared back and jammed his blade into the man’s shoulder. The blond’s scream was stifled by Nick’s hand. “What do you think, Alex?” he asked in that strange voice. “Is your life worth so little?”

  The blond gave her a desperate look behind Nick’s firm grip at his mouth.

  “Nick,” Alexandra said as she rose to her feet. “Don’t do this.”

  Her husband’s lips flattened. “Does he deserve my mercy, then?”

  She reached for his shoulder, felt his shudder beneath her hand. “It’s not yours to give. It’s mine.”

  Nick’s black gaze met hers. That look struck her like a bludgeon. Now she understood the strangeness to his anger, how it seemed so different: he was terrified.

  For her.

  Yes, she comprehended his fear now. Had Nick not come after her, this man and his friends might have taken her. Had he been mere minutes later, he might never have found her. Like Millie, her contact in St. Giles, she might have disappeared without a trace.

  But she could not let him bear the burden of another death. Not if she could help it.