Page 11 of Tempting the Scoundrel
As she approached, his ink black eyes met hers directly, bold and unflinching. Such things were meant to intimidate, and Nick used them to his advantage.
But he could never intimidate Alexandra.
“The servant’s entrance?” she asked, stopping in front of him. “Are you trying to terrify the staff or annoy me?”
Nick lifted a shoulder. “Figured you’d think it more considerate than showing up at the front door.”
“I’d think it more considerate if you didn’t show up at all.”
His black eyes gleamed. “Did that for over four years.”
“Try it for another four. Perhaps then I can read my morning broadsheet”— She launched the paper at his chest—“withoutusbeing the featured scandal.”
Nick caught the sheet and stared down at it. His gorgeous grin made Alexandra unaccountably angry. She’d spent the last four years wishing warts onto his face, a lump on his nose, dozens of unattractive spots, perhaps thinning hair. All she got for her efforts was a husband whose face reflected nothing of the black lump of rock in his chest he called a heart.
“I take it you’re the witch beating defenseless men in this illustration,” he said in his Irish lilt. He’d hidden it from her, all those years ago in Hampshire. His accent then had been as English as Her Majesty’s.
The reminder infuriated her.
“Lookbehindme.” She thrust her finger at him. “That isyou, you absolute buffoon of a man.”
Nick started to laugh. “I’m the devil?”
His laugh shocked her. More than the smile, it hurt to look at; she hadn’t seen him laugh since the day of their wedding.
You’re stuck with me now, Nicholas, she’d told him with a smile.
He’d laughed and said,That sounds like the start of an adventure.
Her lips flattened at the memory. An adventure, when they’d married, had sounded exciting. Now she knew what he’d meant: it was the start ofhisadventure.Hislife. Her role was only as a bank account he could access in his quest. How dare he laugh? Howdarehe?
Alexandra looked around—they were beginning to draw attention. The last thing she wanted was an audience. She was ending the adventurenow.
She grasped him by the arm and pulled him behind a tree for more privacy. “Stop it, Nick. Stop laughing.”
But he only grinned at her. “It’s flattering. We make a pair, aye?”
“I don’t want us to make a pair.We. Are. Not. A. Pair.” She said these words through gritted teeth, slowly, so he’d understand them better.
Nick’s smile disappeared. Something glittered in his eyes. Was it guilt? “Alex.”
“No.” She couldn’t think when he called her that.Alexwas a name reserved for the man he had pretended to be, the one she fell in love with back in Stratfield Saye. She took a steadying breath. “I don’t want apologies. You and I will have words, but first tell me why you’ve come.”
He made some small noise, and moved—to touch her?—but aborted the gesture. “There was a murder last eve in Whitechapel,” he said, his voice quiet. “Her corpse came with a message for me.”
Why was he telling her this? “What was the message?”
Nick’s eyes met hers. “It was a page from one of your books.”
A chill went through Alexandra at his words, so carefully spoken. His expression—full of laughter before—was now deadly serious. The murder was horrific, then. For he had grown up within the Old Nichol in Bethnal Green, and Alexandra knew very well from her work that corpses were not uncommon. Neither was murder.
“Who was the woman? Did you know her name?”
“Aye. Mary Watkins. A flower seller—”
“Yes.” Her voice trembled. “And maid, very briefly, for Lord Reginald Seymour.”
Nick’s gaze sharpened. “You knew her?”
