Page 20 of Tempting the Scoundrel
She opened those blue, blue eyes of hers and Thorne felt as if he’d been struck with something heavy. He forgot what it had been like to hold her close, to meet her gaze directly. He forgot how easily she could disarm him.
“Nick,” she whispered.
Thorne longed to close the space between them. It was only a mere breath. So why did it seem as vast as an entire ocean?
Haven’t you already hurt her enough? Look at what you’ve done.
His thumb was on her cheek. He’d smeared blood across it.
Thorne jerked away from her. “Your bath is ready.”
Alexandra rose to her feet. Though she seemed steady enough, her hands trembled as she began unbuttoning her cloak.
Thorne politely turned his back on her. After all, what right did he have to watch her undress? Such domesticities were reserved for actual husbands, not ones who made marriage vows under false pretenses.
“Would you like me to ring for a maid?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “And you don’t need to turn your back to preserve my modesty. It’s nothing you haven’t already seen.”
God help him, but a part of him wished he hadn’t. It was a different kind of hell to love a wife who loathed him, recalling what it had been like for her to welcome his touch, his kiss. Thorne still went to bed at night and dreamed of her long legs wrapping around his hips as he slid inside her. He’d brought himself to completion for years based on the few moments of intimacy they’d shared. A laughably inadequate pleasure in comparison. His imagination was paltry.
And he wasn’t a bloody saint, either.
Thorne turned.You’re a fool, Nick Thorne. The biggest goddamn fool. A pathetic piece of shit.
“There,” she said lightly, her eyes meeting his. “What did I tell you? Nothing you haven’t seen before.”
He was glad she couldn’t hear the riot of insults he gave himself—berk, stupid, imbecile. You let her leave four years ago? She still thinks she’s your mark?—because he was trying not to stare at his wife as she tossed her night rail to the floor. He couldn’t decide whether he should be grateful when she slid into the bathtub and hid her body from his desperate stare.
Her small hiss of pain snapped him out of his self-loathing.
“What is it?” Thorne asked.
She showed him the scrape along her elbow—something a rug might have caused. A wound she must have obtained while defending herself.
A haze of calm rage descended over him. Now was the opportunity to take stock of her injuries, count each one. Find the bastard who’d hired her assailant.
Make him pay.
He knelt beside the tub to get a better look. “Any others?”Calm. Keep your voice calm. Don’t frighten her.
“Yes.” She inspected her other elbow and found a few scrapes there, as well. “But nothing serious.”
“Let me see.” She extended her arm and Thorne gently ran his fingers down her skin. There were more cuts; some blossoming bruises at her wrists. He was glad she had killed the man who came after her, otherwise he would have knifed the bastard himself. “I’ll have one of the lads send for the doctor.”
“Perhaps they could send a message to your doorman, instead?” she smiled slightly. “I ought to apologize for being rude to him.”
“O’Sullivan? Aristos try to punch him in the face on a near nightly basis. A little rudeness is an improvement.” He found another forming bruise on her shoulder. “My messenger’s time would be better spent retrieving the doctor.”
“Don’t bother him tonight.”
“You’re my wife, and I pay his salary.”
“Nick.”
“Alex.”
When he rose to his feet, she grasped his wrist. “You will not take that doctor away from patients in need. I have dealt with worse.” When he hesitated, she released his wrist and made some amused noise. “What would the people of Whitechapel think, to see the King of the East End fussing over a woman?”
