Page 24 of Tempting the Scoundrel
She pressed her lips together. “You’re using my words against me.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You’re not a gentleman.”
“Thought we made that clear.”
“And I’m so hot, I reallyamgoing to die.” With a sigh, she dropped her hat and began taking off her gloves. “I hate you.”
“I think you like me.”
Alexandra made a face. “Turn your back, if you please.”
Thorne turned and bent to unlace his boots. Clothing rustled behind him and he pictured her unbuttoning that pretty blue walking dress. He was perverse, to imagine how she would look naked and wet. How her skin would feel against his lips and tongue. He almost let out a rueful laugh—she considered him safe enough to be open with her attraction.
She ought to remember that the devil was once considered the Lord’s most beautiful angel.
A splash sounded behind him. “Nick!” she called. “You’re dawdling.”
Thorne removed his boots and rolled up his trousers. When he turned to look at her, Thorne understood she had her own power. She swam with long, graceful strokes, the white of her undergarment trailing behind her. Never in his life had he seen anything so beautiful. She was luminous.
He knew a thing or two of fairies—wasn’t an Irish lad raised without the tales—and she looked like somemaighdean mhara, a sea maiden tempting sailors to destruction. Now he understood why they took their chances with the sea. He was tempted to swim out there in the middle of the lake and let the fates decide whether he lived or died.
Alex tilted her head. “You look quite contemplative. What are you thinking?”
“I’ve a confession.”
“I love confessions. Is it something terrible?”
Thorne waded into the pond until the water reached his knees. “Horrifying. It may shock you.”
At that, Alex swam closer. Then she turned on her back and floated, putting her chest above the water line. Thorne bit back a groan. Christ, but she was going to be the death of him.
“Shock me? I’m afraid that ship sailed when your jacket hit the grass.”
“I kept my shirt and trousers,” he pointed out.
Her smile was lovely. “You’re stalling. Tell me, Nick.”
“I can’t swim.”
“Whaaaaat?” She paddled closer. “I’m not shocked, I’mhorrified. Everyone ought to be able to swim. Where did you grow up?”
A part of him wished he could tell her about the rookeries. That the people of Whitechapel were not blessed with a place like this, or even the time, to float and swim without worry. The closest body of water was the Thames, and that foul river might as well have been the City’s lavatory. And water in the East End? Just as bad. The Bethnal Green vestry was filled with corrupt bastards who didn’t live in the district, and didn’t give a shit about sanitation. Diseases spread quickly when your own water made you sick. Worse: the cramped quarters and close tenements housed dozens of people in single rooms. Whole families died together.
But he could not tell her these things. Nicholas Spencer hadn’t been raised in London; he was a country schoolmaster. So Thorne gave the first place that came to mind—somewhere far away, where a man like Nicholas Spencer might flourish: “Southwold.”
“Southwold?” Alex raised an eyebrow. “Really.”
“Of course.” And just what the bloody hell was wrong with Southwold? People lived there, did they not? They presumably had passels of small, Southwoldian children to teach.
“That’s even worse, you realize.” She sounded amused now. “You lived by the sea and cannot swim.”
“Teaching the children left little time for swimming.” He hated that lie. The life he had crafted for Nicholas Spencer seemed as ill-fitting as the old clothes he wore as a lad. The ones that were made for different children, ones who had money.
“Then tell me about your life in Southwold. Do you have a wife?”
“I don’t,” he said, settling on a rock at the edge of the lake. He soaked his feet in the cool water.
