Page 25 of Tempting the Scoundrel
“No? You must have been a devoted schoolmaster, then. Do you miss it?”
Something in Thorne rioted at the idea of lying to her. Of wooing her with falsehoods. So rather than answering her question, he hedged with a bit of truth: “I miss my friends most, I think.”
More than an answer to her, it was a reminder of who he’d fail if he didn’t marry this woman: the rest of Whelan’s lads. O’Sullivan, who hadn’t been the same since escaping the aristocrat Whelan sold him to years ago. Callihan, who Whelan used for the worst of his crimes. All the lads who’d lived and died in that cramped cellar below the streets of the Nichol. And the people who owed Whelan debt for protection, who didn’t have the means to pay every month. They were forced to do Whelan’s dirty work or die.
“I’m sorry,” Alex said. “For you to go from having friends to a place with none at all.”
Here he found himself on much easier ground. “Are we not friends?”
Their eyes met. Then Alex hid her face, but not before he saw her blush. “We are,” she said, turning over to float on her back. “So next time we meet, bring a swimming costume. Friends ought to teach friends how to swim.”
Chapter 8
London. Four years later.
Alexandra’s entire skull was pounding.
“Ye think she’s dead?”
“I think she’s pretty.”
“I think she’s dead.”
“She’s not dead, ninny. Her eyelashes are fluttering.Are ye dead, miss?”
Alexandra opened her eyes—and immediately shut them against the scalding light. What in god’s name . . . ? Oh. Right. The bottle of brandy she’d consumed sometime between the hours of one and three. She felt like she’d been run over by a carriage and dragged some great distance.
“Ugh,” she groaned. “I’d rather be dead.”
“She don’ sound like a lady,” a voice whispered. “Was told them swells speak all fancy-like. Like them poems Mrs. Ainsley reads us.”
Alexandra gingerly eased her eyes open. Two red-headed girls stared at her in fascination, as if she were a strange new species of insect. They couldn’t have been more than seven years of age, with freckles dappled along their round cheeks. Their striking similarity ended at their wardrobe: one green dress, one blue. Alexandra wondered if the difference helped to tell them apart.
Beyond the duo was an unfamiliar room. Opulent, yes, with draping chandeliers and vivid blue wallpaper pressed with floral patterns. The view from the window revealed the rooftops of buildings placed close together, ones she had never seen before. Why, she even slept in an unknown bed—a massive four poster monstrosity with silk sheets. It could have fit an entire passel of children.
“Where am I?” she asked, trying to clear the cobwebs from her mind. She would never drink again.
Never, ever.
Alexandra didn’t even recall getting out of the bathtub. Had Nick carried her out? Put her to bed? He must have done. Perhaps the headache was a blessing, then. It distracted from the indignity of passing out naked in a bathtub from too much brandy in her estranged husband’s gambling den.
The girl with the green dress answered first. “Yer in the room connected to Mr. Thorne’s.” She bounced on the bed next to Alexandra. “Are ye really a lady? Heard you was a lady, but ye haven’t looked down yer nose at me yet.”
These children were only adding to her confusion. Who did they belong to? Why were they here?
A thought occurred to her. Oh, dear god, had Nick sired children during their separation? She was going tokillhim.
Be sensible, she reminded herself. It wasn’ttheirfault that their father was an ogre who didn’t give a damn about his marriage vows.
“Why would I look down my nose at you?” she asked the girl as she tried to find her bearings.
The hammering in her skull only grew worse as she sat up, but she did her best to ignore it. She needed answers. She had to find Nick. Alexandra lifted the counterpane, relieved to find she was wearing—
Wait a moment.This wasn’t her nightgown.
Was she was wearing his mistress’s clothes?
Yes, she was going to choose her murder weapon very carefully. A pistol, perhaps?
