Page 34 of Tempting the Scoundrel
“I’m certain you could never be an embarrassment,” he told her gently.
“A woman who speaks her mind is amusing for conversation, but not in a wife. Suddenly, that entertaining conversationist becomes a political and social liability.” Water dripped from her lashes onto her cheeks. He wanted to kiss those droplets, hear her laugh again. Make her smile always. “But perhaps the ladies in Southwold are permitted to speak more freely.”
Those damn nobs. They understood nothing of value. Tell them a rock was an antiquity, and they’d pay a fortune. Give them a sapphire covered in dust, and they’d ask, “Why have you given me a rock?” If any of them had bothered to care beyond appearances, they would have offered to marry this woman the moment she spoke. They would have seen her anger and passion and wanted her as desperately as he.
Thorne thought of all the women he knew in the rookeries, and anger was how they survived. Sometimes, on a cold night, it was all you had left to burn. They would not understand these rules of social niceties, of keeping quiet. He certainly didn’t.
“They’re formidable,” he said to her, thinking only of East End women. “And fierce. They speak their mind, and don’t find shame in work. I think you’d like them.”
Her expression softened. “They sound wonderful.”
Nick almost touched her, stroked his thumb across her cheek. He wanted to remove her bathing costume and know the feel of her skin, the look of it in the light. But her garments covered so much of her; fabric was another way to keep a woman hidden.
“That they are.”
“Nick,” she whispered. Then she leaned in, so close that he thought she might kiss him. But she only said, “I never told you what I was afraid of.”
His lip quirked. “Not rats, apparently.”
“Not rats.” Alex worried her lip. “I don’t suppose you’ve had occasion to meet my father?” At his head shake—another small lie, to add to his growing list—she said, “He’s not known for his pleasant company. Neither was my mother, from what I understand. Their marriage was arranged from a young age, and it was clear from the very first that they hated each other. She died whilst giving birth to me. My eldest sibling, James, practically raised my brother Richard and me—quite a responsibility for a mere boy. I saw my father four times a year, at most. It became clear that he loathed his children for how much we resemble our mother. None of us favor our father, me least of all.” Thorne felt her fingers brush the back of his neck in the water, an idle movement, perhaps, as she considered what to say next. “Nick, have you ever loathed someone so much that you’re angered by the mere reminder of them?”
Nick held his breath and thought of Whelan. “Yes.”
“Then you will understand my fear.” Her fingertips were at his nape again, stroking. “I am terrified that my father will force me to marry someone I’ll hate until the day I die.”
Nick froze. Her soft words stirred something in his chest, tight and painful. He was to be that man she hated, the one forced upon her.
A wild thought dislodged in his mind: if he told her everything, she might understand. Maybe even marry him, still. Give him the means to seize power from Whelan before the old bastard hurt someone else he cared about.
No. You can’t risk that.
O’Sullivan was hiding out in the East End, waiting for him to return. Callihan was still keeping an eye on Whelan’s movements. The others depended upon Nick to see this through—he’d told them he had a mark to end it all, and he couldn’t fail them.
Play your role. You are Nicholas Spencer.
And so he smiled Nicholas Spencer’s charming smile and said, “Perhaps you won’t marry someone so bad. You might even like him.”
“I’m glad you think so. Perhaps we will meet in the ballrooms of London one day, long after you’ve learned to swim.”
Christ, she was beautiful. He’d never felt like more of a bastard. “Will you save me a dance?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “I’ll save you a dance.”
* * *
When Thorne returnedto Fairview House—the manor he borrowed for his scheme—the earl was waiting for him.
Thorne entered the sitting room and found Kent staring out the window with a glass of sherry in hand. Thorne was not a fool; he understood the intent of these occasional visits. The earl would make himself comfortable as a reminder: he owned everything in this house. Thorne was hired help, paid for like a butler or a valet. His presence at Fairview House was to complete the ruse, nothing more.
Kent was immaculately dressed in dove grey trousers and a coat. His blond hair was brushed back, every strand in place. His features were stern, made more severe by high cheekbones and grey eyes. They were the color of gunmetal, those eyes, and every bit as cold.
That frigid gaze swept over Thorne’s clothes—still damp from his lesson with Alex. “Good god,” Kent said with a short bark of laughter. “Before today, and I had almost been fooled into believing you a gentleman. How uncivilized you look now.”
Thorne went to the sideboard and poured himself some sherry. “You didn’t want a gentleman. So you got me.” He toasted with his glass and tossed back the spirits in a single swallow. Then Thorne splashed more sherry into the snifter, took a seat in the leather chair, and propped his boots up on the table—a pointed example of his incivility.
Kent grimaced. “The servants tell me you’ve met with Alexandra. Several times now.”
Ah, so the old man wanted an update. “She’s a fine woman. Has a kind heart.”
