Page 35 of Tempting the Scoundrel
He said those last words just to see what Kent would do, what he’d say. The man only sneered. “I don’t care about her heart. Have you seduced the chit yet, or not?”
Thorne took a sip of the sherry, but hardly tasted it. “No.”
Kent drew himself up. “If you’re wasting my time—”
“You want to force her to marry me, catch us swimming alone, then,” Thorne said sharply. “But I’ll not force my attentions on any woman. Not for one-hundred thousand pounds, not for a bag of jewels, and certainly not for you.”
“A thief with principles,” Kent sneered. “How shocking.”
“Seduction and marriage was our deal. So make the choice: are you going to force her into a marriage with me or not?”
Kent’s lip lifted. “No. Alexandra is too headstrong. She’d run to her brothers before I managed to drag you both to the altar, and neither of my sons would suffer if I cut off their finances in retaliation. She has to come to you willingly.”
“Then let me do my fucking job.”
Thorne didn’t intend to tell Kent of his certainty that Alex was growing to trust him. All he wanted was a bit longer with her before she understood that he was exactly the man she feared most: someone she’d hate her whole life.
“I’ll concede your point, Mr. Thorne. ” Kent sipped his own sherry thoughtfully. “However, I can move to nudge things along.”
Something cold settled in the pit of Thorne’s belly. “How?”
“Leave it to me. Alexandra won’t be able to resist something I’ve forbidden her from having.”
Chapter 11
London. Four years later.
Alexandra couldn’t concentrate.
For the second night in a row, she barricaded herself in that opulent bedchamber at the Brimstone. Even with the connecting door to Nick’s room locked, every noise from that direction jolted her to awareness. After four years, her husband was only a room away.
Separated by one door and a single lock.
She did her best to throw herself into work. Notes were scattered across her bed, the tea table, and the small writing desk that was barely adequate for composing a letter. The chaos had some organization: these were times of shipments, these were men and women trafficked to Australia, locations, manifests, interviews. Crimes this intricate were filled with minutiae—and here was her problem. Minutiae required concentration, diligence.
And all she could think was—It wasn’t all lies.
“Stop this,” she whispered to herself. “Stop it.” She groped across the bed for the wooden box under her pillow, for what seemed like the thousandth time that day. “He is a liar, andtheseare his truths,” she continued, telling herself the same thing she had over the years.
Alexandra opened the box and lined up the columns she’d cut from newspapers. This one, written by Nicholas Spencer inThe Examiner:Lady Alexandra writes admirably of the difficulties of East End workers. However, it is easier to notice oppression whilst standing at the top of the factory gazing down from that lofty height than it is to acknowledge the ways in which every man and woman of her station benefits from the exploitation of their labour.
And this, from theSaturday Review:Lady Alexandra’s work in charity, like many women of her station, comes with the problem of picking and choosing recipients based upon moral judgement, rather than an understanding that every man and woman serving in the gaol for thievery began their crimes as a starving lad or lass who stole a loaf of bread to help feed a starving family.
In these eight passages she had cut from the literary reviews and newspapers, were his true thoughts: marriage didn’t change that their backgrounds were insurmountably different. He had written reviews of her work under the nameNicholas Spencer, knowing she was the only person in London who would ever connect that name to Nicholas Thorne.
Alexandra would ask him about these one day, when she could shove the box in his face and convey nothing of the hurt he’d caused. But she was not there yet. His words still held weight.
His lies still hurt.
A rap at the door drew her attention. “M’lady?” The young maid, Morag, entered the room and gave a started noise. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” the girl squeaked, gawking at the mess.
Alexandra shoved Nick’s articles back into the box and shut it with a thump. She ignored Morag’s shock at the collection of notes scattered across the room. “Yes?”
Music drifted from the hall as Morag opened the door wider. “I just . . .” she scanned the room with wide eyes, then snapped her attention back to Alexandra. “I just came to ask if ye were wantin’ dinner soon, m’lady.”
“Thank you, no.” Laughter roared from downstairs. Nick’s business, it seemed, was crowded tonight. The noise was breaking her already tenuous concentration on her work. “Later, perhaps.”
Morag cleared her throat. “Would ye like me to tidy the room for ye?”
