Page 81 of Tempting the Scoundrel
As if sensing her apprehension—or, perhaps, her need for space—Nick gave her an understanding smile. “Work calls,” he told her, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “I’ll see you tonight.”
* * *
Hours later,in her dark bedchamber, Alexandra felt someone pluck the pen from her hand. She realized she’d fallen asleep at her desk after writing into the night.
She could recognize Nick by his scent anywhere: the sharpness of his soap with a hint of peated whiskey. It had always been thus, even in Stratfield Saye, when he was pretending to be someone else. Then his hands pressed to her back and began kneading her weary shoulders.
Magic. His hands were magic.
“Hello,” she said with a sigh, turning her head on the desk. “What time is it?”
“Early morning. The sun will be up in a few hours.” He started on her shoulder blades. “Been working all day?”
“Yes.” She yawned. “I should get back to it.”
He made some noise and kept massaging. The room was quiet, the only sound was rustling of her clothing as he continued his gentle ministrations. “You should sleep,” he finally said, pausing to take her hand. He brushed his thumb across her fingertips. “You work so hard. I hear you pacing, your pen tapping. Seen how much your stack of papers grows at night. I noticed the callus on this hand where you hold your pen. Ink stains on your fingertips. No gloves?”
“I don’t like writing with them. Do you mind the look of my hand?”
“‘Course not.” He gave her wrist a kiss and resumed rubbing her back. “My wife is determined to destroy a bad man. She’s brilliant and talented. What’s not to like?”
“You always were a charmer, Nicholas Thorne.”
She let out a sigh and pressed her forehead to the desk as he worked down her spine. She was so tired. She must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew, Nick swung her up in his arms. He carried her through the connecting door to his bedchamber and set her down on the bed. With deft, silent movements, he set about removing her clothes, then his own.
When they were both naked, he pulled her under the blankets and settled his arm around her waist. She let herself enjoy him: his scent, his solidity, his warmth. It wasn’t indulgence; it was necessary.Hewas necessary.
“Nick?”
“Hmm?”
“Will you . . .” She swallowed. “Will you say the words again? What you said earlier?”
He breathed against her. He was quiet for so long that she wondered if he had fallen asleep. But then he kissed her shoulder and whispered, “I love you.”
Chapter 26
Contentedness was too close to hope, and Nicholas Thorne knew that hope was dangerous.
He’d watched toffs bet their entire fortunes based on some foolish notion that they’d win the gamble, that luck had blessed them, that their winning streak wasn’t a fleeting victory. The more a man won, the more confident he became in playing the odds.
And the more he lost when that winning streak turned sour.
A sense of danger that had settled inside of him like a stone: he was just another fool on a winning streak, and at any moment, he’d lose everything.
He’d loseher.
If Alex noticed his strange moods, she gave no indication of it. Over a sennight, they had fallen into a routine of sorts; like Thorne, she worked during the hours after dark. He would spend time availing toffs of their money, then seeking leads on Whelan. When he returned, it was to find her scratching away at her manuscript. She had an impenetrable focus when she wrote; he could stand at the door for whole minutes without her notice. When he studied her . . . he couldn’t help but long for the future, but to have it with her still seemed unfathomable. So much could go wrong.
Whelan was out there. And Thorne’s enemy was waiting for the right opportunity.
Now Thorne watched as Alex crouched among Sofia’s children in the zoological hall at the International Exhibition. She laughed at something Sofia said, then lifted one of the smaller lads so he could get a better look at the exotic birds. Such an ordinary thing, unremarkable in the grand scheme of the world’s moments, but that only made it infinitely precious to Thorne. There was a pleasure in mundanity, for it was a new experience with her. Their marriage had never existed within the scope of everydayness, the contentment of routine.
And itwasa comfort: waking up to her, going to bed with her, kissing her, touching her. Ordinary moments.
For Thorne, miraculous.
Alex’s laughter came again as she took hold of a lass’s hand and showed the child how to gently pet a lizard at the exhibit. The mood in the hall was boisterous and loud, filled with hundreds of people gawking at animals from far beyond Britain’s shores. But they might as well have been the only two people in the room —that’s how attuned he was to her. It was easy to seek her out in a crowded room, he knew her that well.
