Page 84 of Tempting the Scoundrel
Sofia covered her laugh with a gloved hand.
Alexandra flushed and gave Nick a bump with her elbow. “You areterrible.”
Nick only grinned.
As they strolled through the India Annex, the children ran between the stalls. They all marveled at unfamiliar instruments that had come from Calcutta and Bombay and Punjab. Art depicted Indian landscapes with rugged cliffs and intricate temples. Alexandra loved the textiles, the chintzes and floral embroidery that comprised beautiful garments. Paisley patterned shawls, directly from Shaliat, hung from the stalls in a dizzying array of colors. As they moved to the furniture, Alexandra resisted the urge to touch the beautifully painted vases and furniture carved from rich wood.
“Oh,” she breathed as she caught sight of a large writing desk. She looked up at the proprietor and, indicating a wish to inspect it, asked, “May I?”
“Of course, madam,” the man said. “Do let me know if I may be of any assistance.”
It was made of rosewood, the red color of it deep and gleaming. Alexandra knelt and studied the intricate geometric carvings along its legs. Much of the wooden furniture in English homes were smooth and simple. This desk had been lovingly designed and engraved from floor to top, where it had a smooth and broad surface.
Perfect for writing.
“See something you like?” came Nick’s husky voice behind her.
Alexandra sighed and straightened. “Isn’t it lovely?”
Nick studied it with a practiced eye and ran his fingertips across the smooth surface. “Good quality wood, unique look to it. If a toff who owed me money had this piece, I’d consider an exchange.”
Alexandra raised an eyebrow. “Is that how you evaluate things? Based on whether it’s worth taking from a man with a gambling debt?”
“Not all things, but most,” he said with a wink. To the seller: “How much?”
The seller looked over from helping another customer. “Eighty pounds, sir.”
“Tch.” Nick clicked his tongue and said in a low voice, “Tad overpriced, sure, but when my wife is stuffing paper in her tea cups and covering her bed with interview notes . . .” He slid his fingers across the drawers, pulling a few open. “And look, hidden compartments for pens, ink, sweets, and—”
“Secrets,” she finished.
His eyes met hers. “You remember.”
It was strange, how their time at Stratfield Saye could seem equally recent and like a distant memory. Compared to their time apart, it had been so brief—not even a whole summer. Less than a season. And yet she had held onto every conversation they ever had, even when they’d brought nothing but hurt.
“I remember,” she said softly.
Nick gave a small smile. “Then if you’ll recall, I promised to buy one for you. Besides, you ought to have someplace to compose your brilliant work in my home. Might as well—” He frowned. “What’s that look?”
Alexandra hadn’t held back her flinch. Despite her forgiveness—despite their blissful week of trying to overcome their past—she still had a box of his criticisms. He had written those things. Meant for her to see them.
Meant for her to understand that he considered her station too far above his.
She could not reconcile it with the man before her, who casually complimented her essays. Who handed her a pen as if it were a weapon and told her to wield it as she wished. He hadpublishedthose things.
“You don’t like my work,” she said flatly.
His brows went up. He looked . . . bewildered? “The hell I don’t,” he said in a low voice. “I’ve read every word. Practically memorized them.”
Alexandra drew herself away from him. So he was to pretend he’d never published those things? Never wrote about how she came and went from the East End as if she were doing something as shallow as changing a dress? Did he not write them to send a message?Stay away. I have no need of you.
So she had. For four years.
And she could not pretend it didn’t hurt.
“Don’t lie to me,” she hissed, mortified by the sting of tears in her eyes. She darted a look around, praying no one noticed. “You promised. Youpromisedno more lies.”
Now he looked alarmed. “Lie? What are you—”
