Page 90 of Tempting the Scoundrel
Thorne watched as she approached the desk she coveted at the exhibition. Her fingers skated across the smooth surface of the red wood as if familiarizing herself with it. He had a vision of her, sitting behind it in the years to come, writing away on her manuscripts. He’d told so many lies to her in Stratfield Saye; this, at least, was one promise he could keep.
“The maids asked if they ought to stack your papers, but I let them know your organizing system made little sense to anyone but you.” When she remained quiet, he cleared his throat. She’d seemed strange at the exhibition. Had she changed her mind about liking it? “If you’d like something else, I can—”
Alex lifted her head and met his gaze. “I love you.” Thorne went still. It felt strange to hear those words after so long. Had he imagined them? But then she repeated the words: “I love you, Nick.”
She strode forward, took his face in her hands and kissed him hard. Thorne groaned and pulled her closer, wondering how he could be so fortunate to hold her. There had been a time when he thought he would never kiss her again, that he’d never hear her say those words. Christ god, how lucky was he?
“Will you do something with me?” she whispered against his lips.
“Anything.” He’d give her anything. Do anything.
Alex walked over to her bed, where she extricated a wooden box from the mountain of notes. She pressed the box into his hands and said. “I want to burn these. With you.”
“What are they?” he asked, opening the lid.
“Notes,” she said, after a beat of hesitation. “That I gathered about you during my research in the East End. I had so many questions I was afraid to ask you because I feared being hurt again. And . . .” she bit her lip. “And your criticisms are in here, as well.”
She had looked into him? Thorne’s chest tightened at the sudden understanding that she had not been incurious about his past, after all. She had taken notes, the way her brilliant mind processed information and examined it. She had examinedhim.She had—wait.“My what?”
The tender look she had given him before turned to impatience. “The reviews, Nick.”
What was she talking about? “Reviews? What reviews?”
“The . . .” She pulled back, scowling. “The reviews. The. Reviews. Of my work.You might as well have put out a full page advertisement in bold lettering,Stay Away, Alexandra.” She tore open the box, plucked a paper out, and smacked it onto the desk. She jabbed her finger at the name. “There. Nicholas Spencer. Unless there is another Nicholas Spencer who has a vested interest in criticizing my work.”
Nick stared at the articles with unease curdling inside him. Sure, he was a slow reader, but he comprehended well enough from a few short sentences why she had accused him at the exhibition of not liking her work. Why she had flinched away from him at his compliment. While constructive, these reviews would have communicated something different if she thought they had come from him. These were a commentary on the disparity of their stations. Fears he held, yes, but nothing he would have written so publicly. They were his private concerns, things he had only ever confided to O’Sullivan.
“I didn’t write these,” he said softly.
She made some gusty noise and took the paper from him to stuff in the box. “Please don’t lie to me. I told you already—”
“Alex.” His voice was firm. “I never wrote these.”
Alexandra stared at him in disbelief. “But . . . who else would have? Writing these took time and knowledge of my work, as well as political issues in the East End. Someone who knew about our marriage and the alias you took in Hampshire.”
Thorne had kept that information within his inner circle, limited to those who helped him take the East End from Whelan. His men had needed to know where the money came from, why he was so reckless from guilt that even O’Sullivan had feared for his life—
That lady toff left you a fucking mess after Hampshire. I helped you pick up the goddamn pieces last time, remember? Don’t make me do it again.
“Son of a bitch,” Nick snarled, seizing the box from the desk. He threw open the door and strode down the hallway.
“Nick?” Alexandra followed him. She put a hand on his arm to try and stop him, but he shook her off. “Nick, what is it?”
Thorne couldn’t even get the words out. His anger made his blood run so hot that he saw red. He had told O’Sullivan everything, every fear about his marriage, how he intended to make it up to her.Every fucking thing.He barely remembered making it through the hallway and down to one of the private gaming rooms. O’Sullivan was there showing a new dealer how to make a performance out of shuffling the deck.
O’Sullivan looked up as Nick came into the room. He frowned. “What’s happened?”
Thorne ignored his question and said to the lad, “Get back to work and shut the door.” His tone didn’t leave any room for arguments. The young dealer quit the room in a hurry.
O’Sullivan set the cards on the table with an expression of concern. “Problem?”
Thorne smashed his fist into O’Sullivan’s face. O’Sullivan stumbled back, hitting the edge of the game table. The table rocked. Dice clattered to the floor.
O’Sullivan straightened, his eyes blazing. His jaw was already red from the hit, his lip bleeding and beginning to swell. Tomorrow he’d have a hell of a bruise, and that was less than what the bastard deserved. “What thefuckwas that for?”
“You know exactly what the fuck that was for,” Thorne said, taking another threatening step forward.
“Nick.” Alex’s hand was on his arm. “Don’t.”
