Page 24 of A Scot Is Not Enough

Mary eyed Cecelia. “Are you denying us the pleasure of seeing what you purchased from Madame Laurent?”

Cecelia felt her flat-lipped smile expand.

“I did not purchase anything from Madame Laurent.”

Starched petticoat bottoms scooted to the edge of their seats. Aunt Maude’s lips pursed while the rest of the women peered from the box to Cecelia.

“Then who did?”

Mary’s artful tone was interference coated with honey and served with a slice of jealousy. Only beautiful Mary, who generally ignored men, would have the audacity to test her. The corset maker’s question was a push to Cecelia’s shove. Pasting on a daring smile, she put her plate on the table already burdened with a hodgepodge of dishes.

“Bring it here, Jenny.”

She inched forward, and Jenny set the box on her knees. A stylish gold leafMandLinside a garland of flowers had been stamped on the box. Cecelia untied the bow, the aroma of dried lavender wafting. The elegant Provence scent—another sign of Madame Laurent. She lifted the top, finding bits of the dried herb scattered on white tissue.

Aunt Maude eyed the box. “Have you a new admirer?”

“I don’t know.”

She brushed aside the dried herb and unfolded the tissue. Underneath was dull, brown wool, a hideous shade. Nestled in the wool was a note. The women in her salon leaned unabashedly forward. Mary, stretching, Margaret and Aunt Flora in danger of tipping over, and Aunt Maude, who stood up because she couldn’t be bothered with the pretense of sitting.

Cecelia opened the note for a private reading, and Mr. Sloane’s tenor reached her ears, polite, educated, and limned with humor.

Dear Miss MacDonald,

Please accept this gift as a token of my gratitude for a memorable evening.

A coy smile came.Memorable indeed.She turned her attention back to the brief missive.

At the very least, it will keep you in good health should you stumble across a rogue late at night.

Warmly yours,

Mr. Alexander Sloane

P.S. I want to renew last night’s discussion. If you feel the same, meet me at the White Hart, tonight.

Intrigue multiplied in every word. She held the paper in one hand, caressing it with the other. Mr.Sloane painted enough of a word picture with his dangerous invitation.Brazen man.She tucked his note between the chair and her petticoats and neatly lifted the folded brown wool. The box tumbled off her knees, and lavender bits littered the floor.

Mr. Sloane had gifted her with an abominable night-robe lined with pea-green felt. An ardor-smashing garment, if ever she’d seen one.

She stifled a giggle.

Well done, Mr. Sloane. You have baited the hook.

She had received gifts from men before. From a baron and an earl who thought they could buy her body. From a ship’s captain who thought he could buy her loyalty. And from a merchant who thought he could buy her silence. No man ever thought to pique her interest—until Mr. Sloane.

“Brilliant,” she murmured joyously. Her arms and the robe fell to a heap in her lap.

“Ugly is more like it,” Aunt Maude said loudly. “It’s a monstrosity.”

“Maude,” Aunt Flora hissed. “It’s a gift.”

Aunt Maude’s lips pursed. “If that’s the work of London’s best mantua maker, then London’s best mantua maker could learn a thing or two from Mary and Margaret.”

Cecelia stroked soft wool. Pink thread bound one seam, eye-glaring yellow bound another.

“It’s a wonderful monstrosity. I love it.”