Page 59 of A Scot Is Not Enough

His tone drew blood. Miss MacDonald paled, her rouge bright red spots on colorless cheeks, but her hazel eyes were fierce and unapologetic.

“It was a youthful indiscretion. Have you ever indulged in one of those?”

A fly buzzed by his ear and he swatted it.

Her laugh was brittle. “I think not.”

“My mistakes are not branded on wood for all the world to see.”

“Therein is the difference between us, Mr. Sloane. I don’t hide my mistakes. I own them.”

“On barrels carted all over London.”

His anger was illogical. Still, he was tauter than a bow string and thrown sideways—the goddess of Swan Lane’s effect. Like a physics theorem or newfound law of nature. He was acutely aware of the flame of upset flaring inside him, and the fact that he was not entitled to it. Miss MacDonald was an independent woman of sound mind who could and would do as she pleased.

“I did it for love, or what I thought was love.” She stood tall, her gaze flitting elsewhere. “Surely you’ve invested your heart in the emotion.”

Heat simmered in his belly. Another man, loving her. It made sense, a woman who reveled in life would have past loves. He had only come close once—a pallid, colorless experience compared to the Scotswoman.

“Miss MacDonald...” He was fighting to understand.

She touched his sleeve. “Mr. Sloane, there is something I—”

“Sloane!” Burton called impatiently from the edge of the tent.

“It’s a practice match,” he said tersely.

Burton stopped tossing the red ball. The barkeep and two patrons walking into the tent stilled.

“A match which is about to begin,” Burton said in clipped tones. “Since we’re short two men, your presence on the pitch would be greatly appreciated. Miss...” Burton bowed to Miss MacDonald and sped off.

Tension twisted between Alexander’s shoulder blades. “Now I’ve vexed two friends.”

“You count me a friend?”

“I do.”

“Then be a true friend, and accept me as I am, not as who you want me to be.”

Miss MacDonald walked partway around him, her silk petticoats a hush against his thigh. Head turning, he locked on her the way moths follow light. A breeze soughed the tent’s trim, and as a parting gift, the air carried her rosewater perfume to him.

“I don’t know what bothers you more,” she said. “That I’ve chosen my lovers instead of waiting for them to choose me. Or that I refuse to hide my sensual nature.”

He curled his hand into a tight, frustrated ball. He’d give Miss MacDonald the sun, the moon, and the stars, but a deeper yearning lurked, as if his heart had told her,Talk to me, and when she did, Miss MacDonald met with judgment.

Bats and balls cracked on the pitch. Amiable conversation carried from tents rimming the field. A St. James cricketer sprinted to the wicket, laughing as he tagged it. Artillery Ground was awash in sport of all kinds, and he, Alexander Sloane, excelled at only one of them.

Miss MacDonald offered a quiet, “Go play your games, Mr. Sloane, as I must play mine.”

Chapter Sixteen

The Scotwoman’s dismissal plagued him. He took to the pitch, his bat in hand. Burton threw the ball to him, and he caught it one-handed. Miss MacDonald was at the edge of the tent, a double-fisted grip on the shawl draping her shoulders. She deserved his full attention—instead he let a mermaid brand on a barrel flummox him.

He tossed up the ball and gave it a one-handedwhackwith his bat. The ball arced beautifully across the pitch.

Something was off. Her white-knuckled clutch on her shawl, her face going pale... and he forgot to tell her about the tickets to the Swynford House ball.

He turned to her.