Page 26 of All Scot and Bothered

Luckily, she was invited to dinner at his sister-in-law’s house this very evening.

Which would be the perfect time to learn his weakness.

CHAPTERFOUR

Ramsay cursed his traitorous body to the outer reaches of hell and back as he let his head fall back against the carriage cushion.

That damnable book, the one with the depictions of every imaginable form of intercourse, had brought his cock to attention.Notthe woman to whom it belonged. She had nothing to do with it.

Hedid notdesire the Scarlet Lady.

He was a man. A Scotsman, no less. And the renderings of fornication woke within his body pulsating temptations to which he’d vowed never again to succumb. Memories of positions he’d preferred, longings for depravities he’d not yet tasted, and also for those he’d denied himself for so long.

Hortense Thistledown had casually turned the pages of said text, running her silk gloves over the pictures as though discovering them for the first time. Her manner had been cavalier, but her rouged lips parted as though the depictions of iniquity astonished her.

Or perhaps they’d a similar effect upon her as himself.

Perhaps she’d experienced a rush of desire.

He wished he could see what she hid under the mask, the wig, and the frippery. Was her skin truly pale under the white powder? What color was her hair? Was her figure as voluptuous as he’d imagined beneath the shapeless crimson cloak, or had she padded it for effect?

Even though Ramsay detested her ilk, the photos in the book had elicited unbidden thoughts. Had invaded his mind, threatening to rob him of his moral high ground.

Did the Scarlet Lady take famous, wealthy lovers as her predecessor had?

His fingers gripped the cushions of the carriage bench as he rejected the question slithering through his thoughts like a serpent in Eden.

He shouldn’t wonder such things. He shouldn’t want. Crave. Ache.

He must forget those lips. He must not imagine them wrapped around his cock, leaving rings of rouge and silken moisture behind.

His breath hitched as his body hardened further.

Nay, her mouth was, no doubt, too practiced to tempt him. A woman in her profession learned well and early the yearning of a man for such an act. In fact, she was arranged with artifice to fuck a man’s wits right out of his head.

Her scent, for example, not a French floral or an expensive musk, only a sweet vanilla with a tinge of something spiced. One meant to rouse several physical hungers at once.

Her makeup, the crimson color of sin, applied to articulate that talented mouth.

Her wit had made her all the more desirable. A sense of enjoyment hummed beneath his rage, plucked by theirrepartee. Her challenge had made him feel… awake. Alive.

She’s a viper, he reminded himself. A woman who’d possibly sold her soul to the devil, along with the innocence of young girls.

The prompt was enough to douse his desire.

He could not allow himself to become beguiled. Not like so many of the men with whom he operated.

Titled lords and wealthy judges, magistrates, and politicians were so often led about by their cocks just as easily as their purse strings.

Crafty old Henrietta Thistledown had held many of those purse strings in her own hand.

She’d chosen her successor wisely; he’d give her that. Hortense was a force to be reckoned with in her own right.

The death of Henrietta had seemed the perfect time to strike against the gambling hell. The old woman had always been so deucedly careful. Every time he thought he’d had her dead to rights, she seemed to reach out and pluck the strings of one of her powerful puppets, and yet again she’d be pulled out of the mire. It was as though the entirehaute tonowed her favors.

For Christ’s sake, he’d taken down Afghani warlords and Barbary pirates in Algiers more easily than Henrietta, and he had to admit to some relief upon the news of her death.

The head of the snake had been severed, which he’d hoped meant fewer girls would disappear from his city.