Page 105 of For a Scot's Heart Only

“The pleasure of companionship.” Mary rubbedher thimble-stained fingertip. “You wrote that in your letter yesterday.”

His letter had invited her to spend one day with him. They’d indulged themselves and come out better for it, but half-formed corsets were laid out on the table. Beyond the yellow curtain, her doorbell had jingled twice. More voices, more custom, in a matter of minutes.

Responsibility beckoned.

“There are no easy answers, Mary. Our life, our choices. My father used to say life is like building a ship while trying to sail it.” He hesitated. “I see the truth in it.”

Her brows knit a tender line above her nose. He’d given her something of depth to consider, which made him inordinately happy. One way to Mary Fletcher’s heart was through her mind. Of that, he was certain. All other ways remained a mystery; he was determined to uncover each one.

She gathered her serviceable gray cloak off a hook on the wall. “I’ll agree to a daytime contract. An occasional luncheon or a pint in a public house will do.”

His mouth quirked. His Mary was all business about the business of having fun.

“This is acceptable to me.” He collected his hat off the table.

“We could start today if you’d like. If you don’t mind escorting me to Dowgate to see a friend.” She wrapped her shoulders in wool. “It’ll be quick. She’s not been well, so I won’t stay long. Then we can go to Neville Warehouse.”

“Mixing business with pleasure. A novel idea.”

A smile cracked her visage. “Pleased with yourself, are you?”

“Very much. But a daytime promenade,” he teased. “Are you sure your legs will work? It is October.”

She tried not to laugh. “They work about as well as my nose for a good Cognac.” Which made him grin from ear to ear. “So be warned, Mr. West. I also have a nose for gentlemen who cannot contain themselves as decorum requires.”

He was tempted to remind her of his decorum in her alcove, but he kept that to himself. Sometimes a man had to know when to keep his mouth shut—a lesson his father had taught him.

He set his hat on his head. “Understood. Anything else?”

“Yes.” She pushed up on her toes, whispering, “Please kiss me again before we walk outside and become mere business associates. Otherwise, I can’t be responsible for my actions today at Neville Warehouse.”

Softly parted lips inches from his won the day.

“Duly noted.”

He hooked a finger under her chin and did what any smart man would do—he kissed the siren of White Cross Street and made silent plans to do much, much more.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Dowgate was a quiet place, decently cobbled, its foggy streets anointing Mary’s hems. Each step was an act of faith. She’d left Fletcher’s House of Corsets and Stays twice in one week. Midmorning, no less. A risky venture. Cecelia would be proud.

After Mary had left Miss Dalton in charge of the shop, she’d crammed into a hack with Thomas, landing nearly on his lap. He didn’t complain. She was sure he’d hired the smallest hack he could find, all the better to squeeze them together while he covertly caressed her bottom through yards of wool from Cheapside to Thames Street near Swan Lane.

An entire hack ride of furtive caresses—stouthearted sensualists would approve.

Once out of the hack, Thomas was vigilant as though footpads might attack. He was face forward, his profile a menacing line. She kept checking it.

“Have you a question?” he asked. “Or are you memorizing my chin?”

She ducked in closer. Their gaits matched as she looped her arm with his. “Your chin is interesting aschins go. However, there’s no need to scowl. Swan Lane is harmless.”

“The closer we get to the river, the closer we are to trouble.”

She laughed softly. “I suppose you’re right. Cecelia MacDonald’s home is just above the Thames, and she is the most scandalous member of our league.”

“More scandalous than you?” When he glanced at her, his eyebrows were practically in his hat.

“I’m not a woman of questionable repute.”