Page 12 of For a Scot's Heart Only

“It was my pleasure.”

The Scotswoman was distracted, drifting toward the newcomers.

Had he been dismissed? Arms crossed, he waited.

She circled the crowd, searching for someone. He’d keep her in sight but he wouldn’t follow. Pride, certainly, and he had fair knowledge of her. Miss Fletcher might look like a confection in white silk, but her beauty came with a bite. London’s whaling trade was small, and the corset maker had a reputation for being cool and headstrong. She had to be. The business of corsets and stays was largely the province of men.

Which gave him pause—Miss Fletcher might’ve come here with a man.

He rested a shoulder on the wall.

Competition was inevitable.

He’d wait and see who it was. The men in the entry were gaping at her, their heads whipping left to right when she passed by.

“Fools,” he said under his breath.

They missed the better part of her. The callouses and scars on her fingers. Her blunt nails and red knuckles. Their quizzical glances were an attempt to size her up. He pitied them. Miss Fletcher wasn’t of their ilk. Her gait too brisk, her gaze too direct, and her nature too focused. Their way of life would bore her to tears.

Which begged the question—why was she here?

His jaw had nearly unhinged when he spied her across the gaming room. He’d left a promising game of Hazard to see what she was about. Their conversation which followed, illuminating.

Miss Fletcher was an enigma. Her skin, pearlescent under chandeliers. Her lips, lush and pillowy. Theotherpillowy parts on full display had stunned him. Such largesse considering the corset maker was usually prim and proper.

A footman stopped to speak to her, pointing at the front door. She bestowed a smile on him, and the sod practically melted on the spot. Yet, Miss Fletcher was not a purposeful seductress. She seemed not to care about her effect on men, all but ignoring the newcomers. Her polite rebuffs sent that gaggle of men to the ballroom. Revelry dimmed when a footman shut the ballroom doors behind them.

Finally, some peace and quiet.

Miss Fletcher waited in the heart of the room, her head and neck craning at the ceiling.

“Rather deceptive,” she muttered.

He looked up. Frescoes covered the high-arched entry. “What’s deceptive?”

Her chin dropped. “You’re still here,” she said, mildly surprised.

“Where else would I be? I did say I’d see you safely out.”

A gentle smile creased her lips. “What an honorable man you are, Mr. West, but that’s not necessary.”

She stayed put. He did the same, his shoulder stuck to the wall.So that’s how she’s going to play it.Despite their extraordinary night, Miss Fletcher wanted to put them both back on the neat shelf of merchant and shopkeeper as if this interlude never happened.

He wasn’t having it.

“What’s wrong with the frescoes?” he asked.

She waved vaguely at the vaulted ceiling, each section a vignette.

“You don’t see it? Nude women lolling on the grass. Nude women laughing on swings. And nude women riding on...” She huffed and grumbled, “Never mind,” when a servant delivered her cloak.

“Please,” Thomas said. “Do go on.”

The Scotswoman whirled black velvet over her shoulders. “I really must go. My friend is waiting for me.”

Friend, is it?

“But you haven’t finished.” He pointed at the frescoes. “We are in a brothel, Miss Fletcher. Unclothed women are part of the transaction.”