Page 50 of For a Scot's Heart Only

A man like that deserved ten hours, not ten minutes. Her decision made, she collected her cloak, which had been tossed carelessly over a chair. She took comfort in a sliver of truth: she could manage this inferno. Control it within set hours before returning to the rest of her life.

Her sea wolf might think differently. He was silently tracking her every move.

She began to wrap herself in wool, not bothering to tuck her breasts back where they belonged.

“This morning you propositioned me.”

Mr. West’s brow furrowed. “Is this your answer? One kiss and we’re done?”

“Far from it.”

The furrow between his eyes deepened. “Then what is your intent?”

A thoroughly vexed Mr. West studied her as she donned her mask. The stubborn man didn’t budge from his place by the bed, which suited her purpose. He didn’t look like he was in the mood to follow her and drop a devastating kiss on her brass-stained fingertip, and that suited her purpose too. Tender intimacy was dangerous. Lusty intrigues, however, could be contained when and where she dictated.

She walked to him and slid her hand inside his coat. His heart was skipping fast and he smelled like everything she shouldn’t want.

Green-blue eyes narrowed, blade sharp.

She pushed up on her toes and kissed his scowling mouth softly.

“Meet me here at nine o’clock tomorrow night, and I’ll make clear my intent. All night.”

Chapter Eleven

Thomas pinched the candle flames one by one. He preferred to recover in the dark, thank you very much. Flesh inside his smalls ached. Badly. A white-hot-forget-about-walking-straight kind of pain. The assault, however, reached beyond his placket.

His soul was shaken and his heart stirred.

It was the corset maker’s doing. Her and her passionate kisses.

He opened his right hand, his flesh still tingling from the feel of Miss Fletcher’s bottom cheek. Firm and full. Perfectly curved. Soft skin which had never seen the sun pebbling against his palm—until she ended their embrace as suddenly as she’d started it.

He fisted his hand. It was safe to say her soul hadn’t been pillaged.Bloody siren.

She was up to something. Beautiful spinsters were a rare breed. Women who could snare any man they wanted. No doubt Miss Fletcher could waggle her finger and win a titled scoundrel if she tried. But the proper shopkeeper had come to a brothel.

Why?

Tonight had been to consummate her invitation. If only the footman hadn’t been detained...

But their first meeting, two nights past, was most assuredly her first night at Bedwell’s. The incident with Culpepper proved that. He went to the window and dragged the curtain aside. His ragged reflection set him back. A bedraggled queue. His cravat, flagging. His lips, perverse lines, kiss-smeared with carmine, as it were.

He swiped two fingers over the corner of his red-smudged mouth. “What are you about, Miss Fletcher?”

Instinct told him she had an appointment to keep. The corset maker was true to her word. A man could set his watch by her timeliness.

Something stopped their progress—otherwise they would’ve progressed as nature intended.

After opening the window, he searched King’s Square, cold air slapping his face. London’s rogues were exiting carriages, cheerful men on their way to Bedwell’s. Parked vehicles wrapped around the square’s garden. He scanned each one.

Who was she meeting?

He didn’t have to wait long. A woman wreathed in black crossed the road, her stride familiar.

An ugly twist burned his belly, and he stepped back into the shadows.

A large man in gray velvet was waiting for Miss Fletcher by a blue carriage trimmed with gold paint not more than ten or twelve paces from the Red Rose room window. Miss Fletcher scurried to meet the man in gray.