Page 67 of For a Scot's Heart Only

But another want niggled her. A taste for excitement and diversion beyond White Cross Street. She gusted a soft sigh because of it.

“The truth is, Mr. West, I have this one day for leisure.”

She walked into the sunshine, struggling to containa vulnerability that wanted out. She was so confused. One would think a woman approaching her thirtieth birthday would have such matters sorted.

One would think...

A man who’d visited foreign ports might not understand how cramped her world had become.

The deck creaked with footfalls behind her. Mr. West came to her side, donning his tricorn, a breeze whipping the hem of his blue wool coat. He offered his arm, a little bearish.

“I am yours to command.”

To which she snorted a laugh and curled her arm with his. “Why don’t I believe that?”

“Because you are a confident woman who says what she thinks.”

“Bluntly so, I’m afraid.”

Mr. West squinted at the sun and led the way.

“Do not hesitate to speak your mind with me, Miss Fletcher.” His sidelong assurance came with a handsome, crooked smile. “Especially this day, which is devoted to your pleasure.”

She eyed their wooden path and let his words sink in. When was the last time she’d spent an entire day devoted to her own pleasure? She couldn’t recall, but this day with Mr. West wouldn’t be wasted. It would be her little adventure.

The dock took them to a row of brightly painted boathouses. Reds and blues mostly, the trim clean and white. Amiable voices spilled from a nearby public house. The botanical gardens, hedged by trees and a low fence, consumed a vast lot to their right, but it was a sign with an arrow pointing to the left that snared her.Village of Chelsea, it read.

Of course. Chelsea Physic Botanical Gardens wouldbe near the village—where the Countess of Denton’s Chelsea Porcelain Works was. If she hadn’t been so addled with lust, she would’ve connected this obvious fact earlier.

She tugged free of Mr. West for a better view of rambling structures clumped together. Brick and flintstone, wattle and daub. A decent-sized village, but nothing impressive.

Why did the vile woman have a business here?Lady Denton thrived on wealth and the appearance of wealth. She owned the best brick warehouses, which stored the best wallpaper, fabrics, and other luxury goods—all in London.

The porcelain works was the only business lacking a fine address. She pointed in the general direction of it.

“Mr. West, would you mind if we strolled that way?”

“Not the garden?” His intrigued glance bounced from her to the village and back to her.

“It would be a short visit,” she said. “Then we can go to the gardens.”

Emboldened by the empty docks, she pushed up on her toes, rubbing against him.

His pupils blackened.

“I’ll do my best to make our village jaunt worthwhile,” she whispered before kissing him softly on the mouth.

The sultry kiss didn’t have the desired effect. Mr. West’s lust-dark eyes narrowed a wary fraction when she laced her arm with his. The tiniest unease descended on her as he led the way to Cheyne Walk. The stamped-earth path was shaded by a few trees.The air was infinitely sweeter, and the water free of questionable matter. Orderly buildings faced the river with lanes in between them. Lawrence Street was the one she looked for until Mr. West fired a cannonball of a question at her.

“I noticed you left with a man last night. Who was he?”

He’d watched her leavingBedwell’s?This was not good.

A tendril of hair floated across her eyes. She brushed it back, nonchalant. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

His profile was grim. “I thought we were making great progress, learning about each other.”

“You said I drink Cognac like a Wapping Wall sailor,” she said, trying for lightness.