Page 68 of For a Scot's Heart Only

“But very telling.”

“Ah, then, should I wax long about my favorite flower? Or my preference for coffee or tea?”

“Don’t be evasive, Miss Fletcher. I won’t tolerate another man.”

There was a bite in his tone as deliberate and even as a knife swipe.

She clamped her lips in a hard line. Questioning her was a shot across the bow, but this? This was him staking a flag in sacred territory—her independence.

“Forgive me, Mr. West, but I’m still quite taken by your excellent claim that this day is devoted entirely to my pleasure.” When he said nothing, she spoke to his flinty profile. “Who I come and go with is not your concern.”

“I’m sure it is.”

She pulled away, speechless.

“You require our assignations be at a time and place suitable to you. For a duration suitable to you... for as much as I can tell.” His voice firmed. “I’ll allow it—”

“You will allow it?” She laughed, harsh and abrupt. Thankfully, they were alone on Cheyne Walk, the benefit of being near the less-than-fashionable village.

“You want me for an indiscretion? I’m happy to oblige, but I won’t share.”

Her nerves tingled—his body for her pleasure. A concise explanation, as it were.

She tipped her head back to make eye contact. The brim of his hat shadowed his face, but there was no mistaking his menacing eyes. The sea wolf, staking his claim. Crawling into his lap on the pleasure barge might’ve been a mistake.

This, she supposed, is what happened to the sensualist seeking adventure.

Raising her hood, she sought precious seconds to think.

“Why wait to ask now? Why didn’t you ask me as soon as I exited the hack at All Hollows Wharf?”

His stare impaled her.

“Because I don’t think straight when I’m with you.”

Her stomach did a silly flip-flop. She could say the same of Mr. West. Talking to him stirred her. And touching him? Incendiary. Yet, his question, framed as a demand, drove a sledgehammer through her peace. Mr. West wanted her body and her secrets. Blasted man.

She faced the shushing river. Air soughed through the trees, carrying a risky idea:it wouldn’t hurt to givehim something.Mr. West already knew she’d forged a Wilkes-Lock key at his shipyard last August. No lobsterbacks had hauled her off to prison for it.

“The man you saw is a business acquaintance and nothing more.”

“A corset maker, is he?”

She winced. Mr. West’s irony was merciless. “He’s not that kind of acquaintance.”

“Is he a suitor?”

“Of course not.” She angled her face to his. “I don’t keep suitors. They’re boring and needy and entirely unnecessary because I’ll not marry.”

“Never?”

“Yes, never.”

Judging by the expanded whites of his eyes, Mr. West was stunned. But they weren’t any closer to Chelsea Porcelain Works, and if she was honest, serving the needs of the league rated just above serving the needs of Mr. West. If only just. The league was her true family, and they’d survived a war together.

But, with her startling revelation shared, the genie was out of the bottle. There was no putting it back in.

Mr. West searched her face. “Do you believe in love?”