Page 84 of For a Scot's Heart Only

To prepare for an assignation in a brothel, the adventurous spinster must carefully arm herself with rouged cheeks, carmined lips, and artfully pinned hair. Delicate weapons, each one. They’d be smeared or removed, but were necessary accoutrements, nonetheless. Their purpose: to engage a rugged gentleman in the sensual art of war.

And she did adore Mr. West’s dockside edge. Hewn from the sea, burnished by the sun, he was rough refinement. No doubt he’d lent his smile to women in other ports.

Tonight he was hers alone.

Velvet slipping off her shoulders, Mary welcomed the coming battle. Tender goose bumps peppered her skin. Her nipples peaked. She’d never felt so alive, crossing Maison Bedwell’s threshold as though an undiscovered world awaited her. The frescoed nymphs looking down approved. She was enteringthe evening fray without a mask. A bold move. Very bold.

The footman taking her cloak blinked twice. “Miss... Fletcher.”

His fingers brushing hers stoked excitement. So did the flirtatious slide of his mouth.

“Connor’s my name, miss.” A polite cough and, “We didn’t meet directly, but you helped the lot of us with the fountain.” Azure eyes sparkled above a smattering of freckles. “The lads and I are most grateful.”

Her pulse quickened. Visions of Connor, water sluicing his braw shirtless chest, sprang to mind. This could be dangerous, being known in a brothel.

“I am glad I could be of service.”

He was careful, draping her cloak over his arm. “Are you here for a particular entertainment?”

Friendly fire banked in azure eyes. Genuine, thrilling, and a touch solicitous as to put the power in her hands. The feeling was delicious. Smiling warmly, she tipped her head a degree, the rust on her feminine wiles sliding off.

“As it happens, I am.”

The footman cocked his head, curious. “Is there a chance I might help you, miss?”

Connor’s Irish brogue was playing nicely on her ears. He held her gaze and stood, a gentleman at the ready. Her wish would be his command. An intoxicating premise. If it wasn’t for a certain sea wolf, she’d cave. Or worse, she’d come here every week and hand over all her shop’s profits for the drug Connor was selling.

Did Lord Ranleigh give tutorials on how to seducea woman? The average man fresh from the countryside couldn’t be this nuanced.

Or am I a little desperate for intimacy?A leveling thought.

She touched Connor’s velvet sleeve. “Yours is a kind offer, but another gentleman will... help me.”

Help?Lud.She sounded like a maiden aunt in need of a tup.

Entertain, seduce, enthrall—these would be more honest.

“My loss, miss.” Connor sketched a bow and glanced at the hallway. “But if your gentleman disappoints, please find me.”

Newcomers crested the front door, laughing, chattering, the men dropping good coin into Connor’s outstretched palm. She took the chance to fade into the hubbub that filled the entry, but at the hallway’s turn she looked back. Connor wasn’t watching her. She was a transaction. A means to his livelihood’s end.

Crestfallen, she’d been duped. A sea wolf’s hot kisses by day, and a footman’s flirtatious touch by night. Her footfalls landed on thick carpet, the hallway awash in light and noise. The Red Rose room waited at the end. A quiet place. The door closed. Pleasure waiting to happen. Digging for the key in her pocket, she wouldn’t play the fool. A vow extracted nearly fifteen years ago rang in her head.

Do not let men turn your head. Ever.

They never would.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Thomas waited by the fireplace, a patient man. Years of hunting on the North Sea left him battered but strong, and his thirst for life steady—pleasures of the flesh included. But this was peculiar, him close to bedding a beautiful woman, yet he couldn’t stop thinking about her heart. He was equally certain her heart was the one treasure she’d never give away. The corset maker would come to him in body but keep her emotions safely hidden. Like a treasure.

He drew in a long, taut breath. Her body was a most desirable treasure, and he was base enough to admit they would indulge each other’s whim.

Eyes closing, he verged on reckless.

He’d have no peace. Every part of him, inside and out, was amplified. Distant noises intruded, Maison Bedwell’s usual antics reaching his ears. Behind his eyelids, he could see Mary’s face curving to his. Their quick, stolen kisses in a steamy glasshouse, the leaves of the banana tree hiding them. Her moonstone eyes imploring him to tell her a story while she’d rested her head in his lap. What sweet torture.

Hairs on his nape stirred. When he opened his eyes, hall light traced Mary Fletcher’s silhouette.