Page 47 of The Scot Who Loved Me
It’d be comical, but Anne wasn’t laughing. She was hot and jealous.
A big paw crossed her vision. “Let’s get you up, ma’am.”
She took it and clambered upright, her silk-covered whalebone corset sticky against her ribs.Wrong day to wear a new corset.
“Thank you, sir.”
The paw held on. “Name’s Rory MacLeod.”
A Western Isles brogue—and he was a MacLeod.
Her panniers jammed unprettily against the door frame. Perceptive crystalline blue eyes searched hers. Scarred at his eyebrow and chin, Mr. MacLeod was the rough sort. He chewed a long blade of grass at the corner of his mouth, and dust coated his boots. Thickly built, nicked knuckles, a bull of a man who probably made his coin as a bare-knuckle brawler—and he was a MacLeod.
Her mind reeled.What is he doing here?And still in possession of my fingers?
“My hand, if you don’t mind.”
He released it. “This is where you tell me your name, miss—” his gaze slid to Will and the countess talking in the entry “—or is it missus?”
“Mrs. Neville.” She smoothed her skirts, calling out. “Will, water for this poor man if you please.”
They were atrocious actors in this ruse, thrown off step by the Countess of Denton’s sudden appearance. Mr. Styles, however, played his part with aplomb. Mr. MacLeod helped the coughing rag-n-bone man to his feet, then went two steps lower and retrieved the older man’s battered tricorn.
“For you, sir.” Will handed over the cup of water.
A shaky hand accepted the boon. “You are too kind,” Mr. Styles rasped. He wiped a dirty sleeve across his foam-caked mouth and gulped water.
This was the housekeeper’s cue to bustle down the steps and clear the riffraff. A grand carriage with the Denton crest on the door loitered in the road. One of the attendants held the reins of a large bay horse.
“Take the carriage to the mews, and I shall supervise the unloading there.” She pushed the wooden cart with its hodge-podge of garments to Brook Street’s corner and dusted off her hands as if the matter was done.
“What a surprise, Mrs. Neville.”
Anne whipped around. Centuries of quality flowed in Lady Denton’s blood. She was perfect in butter-hued silk, her rapier glare put away. Hair impeccably coifed boasted one silver-white lock in otherwise midnight dark hair. Anne felt dampness growing under her chin, no doubt darkening her bonnet’s wilting peach ribbon. This was a baptism of fire.
“You two know each other?” Will couldn’t curb his astonishment.
There were layers upon layers Anne wanted to explain, but the countess home early was a rug swept out from under her. She was battered and off center. She should’ve prepared him. She would have... before the art salon.
“Why, yes.” The countess’s pink fingertips grazed Will’s sleeve. “Earlier this summer, Mrs. Neville and I were in discussions regardingmy purchase of the Neville Warehouse on Gun Wharf.” She looked benignly at Anne. “Why ever did we stop our negotiations?”
“You had business at your country home.”
“Yes, summer.” The countess wrinkled her nose. “The City is abominable in July. The smells and such.” She looked gently to Mr. Styles. “You are well enough to... travel?”
“I am much better, milady.” He touched his forelock and Mr. MacLeod held out a battered tricorn.
“I believe this is yours.”
“Thank you, my good man.” Mr. Styles exchanged the cup for his hat.
What a motley band they were. Anne forced her spine upright. Perhaps the corset was just the thing to keep her standing and prevent her from becoming a crumpled heap. Mr. Styles smiled to all, touched his hat, and trod with care down the steps. He performed well under pressure, having stalled the Countess of Denton from entering her home. Anne owed him dearly.
The housekeeper bounded up the front steps with age-defying agility and reached for the cup. “Let me take that, Mr. MacLeod.” To the countess, “Shall I arrange for tea and refreshments, milady?”
“Excellent idea, Mrs. Brown.” To Will and Anne, “Where are my manners? Dawdling on the front door like a rustic.” The countess claimed Will’s arm. “You will join me for tea especially—” her feline smile touched Anne first and Mr. Styles second, watching him grab his cart “—after what must have been a trying interlude.”
“We wouldn’t dream of bothering you, Lady Denton,” Anne said.
