Page 58 of The Scot Who Loved Me
Will was the center of a feminine universe, arms out at his sides, his smirk growing as if he could do this all day. Rather sure of himself. Or was he glad to needle Anne? Revenge at finding her door locked last night? She’d heard his thumping.
“Pale colors are the height of fashion,” Anne said defensively. “I’m sure we can find something else in that sea chest. Something better suited to make him look more... or perhaps less of—” her hand flapped inelegantly “—of this...”
“Of what?” Aunt Maude pursed her lips.
Aunt Flora waited, and Will was the devil’s own, his smirk increasing.
She was in a verbal pit, and shoveling herself in deeper. “Lighter colors would be safer.” She hesitated. “Black and gold simply is...”
“Is what?” Will goaded.
She was on a knife’s edge, her thumbnail digging an indent into her quill. Irritation flared. Other indescribable emotions surged.
“You look dangerous.”
There. She’d said it.
Will’s predatory smile spread. “Black and gold it is.”
She dropped the quill and sorted papers. The admission cost her dearly, though she couldn’t name why. It was clothes they spoke of after all. Aunt Maude shrugged off her explanation and finished setting the table while Aunt Flora freed Will of the incendiary waistcoat.
Another certainty struck her this morning: Will was once again the man she’d found in Marshalsea. Rough voiced and a little off. She shut her ledger with a firm snap. Will visiting Mr. Pidcock, or doing whatever errand he had in mind, was a good idea. It was possible he’d planned to devote his day to chasing the man with a branded thumb. In London, that would be hundreds of men.
The sooner he left, the better—if he could unshackle himself from Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora’s attentions. Aunt Flora was no surprise; Aunt Maude was. The older woman went out of her way to attend him. It might be the appallingstripes on his back. She’d grumbled vociferously about them over breakfast.
Anne rose from her chair and tidied her desk to neat stacks of paper and ledgers, while Will retrieved his waistcoat. He bent over and a pristine bandage showed under his shirt, a hidden badge of honor for wearing his kilt. She should’ve taken care of him, but his first night here she’d been too busy convincing him the Jacobite treasure was real. She watched him slide braw arms through armholes (his waistcoat, not one of the bigamist’s). A charcoal-hued patch swayed until the waistcoat was tamely buttoned. The patch’s color was a near match, yet missing the mark.
Like the two of them.
Will deserved a woman to coddle him. A docile woman who waited by the hearth, darning his stockings and mending his clothes. A woman who would’ve tended his back right away. A woman unlike her.
She needed to escape, to clear her mind. Aunt Flora’s shopping list. She held it up, her ticket to freedom.
“Aunt Flora, I’m off to purchase these for you.”
“Now? No need tae rush off, dear.”
“Have some tea afore you go.” Aunt Maude scraped back a chair and took a seat. “And bring those letters with you. Goodness knows you’ve dawdled over them long enough.”
She stifled a groan. There’d be no private consumption of her correspondence and no quick escape from Will. He settled in, looking just as curious about those letters. The Countess ofDenton was the league’s nemesis. Whatever the woman had to say should be known to all.
With a reluctant hand, she scooped the letters off her escritoire and found her seat. Will sat across from her, no less glorious in faded green broadcloth, his patched waistcoat mostly hidden. She propped the letters against her plate, the waxenDfacing him, and sipped her tea. How appropriate. Hades was also the god of gold dug up from the ground, and Nemesis the goddess of revenge. Remorse was not in that deity’s vocabulary, the same as Lady Denton.
Comforting conversation flowed, mostly Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora, talking of the day’s chores, while Will was silent. The reprieve was bolstering. Her throat properly warmed, she set down her dish and broke the first red seal. Quiet descended on the table while she scanned the first correspondence.
“It’s an invitation to her art salon.” She tossed it aside and snapped up the next note. “Her ladyship must be loose in the head. She already invited me before she left for the country.”
“Odd,” Will said. “She’s usually no’ forgetful.”
She pinned her gaze on him. “She usually doesn’t chase a man either.”
An easy grin creased his face. “You overestimate my charm. Lady Denton doesna want me.”
No sooner were the words said than he knew them to be untrue. She could hear it in the playful timbre of his voice.
“Oh?” She lowered the unopened note. “And what would you call her actions yesterday? Friendly?”
“Acquaintances getting... reacquainted.”
