Page 59 of The Scot Who Loved Me
To which she snorted. “Reacquainted?”
Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora faded in the way seconds at a duel would. The conversation’s subtle turn had the weightiness of a flintlock slowly loaded. Ball and ramrod at the ready, the cock half-cocked, and black powder poured into the muzzle.
Anne felt the second letter bending in her grip. “How interesting.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Do you wish to rekindle your past? Because the man I saw yesterday didn’t disentangle himself from a certain woman’s clutches.”
Thatramrodded ball and powder.
Will’s eyes narrowed. “Easy, Mrs. Neville. You seem to’ve forgotten that I was at Denton House yesterday for no other reason than to help your league.”
Ready... “Yet, you barely supported our false betrothal.”
“I told her about it.”
Aim... “Once.”
Will’s fingers pinched white on the Lambethware. He eyed her keenly as if sifting through his thoughts while trying to make sense of hers.
“Next time, her ladyship will have no doubts about who holds my affections, madame.”
Fire...
Will landed his shot. Searing, precise.
A peculiar sensation cascaded, something which threatened to swallow her whole, at once thrilling and dreadful. Of all the things Will could have said.
Who holds my affections?
She was drowning in those four words until sound reason saved the day.
Of course, their false betrothal.
Will was mocking her gently. An odd combination, but he managed it. She’d lit a fuse, and there was no tamping it nor could the sparks be undone. This should’ve been addressed yesterday. She’d meant to. Will’s finger in her cleavage might’ve thwarted her best intentions.
A regrouping was not out of the question.
“It’s a matter of details,” she said defensively. “Nothing is too small.”
He raised his cup. “For you, I shall have a care with every one of them.”
More nerve-calming tea was consumed. The table’s edge pressed Anne’s stomacher. A downward glance confirmed she was leaning forward, her hair on the table, the black curl taunting her. Since her second marriage, she was in the habit of pinning it. Yet, the night she freed Will and again today, she wore her hair down.
Because that’s how she wore it when she was nineteen.
Why did women do that? Why didshedo it? The answer was quite simple. She’d done it to please a man. Eight years ago, Will had stroked and praised her unbound hair. She’d gloried in his touch then as she did yesterday when he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. His tenderness had been achingly dear. A terrible weakness, that.
She sipped her tea, deciding to use every pin in her arsenal of pins.
Aunt Maude cleared her throat. “There is more correspondence that needs reading.”
The second letter had fallen into Anne’s lap. She steadied herself, picked it up, and broke the wax seal. Two imperious sentences delivered a message in elegant script.
“The countess writes, ‘Meet me at your warehouse tomorrow at one o’clock. I want to renew our negotiations.’” She held up the note. “It’s signed ‘The Right Honorable, The Countess of Denton.’” Her smile was close lipped. “How kind of her to order me to meet her.”
“Strange that she’s taking an interest again,” Aunt Maude said.
