Page 69 of The Scot Who Loved Me
“Your accent, Miss Fletcher... Do you hail from Edinburgh?”
“I do, sir. My sister and I have called London our home for a few years now. I am the proprietor of Fletcher’s House of Corsets and Stays on White Cross Street.”
Her Edinburgh accent was refined, a genteel back-of-the-mouth treatment of her words. When her passions rose, as evidenced in Anne’s salon today, Mary Fletcher trilled herRs dramatically as if she could barely control the rush.
“A woman of business,” West said. “Have you a trade card?”
“I do.” Miss Fletcher’s mouth twitched. “However, you don’t appear to be a man in need of a corset—if you will allow my boldness.”
West laughed, a pleasant sandy sound. “Very kind of you to say, Miss Fletcher. I am not asking for my sake, but for my sisters.”
Her face shined approval. “Ah, I would be pleased to have their custom.” She fished insideher petticoat pocket and passed over her trade card. Mr. West read it, a glimmer softening his stoic eyes.
“It says you are also a member of the Worshipful Company of Glovers.”
“I am. I purchased my placement in the livery not long after setting up shop on White Cross Street.” She inhaled a morsel of air to impart reluctant news. “But we only make women’s gloves.”
“How unfortunate for me.”
He tucked the trade card in his pocket while keeping eye contact with Miss Fletcher. Sunlight shined on his waistcoat’s brass buttons, the only nod to his status. West’s chin dipped a split second. A moment passed, the hum of life outside, matching the honeyed hum of... flirting? Will had never seen hardworking Thomas West dally in conversation with a woman. Ever. But this appeared to be the age-old male/female sport of flirting.
Cheeks blooming prettily, Miss Fletcher cocked her head. “Have I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, sir? Before today, I mean?”
A boyish smile creased West’s features. Arms crossed, Will eased his stance. Five years knowing the man, and he had never seen the like. His former employer pushed open the window, which forced him a quarter step nearer Miss Fletcher.
“I’ve not had the pleasure of formally making your acquaintance, but we have crossed paths.” He reached outside and rang a brass bell, itsclatter loud. “Jemmy,” he bellowed to the yard, “when you’re done there, come quick.”
Anne inched away, her shoes softly scraping her retreat. She set fingertips on the window facing downriver. Was Anne recalling a time when she’d flirted sweetly with him? Will wanted her to turn around and tell himI remember when we did this.It’d be new intimacy if she did. But Anne’s shoulders hunched, her only message, which could be any message. As for reading it, he wouldn’t try.
He planted a hip on West’s desk, vaguely adrift. Emptiness was palpable in his chest.
In the corner, Miss Fletcher studied Mr. West. “You know... it’s coming to me, sir, where I last saw you.”
West abandoned the half-closed casement, keen on the conversational hook he’d baited.
“It was last fall at Mr. Dorrien-Smith’s King Edward Street warehouse. I was purchasing last season’s bones and baleen.” Mary Fletcher smiled her satisfaction. “To make corsets and stays, of course.”
“Of course,” he intoned.
That was a jiggling fisherman’s hook, inviting her to fill a void. Would Miss Fletcher bite? West’s stance, confident yet affable, hugging both arms to his chest, told Will the man knew exactly when and where he’d seen Miss Fletcher—the first time and possibly others.
Miss Fletcher looked outside, awareness a glow on her cheeks.
“Did I... purchase some of your goods, Mr. West?”
“Alas, you did not. My bones and baleen did not meet your exacting standards,” he said in the driest voice.
“I see.” Miss Fletcher touched her lace-trimmed bodice.
No, she stroked it.
West’s gaze couldn’t help but collapse on bountiful curves pressed high, presented prettily sans the annoying neckerchief. A smart man, West built a quick ladder back to her face. Miss Fletcher granted him a smile for his effort.
The art of flirting: notice, appreciate, but not too much.
“Well, the new season is nearly upon us,” she said. “I have no doubt I shall be most enthusiastic... to peruse your goods, sir.”
That sandy laugh again. “I am not sure how we can arrange that. Mr. Dorrien-Smith’s warehouse will in future be dedicated solely to lumber.”
