Page 41 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“As one does for a boat race.” The merest pause and she added, “I donned them for you.”
Words to tickle his ballocks. His gaze narrowed.
“Are those the same stockings you held up to the window in the shop at White Cross Street?”
“The very same.” Her eyes sparkled with sensual hints.
His navel clenched. He couldn’t take any more of her seductive, verbal punches. A breeze carried a rusty laugh—his, of course. Baited and hooked, he was, and grateful for it.
Miss MacDonald set her tricorn on her head, the front point long.A hunter’s hat, the minx.He couldn’t stop his grin from drifting sideways.
She linked arms with him and offered a saucy, “Did I tell you that I purchased stays to match?”
His cock and balls twitched under a bombardment of images. Silk stockings and their slow slide down her legs. Robin’s egg blue stays loosened, a nipple peeking, blond hair draped everywhere.
“Your stays should not be a point of discussion.”
“They could be.”
Words delivered with the softest tease.
“Miss MacDonald, this is business.” His voice was a low warning.
She laughed, not chastened at all. “Oh, I know. But you must admit, what has passed between us goes beyond polite discourse.”
Could he make it to Swynford House, Wednesday next, without seeing more of her flesh? Probably not. The irony of his circumstances was that he wanted to knowherwith equal ferocity. From the mundane:How do you take your tea?To the political:What is your opinion of Lord Hardwicke’s Marriage Act?
“I should plead Parliament to pass a law requiring all hems must end at the knees,” he said.
“The knees? Why stop there?”
To which he laughed and it felt good to walk with a woman he could be amused with.
“You are a saucy one.”
“You wouldn’t be the first say so.”
He steered their stroll across Gun Wharf, their hips bumping companionably, their strides languorous.
“I collect, you enjoy being wicked day or night.”
Hazel eyes glinted mischievously under a black brim. “Day or night. Do you have a preference, Mr. Sloane?”
The boat race cast Miss MacDonald in a new light,her flirtations and sense of fun a diversion from deeper parts. Something solid and serious, perhaps. Certainly complex.
“My preference,” he said as drolly as he could, “is to think with the flesh between my ears and not the flesh between my legs.”
“Ah, yes, your path to the Exchequer.”
“And yours to a certain dagger.”
What a surprising conversation to have on a busy Southwark road. A bowlegged costermonger waddled by, his back laden with vegetable-filled baskets. A pair of stray dogs, tongues lolling, sat on their haunches in an alley. Drays trundled by, the thoroughfare barely wide enough to accommodate them and pedestrians. Gun Wharf’s race watchers had migrated here, clustering in the street and alleys, nursing pints, their cheeks aglow. He guided Miss MacDonald closer to his side and got a whiff of her rosewater scent.
“The tavern looks full.” She tipped her head at a brick and flint stone wall. “Why don’t we wait here?”
With nowhere to sit, they huddled close. Harlots and sailors crowded the benches by the Iron Bell’s door. Tavern maids sped in and out from the open door, frothy mugs in their clutches.
“Aren’t you thirsty?” he asked.
