Page 50 of A Scot Is Not Enough
Or he would, to assuage primal needs as men often did to take the edge off.
He sunk lower on the seat, visions of her dancing in his head. He held steady until a new image teased him—Miss MacDonald kneeling before him, her soft mouth closing around hard flesh freed from his placket and hazel eyes watching him watch her.
He gripped the cold pint with a shaky hand and gulped.
On the other side of the table, a voice came from behind a newspaper.
“That is the sound of a man with a tale to tell.”
Alexanderthunkedthe pint on the table. “I spent my afternoon with a woman in Southwark.”
“A promising beginning but rather sparse.”
He took a bolstering breath. “An alluring Scotswoman who gave me my comeuppance.”
“That’s better. The tale of Serious Sloane meeting his match.” Burton peered over the top of his newspaper. “Has a ring to it, don’t you think?”
He swallowed more beer. “Except she left me hanging, as it were, in Southwark.”
Burton winced. “Hanging?”
“A request was made that I cannot fulfill and the lady was disappointed.”
“Doesn’t that mean you leftherhanging?”
“I won’t quibble over who left whom hanging. Suffice to say, the lady and I left our meeting unsatisfied.”
Burton hummed thoughtfully. “So, you’re here for consoling conversation. Or perhaps you seek companionship of a livelier nature?”
Silly, giggling Covent Garden nymphs had walked into the Five Bells and were settling in to a table in the heart of the public room. Some might call them fair. Pink lips, pink ribbons, pink silks. Young and fresh, their faces full of delight, but they blurred like a hackneyed reproduction of masterful artwork.
“Mmm... No.”
“Are you sure?” Burton lowered the newspaper. “The blonde with the spectacular cleavage is giving you a come-hither look.”
“Hefty cleavages are overrated.”
“I see. A night of consoling conversation, it is.” Burton folded his paper. “Have you eaten?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You do have it bad. At least you can enjoy your misery in quiet, the latest patrons notwithstanding. The room cleared about an hour ago . . . some grand entertainment at Covent Garden.”
The Five Bells was sedate. Fernsby hunched over backgammon at another pine settle with Mr. St. John, a ginger-haired sworn clerk. Four older gentlemen owned the Five Bells’ dartboard. Near the fireplace, the clerks Mr. Basil-Smith and Mr. Patton battled stoically over a chessboard, their arms folded on the table. Tavern maids meandered the floor, plates of cottage pie and pints in their clutches.
Alexander stared into his beer. “I’m here because I need your help.”
“Twice in one week. I’m honored.”
“I need two tickets to the Marquess of Swynford’s event, Wednesday next.”
Burton stopped a passing tavern maid.
“Another small beer, Polly.” He checked Alexander. “A small beer for you? Or hemlock?” The tavern maid giggled and Burton raised two fingers. “Make that two small beers—hold the hemlock.”
Polly went to fetch their beer as four foppish lordlings with cheek patches and redolent strides invaded the room. Like sharks on the hunt, they claimed a table next to the Covent Garden nymphs.
“Tell me again about this outrageous request of yours,” Burton said.
