Page 53 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“No man is my better when he’s sweating for his pleasure.” Elspeth nibbled a lavender-infused macaroon. “And we all know the marquess doesn’t sweat for mine.”
This was the nature of their Saturday outings. Gossip, advice, whispered confidences. Nothing was off-limits. One Saturday might be devoted to fashion, the next to sexual congress. They traded tricks such as how to wax ecstatic with a dull bed partner, how to bring a man to ecstasy in three minutes or less, and the best roads for maximizing pleasure during carriage frolics.
Today, however, a cloud settled over their table. Elspeth polished off a plate’s worth of lemon and lavender macaroons all by herself.
Cecelia eyed yellow and purple crumbs. “I’ll have to bring more next week.”
“Please don’t,” Elspeth groaned. “Or my girth will outpace my corsets.”
Hannah’s smoky alto imparted distressing news. “Elspeth neglected to mention that she is on uncertain ground with the marquess.”
“What’s this?”
A crestfallen Elspeth dabbed a serviette to her lips.
“It’s true. Swynford hasn’t visited me in more than a fortnight. I fear he may cancel our contract.”
“Which is why you need to listen to Cecelia when it comes to matters of contracts and money,” Hannah said.
Wind batted the purple-dyed pheasant feathers in Hannah’s hair. Fashionable choices werede rigueur. To see and be seen—as one does for cricket matches. They loved pretty gowns, but they were birds, snaring men. Men needed to believe they chased the fairest, most sought-after creatures. Hannah and Elspeth played the game, dressing for it, flirting for it, while Cecelia played a longer game. For her clan and for herself. Never had she sold her body to a man, and never would she.
Her heart ached for Elspeth, who believed the game of protector and courtesan would go on forever.
Nothing lasted. Love and fidelity were fairy tales. Her father had taught her that the summer he’d caught her kissing a visiting clan chief’s son. She was thirteen then, her knees quaking the entire silent carriage ride home.
Would he give her the switch? Lock her in her room with bread and milk?
Clanranald MacDonald’s good folk already gossiped about her father, the surgeon who’d planted his seed in his housekeeper’s belly and refused to marryher. A frivolous, saucy-piece of a daughter was the fruit of their illicit union. It was to be expected with a child born on the wrong side of the blanket. Her actions shouldn’t have been so shocking.
But that day was different. Her father had marched her upstairs and thrust a silver hand mirror at her.
“Tell me what you see.”
She took the hand mirror, the metal cold in her slick palm. Fear glued her tongue to the roof of her mouth.
Her father towered over her. “Go on.”
Her gaze darted from her father to her reflection. She swallowed hard. “I—I s-see blond hair. H-hazel brown eyes... like yours.”
The weak reminder that she was his get didn’t soften his ire.
“What else?” he snapped.
“My nose, my cheeks.”
“Do you know what I see? A bored and foolish girl who thinks she can live by her appearance alone.” Daylight from the window lit him sternly. “A girl who kisses lads without a thought to her future.”
She squeezed etched silver ’til it hurt. She ached to say she kissed lads because they paid attention to her. No one else did in their cold house, especially with her mother gone. The deeper, sharper pain had been overhearing her mother say she needed to sever past mistakes—her daughter included.
The world threatened to spin, but her father’s voice called her.
“Starting tomorrow, I will teach you to manage my medicinal elixirs.”
“Your elixirs?”
“Do the job well, and I’ll teach you to manage the rest of my affairs.”
“But I already keep the household ledger.”
