Page 56 of A Scot Is Not Enough
She nursed her tankard with both hands and stared at the barrels. Flies were buzzing a lazy trail, one barrel spout to another, while the barkeep swatted them with a rag. She hoped Mr. Sloane would leave; she hoped with equal force that he would stay.
“A fine day for cricket,” Mr. Sloane said. “If I knew there was such excellent scenery, I wouldn’t have missed this summer season.”
She hummed dismissively and took a sip. If she tipped her head just so, the brim of her bergère hat blocked most of him from view.
“Tell me, is this a new mode of flirtation? Our speaking in profile?” he asked.
“Why do you care? Flirtation does nothing to advance your ambitions.”
“Ah, you wound me.”
To which she snorted indelicately.
Mr. Sloane’s low laugh stroked her skin and his elbow bumped hers. How companionable they were: her staring straight ahead, slinging weak insults, and Mr. Sloane deflecting them as if this were a delectable game. She traced the rim of her mug, aware that he held all the metaphorical cards, while she held none.
“You might be pleased to know that I had an enchanting time with a woman yesterday,” he said. “Exemplary flirtation was involved.”
“‘Exemplary’? Are you seeking high marks?”
“I strive to.”
“And how does a man of your intellectual stature go about doing that?”
“With a boat race followed by a promenade through unsavory alleys crammed with litter, all to take in Southwark’s derelict warehouses.” He shrugged. “You know, all the entertainments women dream about.”
She giggle-snorted and dipped her head. Her bergère hat was an elegant shield.
“I’m sure you swept her off her feet.”
“Except I didn’t.”
The tenor of his voice dipped, quiet and sincere.
“I believe I hurt the gentlewoman in question and for that...” he said. “For that, I am gravely disappointed.”
“Disappointed, Mr. Sloane?”
His feet shifted. “I am deeply saddened to have caused her pain when all I want to do is make her happy.”
A pang bloomed in her chest.Why did he say that?Men didn’t try to make her happy. Most wanted under her skirts, a smaller number wanted genuine commerce with her, but none ever concerned themselves with her happiness.
Until now.
Lashes low, she tried so very hard not to care.
“I am sure the gentlewoman in question will forgive you.”
His elbow rubbed hers. “Does she?”
She tipped her face to his. Bronze eyes, tender and penetrating, held her in place. She couldn’t run if she tried.
“She does,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
His boyish grin was glorious. “I am gratified to hear it. Because I was hoping you could help me.”
“How could I help a gentleman who has everything?”
“You could educate me. Let’s say, how I might go about winning a particular woman’s affections.”
