Page 57 of A Scot Is Not Enough
Hazy sensations fluttered up and down her limbs, sweet little butterflies of happiness. Oh, this was no good, this joy bursting like spring inside her.
“Her affections?” She took a sip.
“I’ve tried gifts, I should sayagift. Purely to appeal to her sense of humor and wit.”
She fought a smile and lost. “A good start, certainly.”
He hummed thoughtfully. “In reading the signs—”
“Mr. Sloane, women are not maps,” she said withmock disapproval. “Nor do we post road signs on how to win our hearts.”
“Which is why I’m here... with you.”
She sucked in a deep breath afraid something awful might happen—like a kiss. She desperately wanted to know the taste and feel of his lips on hers. She had wanted to know since the moment he’d saluted her cleavage.
“You are following a woman who gave you her back. Twice, in two days. A clear message to leave her alone.”
The purr in her voice said anything but.
His laugh scraped seductively. “You see? This is why I could learn a great deal under your tutelage.”
“I agree. You could learn a great deal...underme.”
Lust pooled darkly in Mr. Sloane’s eyes. They were intimate, a breeze wrapping her hems around his leg, despite a lively crowd imbibing under the same tent and more liveliness on the grounds beyond.
“I thought you giving me your back was one of our unconventional greetings,” he said gruffly. “We excel at those, you and I.”
Her laugh was soft and her legs puddling wax. His wit gentled her better than summer sunshine. But why was he trying again? They were a mistake. A truth her tingling skin didn’t question. Her rampant pulse didn’t. For a woman fluent in flirtation, she was deplorably set back.
Mr. Sloane was not a man to be managed. He was too smart for that. But she did love the barrister’s slightly stodgy patina, which made her fascination with him so flummoxing. They were ill-suited, and there was the fact that he’d come up short in gettingher into Swynford House. The man couldn’t advance her cause. As undersecretary to the undersecretary to the Duke of Newcastle, he wasn’t well-funded, though silly considerations like money and position did not enter their equation. Therein was the crux.
What was the nature of their equation?
A yell came from the pitch: “Sloane! Come toss around the ball.”
Mr. Sloane looked to his caller, a hand up to keep the caller at bay.
“My friend Burton,” he explained quietly. “The man lives and breathes cricket.”
Cecelia rested an elbow on the bar, a blatant attempt at nonchalance which had fled her. “Fortunately for you, Mr. Sloane, I have a soft spot for clever men with fine eyes and fine arses.”
His mouth dented sideways.
She laughed. “You’re actually blushing. I didn’t think there was a male over twelve years of age left in London who could.”
“You own the skill to make me do that... and other reactions.”
His mouth was close. Not kissably close, but near enough to tempt. Near enough to see the fine grain of his skin, to touch the shape of his lips, and brush her fingers over day-old whiskers framing his mouth. A kind breeze stirred the black silk binding his queue. Revelers drifted from the tent, clearing a wide sightline for Mr. Sloane’s friend. Tall and rangy, his sleeves rolled up, Mr. Burton tossed a red ball up and down.
“Your friend is watching you,” she said.
“No, he is watching you, as am I.”
Her heart commenced its climb back into her throat. Especially when Mr. Sloane planted his elbowon the bar, his eyes intense, his smell masculine and clean.
“There is one thing I must know,” he said.
“What?”
