Page 14 of For a Scot's Heart Only
Her shrug slight, Miss Fletcher let go of his coat.
“I am. As the only female corset and stays maker in London, women confide in me. Lots of women, and I’ve found their stories remarkably similar.”
He shifted off the wall, missing her hand on his coat.
“What do they say?”
Noise burst from the ballroom. A doe-eyed harlot and a barrel-chested man, his cravat fluttering loose,traipsed through the entry. A footman scurried from the shadows and shut the ballroom’s gilt-trimmed doors as though he could dam revelry’s tide.
Miss Fletcher watched the footman, raising her hood and hiding her glorious hair.
“Every day women come and go to my shop. None of them have any idea what others have told me. But mark me, sir. They’re honest. About half the women tell me they feign enthusiasm in bed, while others confess to lying limp as yesterday’s fish. The number who do find pleasure in the act is quite small, I’m afraid.”
He could feel a scowl growing.
“You’re telling me most women in London find no pleasure in bed sport?”
Her answer was a long-suffering exhale. “You’re a smart man, Mr. West. Do the math. Most of the wives who visit my shop say it’s their marital duty.” She eyed the frescoes almost bored. “You and I both know, for harlots, it’s a job.”
He glanced at the painted ceiling, irritated. Those frolicking women. Their smiles were overbright.
“What about your pleasure?”
The gruff question popped out. It bordered on too much, but this was an evening of excess. Miss Fletcher merely brushed back a blasted curl, which kept falling on her cheek.
“I really must go,” she said. “My friend is waiting.”
He tensed like a predator. “Your friend?”
She started walking backward, confident. There’d be no more womanly secrets, and no utterance on who waited for her.
“Promise me you will forget this night,” was her request.
“Our flirtation?” He advanced on her. “Not a chance.”
Her silk petticoats shushed prettily.
“It cannot happen again,” she said.
“Why not?”
The footman in pink-and-white livery whisked open the front door, doing his best to blend into the woodwork. The rain had stopped, a dense mist replacing it. Miss Fletcher swept into the night, and he joined her on the front step.
“Please, don’t follow me,” she said.
“You don’t want me to see you safely to your carriage?”
“I’m a capable woman, Mr. West. I’ve spent years seeing myself in and out of carriages.”
Therein was the problem—the corset maker didn’t need a man.
Years of good breeding and gentlemanly fiber demanded that he see her safely away. He searched the damp square for clues as to where she was going. Candle lamps hung from trees in the center garden. Carriages clustered the road outside Maison Bedwell, their lamps chips of light. Cloaked in black, Miss Fletcher would disappear into that darkness.
But his feet and hers weren’t moving.
She tipped her face to his. “Let me go.”
“I’m not stopping you,” he said.
