Page 18 of For a Scot's Heart Only
She was equally subdued, her rag dancing merrily as she dipped to wipe a display shelf. If her shop was empty, she’d give him an earful of business opinions about the brothel’s wasteful extravagance. Intuition told her the practical-minded Mr. West would listen. Even welcome it.
“You were the pinnacle,” he said.
“That would be a first—my directness appreciated.”
“You’ve many fine traits, Miss Fletcher. It would be a pleasure to discover each and every one of them.”
She raised her head slowly. The shipmaster’s baritone touched an unchaste chord, the sound of it like a ringing bell, which must be followed. His nearness was an invitation for her to make bad choices.
Oh, this was not good. Not good at all.
She righted a corset on display just because she needed to touch something.
“Mr. West...”
He held up a staying hand. “Forgive me, MissFletcher. I see that you are busy and I should get to the point of my visit.”
There was more?
She fiddled with a bow on the corset. Mr. West tucked his hat behind his back and took in the shop at large. Ladies were chattering. The doorbell jingled the arrival of two new shoppers, and Margaret was busy bundling Mrs. Rimsby’s latest purchase at the counter.
“Is there someplace we can talk freely?” he asked.
Her heart flip-flopped. “You meanalone?”
“We could take a walk outside.”
“It’s October.”
He steepled a brow. “What? Your legs don’t work in October?”
She dusted a new shelf vigorously. “They work just fine, but like the rest of me, they doubt the wisdom of carrying on with you.”
He grinned. “Carrying on, is it? Then, how about a pint in a public room? I know for a fact your mouth works.”
Brazen man. She was assembling an appropriate retort when Mr. West rested his oversized shoulder against the shelf—close enough that she bumped his biceps while dusting. Under her lashes, she studied the contoured swell covered by dark wool. What did he do to get arms like that? Careen ships single-handedly?
“If your visit is about last season’s bones and baleen, you don’t need to worry. I’m quite pleased with your goods.”
Wicked humor glinted in his eyes. “I’m glad you find them... satisfactory.”
Which told her all she needed to know. The manhad come to torment her. And if she wasn’t careful, she’d wipe the paint off her pretty shelves.
“Then I can’t imagine why you’re in my shop,” she whispered as if they were conspirators planning to steal the crown jewels.
“I’m here, Miss Fletcher, to discuss a business arrangement.”
She froze mid-swipe. “Anarrangement?”
Carnal thoughts splashed in her head, vivid enough to warm her skin. When a man came round, talking like that on White Cross Street, he was seeking a domestic to clean his house or a discreet partner for sexual pleasure. Did Mr. West decide she was fit for the latter? After last night’s escapade, he might. He certainly hadn’t come to her for waist-cinching stays. His midsection was flat as a board.
“For Neville Warehouse,” he said.
He wanted that kind of businessarrangement?Last night, in the gaming room, Mr. West had whispered something about helping her for a price.
She fixed her neckerchief, disappointed. How quickly she’d assumed sensual intent.
Because she wanted it. Badly. She eyed him, guilt pinching her lusty soul.
