Page 35 of For a Scot's Heart Only
“We’ll have to improvise.” She ran her hand up and down the broom handle, checking for cracks. “Though I’m afraid this one is too short.”
Ranleigh’s brows arched. “Are you saying my broom is... inadequate?”
A bloom tingled her cheeks. “My lord, if it’s too early in the morning for visitors, then it’s too early for innuendo.”
“Oh, Miss Fletcher, it’s never too early for verbal indiscretion. It’s the second best of its kind.”
Her mouth quirked. “I can only imagine what you deem first best.”
His mouth quirked too. “I’m sure you do. Despite your puritanical headwear, you were curious about what was going on in here.”
His was a quiet challenge. She’d not back down from it.
“Fortunately for you, my lord, I was.”
He grunted, amused.
Never in her life did she expect to sit on the floor and flirt with the disheveled son of a duke. They were an exotic specimen. But this was a brothel, which served up all things unique, and was apparently Lord Ranleigh’s favorite haunt. Cecelia had called him a devil; Mary decided he was a delight. Dark, surly, and imperious, yes. Also, handsome, humored, and indulgent.
She set the broom on the floor between them, a small message. A boundary.
A spark lit Lord Ranleigh’s eyes. No doubt the debauched lord considered it a challenge.
She, however, carried on. “We’ll stagger the brooms, my lord. One on this side, one on the other. Keep them close together, and it should work.” She scrambled up and dusted off her gloves. “As the fountain rolls forward, brooms from the back are placed in front. It will be easier to push and kinder to the floor.”
Lord Ranleigh stood up, a slow nod coming.
“Well-done, Miss Fletcher. I recall a tale about an invading army moving siege machines over logs just like this.”
“It is the same principle.”
“Hopefully, you’re not planning to invade.”
“Not at half past ten.”
Ranleigh’s laugh was rough from smoke and a lack of sleep. An oddly appealing sound from a man she ought not to like. The moment was a small victory, she decided, having diverted his lordship from further innuendo. Nonetheless, a soft spot for the privileged lord was blossoming. He, in turn, watched her, curious. She circled the fountain, checking for loose chunks of plaster on the ground, and tossing any she found into the half-empty bottom pool.
At his quizzical look, she explained, “It’s the little things that cause the biggest problems, my lord.”
He studied her keenly, apparently not giving another thought to the glorious floor or the hours it took an army of craftsmen to create.
“Your accent. Do you hail from Scotland?” he asked.
“I was born in Edinburgh.”
“And... were you here two nights past?”
She stopped collecting the plaster bits. A tiny frisson warned her—for what, exactly, she couldn’t say.
“I was.”
“The woman in white. I remember you.”
“I believeglacialwas your sobriquet for me.”
His mouth curved a close-lipped smile.
“I should mind my manners,” he said in a tone that left no doubt he’d do nothing of the sort.
