Page 38 of For a Scot's Heart Only
“Did you not just speak to me of the allure of my own clothes?” she asked. “An important detail, don’t you think?”
“And you sought this audience because you wish to improve the allure of my gaming room and thereby fatten my purse?”
His monotone bordered on mockery. She answered with pitch-perfect ennui.
“Do distracted men count their money, my lord?”
Silence followed—it was the sound of her verbal arrow hitting a bull’s-eye.
Lord Ranleigh studied her business card. “Very well, Miss Fletcher. What do you propose I should do about all those shabby silk stays?”
“Purchase new stays from my shop, of course. About twenty-five?”
A genuine smile wreathed his unshaved face, showing perfect teeth. Lord Ranleigh no doubt left a trail of broken hearts among society’s upper ranks when he graced them with his presence.
“What a bold woman you are.” He tossed aside her business card and swung his feet to the floor. “You’ve surprised me, twice in one day.” His gaze roamed appreciatively over her. “I was beginning to lose faith in the fair sex and your ability to capture my interest, but you, Miss Fletcher, have it despite your puritanical headwear.”
“Perhaps ifyouworked harder to captureourinterest, you might find an abundance of scintillating companionship.”
Her voice cut with precision. Lord Ranleigh’s smile was stuck as if his considerable arsenal—family name and wealth, his looks, and sardonic charm—had hit an impenetrable wall.
“Fractious words from the corset maker seeking my custom,” he reminded her.
“As you said, I am a bold woman, my lord.”
Lord Ranleigh angled his head as though to see her better. “And you think I need lessons on how to appeal to women.”
He addressed her in a lordly monotone, while captivation danced unabashed in his eyes. A parry to her verbal thrust. Intriguing. She was spine straight, her posture perfect, just as her mother had taught her.
“No, my lord. I think you forgot that we all come into the world the same way. It’s who you become afterward that matters.”
“Trying to reform me?”
She laughed, mostly to steady nerves threatening to snap in two. “Hardly. But know this: I’m not your entertainment, my lord. Should we conduct business, it will be on equal footing.”
Regrouping, he made a noncommittal noise. She took note of him, really a first. Something more than skin deep. True, even unwashed, he was perfection. His unshaved jaw a chiaroscuro, his nose an arrow, but his eyes were terribly intelligent. This frightened her. His constant keen assessment.
He offered the barest nod. “Make it thirty stays, Miss Fletcher, and we have a deal.”
“At twenty shillings each?”
“Eighteen apiece. That is the going rate for silk stays. Ten, if we’re talking about linen.”
She couldn’t help but smile. “Why am I not surprised that you know the market value of women’s undergarments?”
If this was a fencing match, it’d be a draw. Yet, victory’s rush surged inside her. She had to tamp it down to keep from leaping up like a twelve-year-old lass who’d bested the village bully.
“As you say, my lord, eighteen apiece. Have you a color preference?”
He shook his head, bored. “Do what you will. I’m sure your taste is impeccable.”
“I shall do my best.”
Lord Ranleigh fixed his gaze on her as though he was recalculating the sum of her parts. He was more sober-minded than the glib, self-important man she’d seen earlier. It was possible his mask had slipped and she was just now seeing him.
“Are you sure I can’t entice you with coffee or tea? We could sit more comfortably” —he gestured to a settee which faced a wide, marbled fireplace— “and you could instruct me on the finer points of becoming a better man.”
Her throat went dry. She dared not push her luck with a powerful man, who, she was sure, played the deepest of all games. As owner of Maison Bedwell, he had to have knowledge of the secret society. He might even be in the coded ledger, which sent a warning down her spine.
