Page 40 of For a Scot's Heart Only
Blending into King’s Square, she was confident.
It never would.
Chapter Eight
Paper lanterns, a festive red, dotted the ballroom. Their haze bled into Mary’s velvet gown of the same shade. She stretched out her arm. Her skin tinted vermillion. It was hard to know where the light ended and she began. Everything drenched red. Jugglers roamed, tossing colorful balls. Nimble tumblers performed tooohsandahhs. Harlots, costumed as exotic animals, roved in and out. Lionesses and leopards, parrots and peacocks mostly.
A mesmerizing circus. Mary feasted on it.
Her companion for the night’s adventure was the league-approved Mr. Rory MacLeod. He’d cleaned up nicely in a gray coat, the wide cuffs unembellished. Despite the night’s trappings, MacLeod was not impressed.
“Why do nobs need entertainments like this to do the featherbed jig?” he asked.
She sipped champagne, standing in a forest of ferns and potted trees.
“It gives a certain feel.”
Not unlike her shop.Clever man, LordRanleigh. He understood the lure of setting and stage. With hispiles of money, his lordship could host lavish entertainments at the cost of men like Mr. West.
But how—or on whom—the shipmaster spent his hard-earned coin was not her business. He might very well fancy a Bedwell nymph.
Which left a burning twinge in her belly.
Less than an hour ago she’d spied Mr. West’s arrival through lush greenery. She’d pushed aside a palm frond and watched him hand over his greatcoat and hat to a servant, but no entry coins were paid. Interesting, that. Mr. West had taken a direct path to the gaming room, wearing a scowl and his tar-spattered jackboots. Had he come straight from Howland Great Wet Dock? By all appearances, he had. Most unusual, working this late.
She shouldn’t follow him and find out why.
Tell that to your thrumming pulse.
MacLeod was oblivious, thank goodness. He nudged his pint at the room, his Western Isles brogue unaffected by the drink.
“A bare-knuckle brawl. Now that’d be entertainment.”
“Because nothing says romance like a bloody drubbing.”
He jerked a thumb to the room at large. “You think this speaks to romance? Even a rough sod like me knows the difference between lust and romance.”
The glass to her lips, she hesitated. Exuberant bubbles popped under her nose. The gruff Highlander was full of surprises.
“It is the illusion of it,” she said.
“So why not spice it up with a few bouts?” MacLeod was wistful, eyeing the room. “All these fat culls... One fight and I’d be flush in the pocket.”
“Assuming you’d win.”
His blue eyes slanted at her. “I’d win.”
She shook her head, his confidence, stunning. “Beneficial for you, I collect, but hardly a segue to the business abovestairs. One needs a certain mood.”
Legions of women had confessed as much in her shop.
MacLeod snorted. “Women might. Not men.”
She sipped champagne, trying not to wonder if the scarred shipmaster preferred the illusion of romance or a straightforward tup to achieve his satisfaction. She eyed MacLeod, curious.
“Are you saying men don’t crave the fantasy? Ever?”
The Highlander took his time, swallowing ale.
