Storm & Shelter: A Bluestocking Belles Collection with Friends by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781393235842
Publisher: Bluestocking Belles
Published: 2021-04-12T14:00:00+00:00

Chapter 3

The handsome young Scotsman drank freely and deeply, refilling her glass, and she could see that he was willing himself to stay awake.

He did not appear to be a naïve man, or one of the countless fribbles that populated aristocratic circles. Perhaps he wasn’t an aristocrat at all, but just some wealthy man of trade’s sprout trained up to the air of command that was bred into the nobility.

No matter. Whatever his station in life, he was younger, and she was older. She had played this game more often, and, like any woman in a man’s world, for higher stakes. What one lacked in muscle, one must make up for in cleverness, including the skill of holding one’s liquor.

Besides, after spending yesterday morning diligently going through the Comte’s dun letters, deciding who might be paid and who she might tell to go to the devil when she left for France, she’d had a very long afternoon nap, anticipating a call to help offload the lugger. The perilous weather meant all hands had been needed. She was not so very tired.

The Scotsman, however, was dead on his feet. She could almost feel sorry for him. He was far from home, and had been traveling for several days. His neckcloth was limp, his cuffs soiled, his coat wrinkled. His boots, well and carefully crafted, if not by Hoby then by some equally fashionable bootmaker in Edinburgh, had not been properly polished in the last few days.

He’d shaved though, probably very early that morning, because a delicious dark stubble had sprouted along his strong jaws.

Did he have a razor in his interesting valise? She wouldn’t molest him, unless he thought to do the same to her. If it came to that, and she prayed that it wouldn’t, she would use her own blade and not some unfamiliar shaving instrument.

“Is this one of yer imports?” he asked, swirling the amber liquid. “It’s very good.”

His words stirred her out of her imaginings about handsome young men, and she realized she must manage the conversation else she’d slip into sleep, or perhaps something more inconvenient, without thinking.

The Comte had always succumbed to sleep when they’d conversed, no matter the topic. She must soothe this fine-looking and very fatigued man the same way.

Outside, the thunderstorm had moved on, and the rain pounded in a comforting downpour. With the warm fire, and the heavy blankets, and the sleeping dog, it was quite cozy.

But what to talk about? Most certainly not the free trade. It would be far too diverting to put him to sleep. Besides, she had no idea what he would do with the knowledge.

The countryside? She might slip and drop a hint about her home at Bloodmoor Hill.

She thought back to her time on the fringes of a London society that she’d found unbearably dull.

The weather.

“I am glad you are enjoying the brandy,” she said. “But I daresay you are not liking this weather. It is quite the worst storm in many seasons, people are saying.

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