Sloane usually tackled problems with a lion’s ferocity. He was known as Valiant amongst the agents of the Order. A man of unwavering courage. Surely he wasn’t intimidated by a wallflower.
“Have you not asked Miss Hart why she’s taken an interest in you?”
Sloane huffed and thrust his hand inside his coat pocket. He removed a letter and handed it to Finlay. “Read this.”
Finlay obliged, but not before noting the small sketch at the bottom of the page—a swallow perched on a dagger. It was an emblem used by Sloane’s ancestor.
“Miss Hart has something of great importance to discuss with you,” Finlay said, handing back the letter. “Yet you have refused to meet privately, she says.”
“I’ll not encourage the woman to make a damn fool of herself. Besides, she’s obviously discovered I’m related to Livingston Sloane and spends her days dreaming ab
out pirates. Is that not the case with all wallflowers?”
Finlay pursed his lips. “There’s something romantic about a wallflower desiring the love of a marauding pirate. Is Miss Hart unattractive?” He had that odd feeling again. Fate was about to whip up a storm.
“Not unattractive, no, but I need a woman with a mind for adventure, a wild sort made for sin, not a fern-hugging spinster with no notion of how to please a man.” Sloane huffed again. “Forget I mentioned it. No doubt you’re eager to return to your wife.”
His wife.
The words had heat swirling in his chest.
And then, as if on cue, Anne approached and offered Finlay a note. He peeled back the folds, a smile forming when he studied the single sentence written in feminine script.
He turned to Sloane. “If you’ll excuse me, my presence is needed elsewhere. No doubt we shall continue this conversation once you’ve agreed to meet privately with Miss Hart.”
Finlay did not wait to hear Sloane’s disgruntled reply. He had an engagement in the servants’ quarters. Indeed, while the guests in the drawing room were engaged in lively chatter, he went in search of the broom cupboard. After trying numerous rooms along the corridor leading to the kitchen, he pushed open the scullery door and found his wife waiting by the sink.
“Ah, Finlay. I thought you might help me with a dilemma.” Her sapphire blue eyes held more than a hint of mischief.
“And what dilemma is that?” he said, ignoring the shelves laden with plates and pots and pans. He couldn’t take his eyes off her—his wife. He loved the way her lilac gown hugged her hips, loved the way her breasts heaved with excitement. He loved her more than he could ever express in words.
“Would you consider this a broom cupboard or a storeroom?”
“Neither.” He suppressed a grin. “This is the scullery.”
“I see,” she said, feigning ignorance and confusion. She strode towards him, trailing her fingers seductively over his shoulder as she moved to lock the door. “And how does one make such a determination? Perhaps space is a factor. As you can see, we have brooms in here and an assortment of utensils. Yet it seems more spacious than the broom cupboard in the theatre.”
“That was a storeroom.” He knew, in a matter of minutes, he’d have her skirts bunched to her waist as he thrust inside her. Still, he enjoyed playing the game. “A man with a knee injury would struggle to make love in a cupboard.”
“Ah, I see.” She came up behind him and slipped her arms around his waist. “Could a man with a knee injury make love in a storeroom?”
“This is a scullery, not a storeroom,” he corrected, sucking in a breath when her hand slipped down to stroke his erection. “But who gives a damn?”
Sophia laughed. “My thought exactly.”