Portrait of a Scotsman (A League of Extraordinary Women, #3)

by Evie Dunmore

“It’s a unique piece,” the man added. “I’m aware,” she snapped. “Meissen, and a limited edition from 1714.” Surprise sparked in his eyes, there and gone in the split of a second.

Her lips were still tingling from his kiss; her left palm still stung from the collision with his cheek.

She had tasted sweet, a hint of sugared tea mixed into the flavor of the rain on her skin. Her scent still clung to him; he thought he could smell roses whenever he moved.

And while she liked her dresses frilly and her novels swoony, Hattie wanted something different for her art. . . . She wanted. . . . She supposed she foremost wanted.

she was for a moment tempted to say that she knew things about Mr. Blackstone. She knew his clean scent and the taste of his lips. She knew his kiss was commanding and that his chest felt solid as a wall against her breasts.

“It matters not to me either way—no one person is worth dying for.” She looked at him very earnestly. “I’m terribly sorry this is the case for you, sir.” He felt winded then, as though he’d abruptly run out of breath.

But perhaps every woman had known a moment when she felt as though she were drowning, and the only comfort was that there could be some beauty, some dignity, in that, too.

It seems that labor, once it crosses the door into a home, is magically transformed into a priceless act of love or female duty—meanwhile, women’s hands are raw from very real chores.”