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

by Evie Dunmore

The man was touching her. A man was touching her.

“Aye,” he murmured. “Then I’ll give you the tour, Miss Jones.”

His fingers curved around her nape, and then his mouth was on hers.

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.

Next she’d want the vote. She did, actually.

“I read an essay by John Dewey a little while ago. He argues that art is art only when it succeeds at creating a shared human experience—a communication, if you will—between the work and the audience. If it doesn’t, it’s just an object.”

Suitable for a female artist were the unspoken words. Her mood turned mulish.

She couldn’t write a line without making spelling mistakes and she couldn’t copy a row of numbers without switching figures around.

She had been relegated to the lovely spot when it had become clear that her brain was odd and that her interest in banking was limited.

=(

It is because of me.

This had been expected, for few things were more outrageous than women loudly demanding to be treated as people before the law.

“We kissed,” she said. “Each other.”

“They have a certain look about them when they enter a room full of Englishmen. A sharp glance in their eyes, like a broadsword at the ready to be drawn—You beat us at Culloden, it says, but our spirit remains unbroken.”

“They do say capitalism worships only itself.”

If he were to lean down, he’d be close enough to taste the corner of her mouth. He wanted to.

“Is there a difference, for a woman in my position?”

“I’m not in possession of a trust fund like Lucie. I don’t have a father like yours, who is content to remain a bachelor and to employ you as his assistant. I do know that I’m not suited for living as a spinster.”

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.

“Is it what you expected it to be?”

“She is better.”

“Why does the world insist that substance worthy of acclaim always comes in the shape of machinery or old men?” “In other words,” Blackstone said, “why is no one taking you seriously?”

“I should have you taken out the back and shot,”

“Give me one reason why not.”

“If Sir Bradleigh doesn’t offer for me now, I shall hate you forever,”

bitch

“Well, I’d rather we not both suffer needlessly when it could be only me.”

“It matters not,” he then said, “not to me.”

Three days was what Annabelle had negotiated with Montgomery, and Blackstone could hardly be more demanding than a duke.

she couldn’t help but think that this was how Persephone would be dragged into the underworld in 1880s London: not screaming, not twisting wildly, but painfully composed while Hades wore a velvet jacket.

Blackstone old boy STOP Heard you are to marry Miss Harriet Greenfield STOP Congratulations STOP May I humbly recommend “The Art of Begetting Handsome Children” to ensure connubial bliss STOP In emergencies and I cannot stress this enough say it through flowers STOP Yrs Ballentine

“It’s an urge,” she said. “Colors and patterns have an effect on me; it’s as though they stimulate my appetite, for lack of a better word. If I don’t engage, it begins to feel like a living thing beneath my skin. Well, I suppose that sounds hysterical—I assure you I’m not. Unfortunately, I’m not nearly as consumed by my art as I should be.”

“You needn’t lie to me, you know,” he murmured. “I know when you do, anyway. Just say no.”

he’s so sweet tho

Ah yes, he thought, because new brides crave to be bent over a divan and get their arses paddled.

yes please

“Lucie. He can do anything to me he wishes.”

Now she knew why girls were not allowed to feel anger—there was a reckless hope in it, and power. She would not loathe the compliant woman she had been this morning, oh no; she would direct this precious anger outward, and her gaze forward. Les rousses viennent de l’enfer—redheaded women are from hell. Lovely was dead. Enter the witch.

His wife hated him.

As if I could love you—as if anyone could.

Harriet had left her side of the mattress, possibly in search of warmth, and he had woken to the soft weight of her breasts pressed against his back. He had lain staring at the wall, the world reduced to the sensation of her breath brushing over his neck in gentle puffs.

“Much that I despise,” he said hoarsely, “and all that I desire, meets in you. And it frustrates me beyond reason.”

“I don’t know how to do this right,”

“I don’t know what to make of you. I know I’d rather my skin burned than yours.”

“I used to be one of them,” he said. “I’m Argyll mining stock.”

Then you come back for me, she had told him and stroked his hair, you come back a fine man.

“The lords you have ruined,” she said slowly. “You did not choose them at random, did you?” “No.”

“I’ll never go back to the pits,” he said, and pointed at her. “I’ll never again degrade myself for food; I’ll never again be held in the same regard as a sewer rat.”

as you should

Somehow, no sarcastic answer came to mind. Instead, his throat felt strangely constricted as he watched her sort the unloved pebbles into an orderly row. He was in dangerous territory. Like a hunter who had been too focused on chasing his prey and suddenly found himself on very thin ice indeed. Dangerous, because the legends about the selkies never ended with the trapped female living out her days with the man who had stolen her. Inevitably, someone always found her skin, and she would slip it on and leave her husband and family to return to the sea without a backward glance.

my man’s falling hard

Perhaps she should kiss him.

yes

Any remotely self-determined woman should claim control over the curve of her own mouth.

“Do you own a kilt?” she asked.

“Yes,”

“Why did you not wear it for our wedding?”