Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress

by Theresa Romain

  Her breasts felt sensitive, full and eager for touch within her frail pink bodice. She drew in a deep breath which did nothing to calm her, then turned away. Eyes alighting on the basin atop the desk, she asked, “Have you finished with this water?”

  When he answered in the affirmative, she stretched forward to tip the basin’s contents out the window, imagining that her fluttering uncertainty sluiced down to earth with the water. She then handed Joss the broad stoneware bowl. Eyeing the ceiling, he carried the basin to a particular spot and set it on the floor.

  “The ceiling sometimes drips at this spot,” he explained. “The basin will catch it.” When he faced her again, he added, “I do apologize for my unruly appearance when I greeted you.”

  “It was an unexpected eyeful, but you carried it off well. As you and I both know, you are a paragon of masculinity.” She paused but could not suppress her smile. “You have now apologized twice for your state at the time of my unexpected arrival, which is more my fault than yours. I am beginning to wonder, Joss, if a guilty conscience plagues you.”

  “Many things plague me, my dear fake widow. But a guilty conscience is not generally one of them.”

  She had just spoken his name, and suddenly she wanted him to call her by nothing but her own. “Please don’t call me that anymore.”

  “What? ‘My dear fake widow’?”

  “Yes. If you say it again, I shall throw you out the window after your shaving water.”

  Drawing close to her, he looked down at her with a smile. Oh, she had kissed those incorrigible lips, had kissed them as though he held all the air she needed, all the warmth she craved. “You don’t believe me?” she said, a bit breathless. “I will. I’m horribly strong.”

  “Oh, I know you are. You’ve grabbed at me more than once, you wicked woman. I was just getting a look at the dimensions of the window. It’s rather small; I don’t think you’ll be able to stuff me through the frame. So sorry.”

  He remained near her, fingertips resting lightly on the edge of the desk. His nails were short and blunt, his hands darkly tanned. When he stood this close, she could breathe in his sandalwood again; just a hint of it made her skin tingle, wanting more of his kisses. Anywhere. Everywhere.

  Which made her heart pound with fear. You are so close to losing yourself.

  Augusta wasn’t sure where to look. Her eyes fastened on the window muntins, but then she didn’t want to seem as though she was self-consciously avoiding the sight of Joss, so she looked at the grate of the fireplace tucked near one corner. Coals had fallen low, casting little warmth and light. Across the room, a large trunk had been shoved against the wall. Joss had left the shaving kit atop it, a hint of unexpected intimacy. Above the trunk, a glass in a tarnished silver frame hung on the wall. No doubt it had once been lovely, but it was now cracked horizontally, fragmenting anything reflected in its depths.

  Besides this, there was only a bed stretched against the wall opposite the door. And near her stood Joss, his head almost touching the sloping ceiling. Looking down at her as though waiting for a verdict.

  “Do sit,” she said.

  One of his black brows arched. “I presume you do not intend for me to drop into your lap. Will you be scandalized if I sit on the bed?” When she shook her head, he seated himself on the jewel-blue quilt. Boots braced on the floor, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the hard line of his thighs. “I realize this room is not as lovely as your lodgings in Queen Square. I will do you the credit of assuming you realize that too.”

  “It’s not the same sort of space. But—I like it. Everything in this room serves a purpose.”

  Coffee-dark eyes studied her. “If you say so. To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

  “I wondered how your meeting with Lord Chatfield went. I came to see if all was well.”

  “We talked about you a great deal, if that’s what you want to know.”

  This surprised a laugh from her. “Yes. That’s what I was wondering.”

  Does he blame me or think me foolish or wrong? Do you? What do you think of me? Her lips parted, but the questions died unspoken. Good or bad, she was not ready for the answers.

  It’s not the answer that matters, only the question. Sitting in the corner of her father’s study with a bit of pencil and paper and ears open for knowledge, she had so often heard the marquess speak those words. Her father always laughed his big laugh and told Chatfield the answer mattered plenty if it could be turned to a profit. And often it could: a sweet-scented profit in rose extracts and spices and the smooth oil from sheep’s wool.

  In this case, Chatfield was right. The questions mattered very much, for they proved that she faulted herself even if others did not.

  “He knows a terrifying amount,” Joss said. “About everything going on around him, and many things that are now. I believe, one way or another, he will solve Sutcliffe’s problem. Which will, of course, solve mine.”

  With an effort, she set aside her troubled thoughts. “That is good news, then.”

  “Probably so, yes. I must thank you for giving me the name of someone so capable. Only you must tell me what would make you feel properly thanked. You greet your callers with capons and biscuits; I greet mine with old shaving water.”

  “A bit of novelty is never amiss.” She propped one of her elbows on the desk, then rested her temple on her upraised hand. Her free hand explored the items on the desk: the quills he used to write in that strong black script; an ink bottle capped and uncapped by his careful fingers. A stub of a candle, a stick of red sealing wax. Everyday items, all touched by Joss. Now touched by Augusta.

  A small thing to notice or to care about. But she had meant what she said: everything here was so real. Joss had a purpose. He knew, always, what he need do next.

  “I don’t need to be thanked,” she said low. “But if it’s all right with you, I would like to stay here for a short while and be Augusta.”

  “Were you concerned that you might become someone else?”

  “Yes. Or—maybe concerned that I would not. I’m not sure how to tell.” She lifted her head, then traced an ancient scar in the wood of the desk. “Every caller for Mrs. Flowers requires me to lie more and say less. I can’t say anything that’s true of my real self; I have to be so careful. And so I wind up saying nothing and smiling like a doll.”

  “Dear me. It sounds as though you are telling me that adopting a false identity has constrained you. But that cannot be true, because Mrs. Flowers was to free you for sin and scandal.”

  “Even sinners must take an occasional break for conversation.” Her retort lacked heat. Just as Mrs. Flowers’s conversation lacked interest, or the spice of sin or scandal. “I admit you were right. Does that gratify you? Mrs. Flowers is not the solution to…well, to anything.”

  “Ah, but I wasn’t right.”

  Augusta’s eyes opened wide, only to see Joss shake his head. “I once informed you that Mrs. Flowers was still you. But now I don’t think she is. She’s you with all the most interesting parts stripped away.”

  Augusta picked up the stick of sealing wax, digging her thumbnail into the soft, red surface. “I disagree.”

  Mrs. Flowers was the best parts of Augusta. The untroubled parts. That was the problem, though: there wasn’t enough of her to make a whole person.

  She flicked a bit of wax free to the floor and scooted it aside with her boot.

  “You are certainly free to disagree,” Joss replied. “But it doesn’t change my mind. Here, stop spoiling my wax.” Leaning forward, he plucked the stick of wax from her fingers and tossed it back onto the desk, where it rolled against a small brown glass bottle. “What I mean is, Miss Meredith is the one who talks about business and admits to having scandalous urges.”

  “I most certainly did not admit—”

  “And,” Joss added, “Miss Meredith is t
he one who offered me the names of four men who might help me. She did so out of a sense of obligation, I grant you, but still, the result will be positive. By contrast, Mrs. Flowers can do nothing but make herself invisible and act as though her ears are full of cotton wool.”

  The brown glass bottle on the desk was pretty, and she turned it with gentle fingers. “The men of Bath must like that sort of thing. I’ve never been so popular in my life, though as they don’t know me, it’s no real compliment at all.”

  “I’m not from Bath.”

  She looked up sharply, expecting to see the mocking look on his face again.

  But instead he looked wistful. The way she had always felt standing at the edge of a London ballroom, her hair too bright and her clothing too ornate. As though there were a plate-glass window between them and what they wanted. Close enough to touch, yet impossible to lay hands on.

  “I’m not from Bath,” he said again. “Perhaps that is why I greatly prefer Miss Meredith. The men of Bath are sheep, and they like a woman as gentle as they.”

  “But I am not gentle.”

  “No, you are not, Augusta Meredith. Nor am I. So.” He lifted his hands, ticking off points on his fingers. “You don’t want to be recognized as Miss Meredith, and you don’t want to be courted as Mrs. Flowers. But you created her so that you might be free of—what bothered you in London.”

  “Right.” She pressed at her temple with the heel of her hand, as though the pressure might crush her dark thoughts. “I did. I did want that.”

  But it had not worked. It could not. She should have known that as soon as she caught herself blurting her secrets to Josiah Everett, desperate for someone to know what she had done—desperate to shed any secret, even the smallest one she kept.

  Instead, she was more trapped than ever, cautious around old acquaintances, or chary of them. Bound within bonnets and simpering smiles, behind more and more and more glass. And the one man who knew the truth was the one with whom she could not, not take the chance of greater vulnerability. For Joss was not gentle, and he knew her well enough to break her to splinters.

  “You are still you,” he said. “Change does not come from without, does it? I suppose it would be ungracious to say ‘I told you so.’”

  “It would, because I have already admitted that you were right.”

  “True.” Joss rose from his seat on the bed. For a moment, Augusta thought he was reaching out for her; but no, he only lit a twisted paper spill from the low fire, then transferred the tiny flame to a lamp on the mantel. “So. You did not wish to entertain callers this afternoon. Why not plead a sick headache and stay in your chamber with a good fire and a laden tea tray?”

  She shook her head. She couldn’t explain that staying in her room, knowing a drawing room full of callers awaited below, was more lonely than being in true solitude.

  Instead, she snatched up a paper from the desk and fanned herself with it. “I feel a bit faint.”

  “Take off your cloak, then.” His tone was piqued, but when he stepped closer, the hands that teased free the knot at her neck were kind. “Wearing a wool cloak in a room this size. Honestly, woman. You must be broiling.”

  “I’m fine.” Without lifting her head, she raised her eyes to his face. The lamplight burnished his skin, throwing the angle of his cheekbone into sharper relief. The rest of him, like the room at the corners, fell into shadow. As Augusta shook free of the cloak, feeling hazy air brush at her arms and throat, the world grew a bit smaller. “I’m fine,” she repeated.

  “So you said. But I would believe you more if you said it less.” With one forefinger, he traced the line of her jaw, forcing her to look into his mahogany eyes.

  So deep, so clear. For a moment his gaze held hers, a moment that reminded her of his coat, their kiss, the way she had flung away control to settle into his arms. Lust tumbled hot in her belly; fear thumped in her chest. She wanted him, and she was very much afraid she would do anything to have him.

  “I shouldn’t have come,” she gasped, shoving back the chair. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I ought to go at once.”

  Rising to her feet, she snapped up the cloak. She bumped the leg of the chair with one of her boots and stumbled toward the door. Her vision was dim, or maybe it was only the ever-gray light outside. There was no sun. There was never a sun.

  “Wait,” came a voice that sounded distant. “Please, wait.”

  A hand caught her shoulder, gently but too firmly for her to shake free. “Augusta. Wait.”

  Before his door, her arms full of damp, wadded-up wool, she let her shoulders sag. She wanted him to let her run; she wanted him to turn her around and kiss her until she forgot herself again.

  He did neither, only rested his hand upon her. Not pulling or pushing, just…holding. “It’s nearly three o’clock, Augusta. Will you have dinner with me?”

  She dropped the cloak.

  He laughed. “It seems to be our fate today to drop whatever cloth we may be holding. But please, do me the honor. Something still weighs on your mind, does it not? I have found that such burdens seem lighter when one is well fed.”

  She turned to face him, and he stepped back, dousing the lamp and banking the coals in the fire. Through none of that did he look at her, but she felt he saw her all the same. Her, wanton and proud and afraid and ruthless. Fractured like the reflection in his cracked looking glass. He granted her time to decide on a reply.

  How sharp was his sincerity, as precise and unyielding as the cut of a diamond. Yet it was clear and beautiful, too. Could she confine their encounters to words, each meeting would be valuable. Precious. It was so strange and lovely to be told, and to tell, the truth.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I will go with you.”

  Thirteen

  “Sadly, capon is not available here,” Joss couldn’t resist teasing Augusta as they made their way to a corner table. “After becoming used to the fine dishes put forth by Lady Tallant’s cook, I do hope you will be able to find something acceptable to eat.”

  “I’ve no doubt I will,” she replied. “I am so tired of capon. And truffles and roe and potatoes and rosewater ice. Give me coarse brown bread and pigs’ trotters.”

  Joss laughed, ducking his head to avoid the low ceiling beam in the corner, and drew forth a chair for his dinner companion.

  The sleet had transformed again into drizzle by the time they reached the door of his lodging house, and the pair of them splashed through the sodden streets to the White Hart Inn, a stone cube of a public house across the road from the Pump Room. The White Hart was, as usual, swarming with foot traffic and new arrivals by carriage. It served as both a destination for travelers to Bath and a haven for those in search of a hearty meal. The crowded room steamed with wet cloaks and sodden boots, the smell of people and coal and the odd wet dog—and above all, of roasted meat and yeasty-sweet spilled ale.

  Sturdy and old and comfortable, the public room’s floor was made of wide planks, the once-rough wood tables smoothed over time by thousands of palms and plates. A wall of windows flanked the front entrance, allowing gray daylight to filter in. The low ceiling of the room caused voices to bounce and echo; the only way to be heard was to lean in close, to speak low.

  As Joss drew his chair closer to Augusta’s, facing out into the large room, he decided this was an enjoyable arrangement. “Do you have a preferred meal or beverage? The menu is limited, I do warn you.”

  “Whatever you think Mrs. Flowers would like.” She looked about with some curiosity.

  “As Mrs. Flowers would never gainsay any gentleman, I shall order whatever seizes my fancy.”

  She shrugged free from her long wool cloak, then drew off her gloves. “How I yearn to discover what seizes your fancy, Mr. Everett.”

  “Careful, careful. That sounds as though you’re pondering a spot of indecent talk. At least wait until you
have the excuse of a bellyful of spirits.” He raised his hand and a barmaid wandered over.

  “Small beer for the lady,” Joss said. “Ale for me. And two mutton dinners.”

  The thin young barmaid had a rushed, worn look, as though she had been working for so many hours that fatigue had sunk into her bones. When she looked at Augusta, though, her shoulders straightened and her tiredness seemed to drop away. “My lands.” Her light eyes wide, she dropped a curtsy. “Shall I get ye the private dining room, my lady?”

  Augusta’s brows knit with surprise; before she could reply, Joss spoke up. “This is quite all right. Thank you, miss.”

  Still staring at Augusta, the barmaid dropped another curtsy, then tucked a strand of dark hair under her mobcap and hurried off to fill the order.

  Augusta leaned toward Joss, her voice low in his ear, “‘My lady’? Why in heaven’s name would she call me that, and stare at me as though I had two heads?”

  “Not two heads, but probably the loveliest gown she’s ever seen.” Thus given permission to look her over, Joss studied the bits of Augusta he could see over the tabletop. Though her pale pink gown was of a simple design, its exquisite tailoring marked it as costly—short sleeves trimmed with a fold of satin, and more satin piping the low vee of her bodice above a red sash. With her bright hair and lily skin, she looked like a garden brought indoors. A startling, lovely picture at any season, but especially on a cold March day in the middle of a muddy city.

  At some point while he studied her, Augusta had picked up her gloves and, one finger at a time, began turning them inside out. “I didn’t realize it was anything special. My gown, I mean.”

  “That’s all right. The barmaid did think so.”

  This simple statement seemed to trouble her. She frowned at her gloves, worrying at their well-made seams and turning them right way out again, until the barmaid returned with two tankards. One for Joss, one for Augusta. She cast another longing look at the gown as she set down the beverages.

  “Miss,” Augusta faltered. She blushed, looking as ill at ease as Joss had ever seen her, then held out her ivory kid gloves. “These would look so pretty against your fair skin and dark hair. Would you care to have them?”