Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress Read online

  Sutcliffe never seemed to realize that the joke could be on him. Life was, in itself, joke enough.

  Joss forced a smile. He always made himself smile when Sutcliffe poked at the bruises of his birth, heedless of their shared ancestry. There was no chance Sutcliffe would ever stop; it wasn’t in his upbringing to think Joss could be offended, especially by the truth. So Joss had long ago decided to act as though he wasn’t bothered a bit.

  Sometimes it worked. Tonight, with Lady Tallant putting on a brave face and Augusta wearing a puzzled one, the heedlessness rankled.

  So he drank his wine under Sutcliffe’s approving eye, and looked forward to the date when his eternal penance would end.

  Ten

  When the dinner guests bade the women farewell, Augusta watched them descend the steps of Emily’s Queen Square house. Ducking into the shadow of the stone-trimmed doorway, she peered after them as the two tall figures made their way down the pavement to the west.

  The afternoon had grown late, and the sun was hanging low in the blue-gray sky. Lord Sutcliffe’s velvet coat caught the light in burnished flicks of purple each time he gesticulated broadly. At his side, Joss’s back was stern and broad, his strides measured. Once, he drew his cousin away from the muddy street. At the foot of the steps to the next house, he doffed his hat, then the men parted.

  As Joss turned back the way he had come, Augusta pressed herself against the black front door. With a single step, a single press of the door handle, she could be back in the house. Resting or changing her gown for the theater or chatting with Emily, who had been quiet for the remainder of the meal.

  She could do any of those things. She should do all of them.

  But instead, she stepped forward. “Mr. Everett.”

  Joss squinted below the brim of his hat, then again tipped it. “Mrs. Flowers. Did we leave something behind?”

  “No.” She descended the stone steps, hugging herself tightly. Her thin cotton gown was no barrier to the breeze—not that furs and cloaks and gloves seemed ever to warm her. “May I be quite frank with you?”

  “Of course you may. Though perhaps you should employ your frankness indoors on such a chilly day.”

  “It doesn’t matter; I’m always cold. Let us go to the mews to talk.” Behind the long row of houses, Bath’s wealthy kept their carriages and horses. Augusta enjoyed walking the mews, out from under the eyes of household servants. If one took a few carrots or apples, the horses would stretch out their beautiful heads for a treat, soft muzzles like velvet as they lipped the food from her hand.

  Today she had nothing with her. She hadn’t even worn sturdy boots, and her slippers were sure to be ruined—if not by mud, by coarse straw and droppings. Not that it mattered. The heiress to Meredith Beauty could always buy more.

  Joss regarded her with some skepticism, then fell into step beside her. Once more he turned his steps westward, passing the doorway to Lord Sutcliffe’s house without a sideways glance. “Even so. By now, you must be even colder than usual,” he said. “Here.”

  Before she could stop him, he shrugged free of his coat and dropped the heavy garment on her shoulders. Jaw set, he tugged at the lapels until they met just below her chin. “Hold fast, now.”

  So quickly and efficiently did he disrobe, enfold her, and stride on that Augusta could only trot after him, her mouth struggling to shape some appropriate reply.

  You shouldn’t have was perfectly true, for a gentleman ought never to appear in his shirtsleeves in public. As he had drawn a few steps ahead, she could see Joss’s sleeves rippling in the breeze, the thin cotton outlining the hard planes of his forearm. His black waistcoat, dark breeches, and tall boots framed his figure, capable and swift, stark against the silvery sky.

  Augusta clutched tightly at the lapels of the coat, letting the rough fabric scratch at the bare skin of her hands and arms. Despite the breeze, she caught the scent of sandalwood from the fabric, and she breathed in deeply. “Thank you.”

  His steps slowed, though he did not turn. “You’re quite welcome” was tossed over his shoulder, though the tone of it sounded more like I had to, because if you freeze out here and expire, I will probably be blamed.

  Joss paused at the end of the square’s long facade. Turning toward Augusta, he said, “Will this spot do for whatever you would like to tell me? You need not ruin your slippers along with your health.”

  “The latter is fine, and the former is of no concern to me.” And she led him through a gap to the mews serving the houses.

  Compared to the aggressive grandeur of the facade, the mews seemed almost tumbledown. The first stables had been built of sturdy stone with tile roofs, but offshoots and lean-tos and alcoves had been added over time, a mixture of brick and wood. Rain barrels caught the constant drip from drizzle-damp eaves. Hay lay in great piles under shelter, and the smell of mucked-out stalls and the earthy scent of horses overlaid the sandalwood Augusta had just been breathing. Most of Bath society rested at this hour, and the streets were quieter than usual. In the mews, animal whickers and the occasional voice of a groom made a low counterpoint to the breath of the wind.

  “What is this all about, then?” Joss looked down at Augusta. “You did once promise me not to engage in hen-witted espionage capers. Now I am forced to strip to my shirtsleeves to keep you from catching a dreadful chill. Your manner indicated some urgency, and your level of dress—or undress—even more so.”

  “I can always tell,” Augusta replied, “when you are getting ready to say something clever and cutting to me, because one of your brows shoots up. And though I do thank you for the loan of your coat, you offered it; I did not request it. And I would greatly appreciate you waiting until I say something horrid before you are horrid to me.”

  He poked at his wayward brow, frowning. “Ah, but then you’d always have the advantage.”

  She settled deeper into the warm wool of his coat. “Must someone always have the advantage?”

  “Only someone who has always had the advantage would ask that question.”

  “I’ll be brief, then, so as not to offend your ears with excessive privilege. Here is what I wanted to say. Thank you for dining with us today. Thank you even more for taking trouble to keep the secret of Mrs. Flowers. And I’m sorry your cousin isn’t more cordial to you.”

  She tugged the coat off and held it out to him. “That’s all. Good day to you.”

  He didn’t reach out his hand; instead, he tilted down his chin and fixed her with his dark eyes. “Why do you say such a thing about Lord Sutcliffe? All the world finds him pleasant.”

  Her arm tiring, she pulled it back and folded the coat into a bundle. The sharp, smoke-sweet hint of sandalwood caught her again, scattering her thoughts for a moment before she managed a reply. “He was pleasant, yes. Although he asked so many questions about family, he never referred to you as his cousin. It surprised me, especially since you work with him daily.”

  “Ah. Well. A bit of distance can sometimes do as much good as a medicinal drink.” His mouth twisted.

  “Or medicinal grasses?”

  “Or those, yes. Lord Sutcliffe is concerned with his health,” Joss said.

  “But not with yours?”

  Joss pulled off his hat and worked the brim with his gloved fingers. Short-cropped and slightly curling, his hair ruffled in the breeze. “It’s not his job to worry about me. It’s my job to worry about him.”

  As an orphan and only child, the idea of a family member who worried over her was appealing. “You must be important to him, then.”

  “Oh, probably. But in a way no more meaningful than a child thinking it needs a sweet or a boat. I’m the person who helps him achieve his whims. Anyone else could become as efficient in time; I simply have the advantage of long practice.”

  He spoke with a flat precision that seemed to press Augusta down. More than once, he
had hinted at a fraught relationship with his cousin and employer, though his words had danced by, glanced off whatever mirrored surface Augusta had sought to become that day. “I’m sorry, Joss. I did not realize that was the case.”

  “I did not want you to realize. Damnable pride, you know. Though I wouldn’t have minded if you asked.” He looked up at the sharp line of the house roofs looming behind the mews. “You never asked.”

  “I was trying to be kind. I didn’t want to ask anything more of you than you wanted to give.”

  “Then why, when we first met in the assembly rooms, did you not simply believe I would keep your secrets and walk away?”

  The main reason, of course, was that she couldn’t bring herself to. She had not dared trust him, but she also hadn’t wanted to leave him. His familiarity was a relief, an escape into the honesty she had begun to crave.

  Yet Mrs. Flowers was supposed to be the escape. Augusta was farther than ever from slaking her grief, from finding the peace she sought.

  She clutched his coat closer, a wall of masculine cloth and scent that made her throat dry, her nipples as tight from eagerness as from cold. “I would have walked away if I could.”

  “I see,” he said quietly. And she wondered just how much he saw.

  “Just—just for tonight,” she stammered, “you could leave Lord Sutcliffe behind. Come to the theater with Lady Tallant and me.”

  He lifted both brows. Was he about to let fly two cutting and clever remarks? Augusta parried. “Only for business, of course. The countess has taken a box with no view of the stage at all, but one can spy on the entire audience without being seen. Perhaps you might even spot another person from your list.”

  “Your list,” Joss corrected, donning his hat again. “Naturally I assumed the invitation was for business, my dear fake widow. Alas, I cannot accept for other reasons of business. This evening I am to meet with your Lord Chatfield. Of a sudden, I require the aid of a man who knows things more than the commerce of a man who buys things.”

  “He’s not my Lord Chatfield.” In a slide of disappointment, Augusta fumbled for words. “That is—he buys things, too. And he knows things. So you might be able to sell things and learn things.”

  Surely no one had ever babbled out the word things so often in a single sentence. Again, she held out his coat, hoping she would feel less muddled without the distraction of the sandalwood scent, the dark wool rubbing at her arms.

  This time he accepted the coat from her, though he only held it in a folded bundle as she had. “If you’ve no great desire to attend the theater, would you care to come with me this evening when I call upon Lord Chatfield? It might do you good to speak to someone else who knows Miss Meredith.”

  “No. I couldn’t.” She shook her head, folding her bare arms tightly under her breasts. Let him make a joke about her dockyard. Let him.

  But he did not; his eyes looked tired. “Why could you not? What would be so terrible if a man who knows things learns you are going under a false name? People who know things are generally discreet.” He paused. “Or they are blackmailers. One or the other.”

  “No, I’m sure he’s not a blackmailer. I—he—” Augusta pressed her lips together. “I don’t know. I think—he would be disappointed to know I had set aside my parents’ name. He knew them quite well, you see.”

  These last words brought the press of tears to her eyes, but she held them back. After the grinding smiling, dinner conversation—too much worry over Emily, too many secrets to keep—the boulder of grief was unsteady. She could not let it rock anymore; she could not bear the idea of another fall, another grueling tug upward.

  But a few images flitted into her mind, summoned by the mention of her family. Her mother’s hair, just as red as Augusta’s, though in the last year of her life, it had become threaded with gray strands. Her father—not quite as tall as her mother—had the sort of laugh that made everyone around him happier. His hair was thin, his middle thick, his eyes wistful. How they had wanted a large family.

  If they’d had one, Augusta would never have been left alone.

  And maybe she would have been wiser, too. With more people to love her, surely she would have been less desperate to dive into the arms of a liar like Colin Hawford.

  Joss shook out his coat, holding it up as though fitting it to an invisible companion. “What do you fear? That Chatfield will fault you for lying about your name? Or that he would divine the scandalous reason why?”

  “Yes,” she said numbly. “Yes, all of it.”

  His hands sank, the coat brushing the muddy straw beneath their feet. “I already know those things, yet I can tolerate your presence.”

  For the first time all day, her smile felt real. Instead of folding her face into false lines, it slipped cleanly over her features. A little frisson ran through her body, but it didn’t feel cold. “That was rather kind. Did you mean it to be so?”

  “Did you think it was? Dear me. It wasn’t even that kind. I ought to be more aggressive with my polite comments.” The smile he returned to her looked a little…shy.

  Shy? Truly? But so it appeared; his fine mouth curved gently, his deep, black-lashed eyes caught her gaze, then flicked away. He picked up his coat to a safe height and brushed at its hem, then folded it up again. It seemed he would not wear it if she would not.

  “I’m not going to make you another indecent proposition,” Augusta said. “I’ve too much pride for that.”

  She had to say it, hoping to convince herself—because more and more often, she thought of touching his skin, tracing the hard lines of his features, clutching him close—close enough to make her forget, close enough to chase away everything dark.

  But he could not do so, she knew, for he was too much like her. He had lost his parents; he had tried to win the heart of a cold lover. He kept his cousin’s secrets, and a man who kept secrets knew how hard it was to force them down.

  “I am glad you have too much pride,” Joss said. “Because I’ve too much pride to take anything from you.” He drew closer, no more than a hairbreadth away, and added, “I should like to give you something, though.”

  He didn’t ask if she would permit that, or she might have forced herself to skitter away before he could bend his head to hers. Flirtation was about control, and lust about its loss—and oh, this was lust; she practically shivered with it, with wanting to close the distance between them. When her lips parted, her breath turned to frost in the air.

  He didn’t kiss her right away. Instead, he brushed back a fallen lock of her hair, and she realized she had run outside with no bonnet as well as no cloak. Then he wrapped the coat around her, almost holding her in an embrace as he caught up its edges.

  “My dear fake widow,” he murmured, and brushed her lips with his. Just a sweet flutter, almost like a chance encounter between mouths. Light and lovely and over in an instant.

  It was little enough; it was far too much. All the hesitancy in her crumbled, and she grabbed for him, clutching at his shoulders, stretching up to her toes to crush her mouth against his with a graceless clash. With such force did she fling herself that he stumbled back, almost losing his balance and his grip on the coat. When he caught his footing, she was pressed heavily against his chest before stumbling back. His fists, still gripping the coat around her, settled between her breasts, and she choked to hold back a little moan.

  “My dear God,” he murmured against her lips. “I require more arms.” His hands held her tight within the coat. Up and down, he rolled his balled fists gently, seeking the curve of her breasts through the heavy fabric. “Have I truly never been kind to you? Are you quite sure I have never complimented your appearance?”

  “I don’t know,” Augusta said, letting her eyes fall shut. “I don’t remember anything right now.”

  Thank God—it was the oblivion she had hoped for, though she knew it would be fleet
ing. Again, he brushed her mouth with his, gently, yet she could feel the coiled tension in his hands. He was hungry, he was eager, he was fighting with himself for control.

  She began to thaw at the edges; her fingers and toes, though ungloved and shod in thin slippers, were the first freed from ice. Nothing could warm her enough to reach her heart—but to have her hands back, her feet back, was more than she had felt in almost two years. With her hands no longer frozen, she could reach out for him; with her feet no longer numb, she could step toward him.

  And then there was no distance between them, nothing at all, as her hands fought free from the cloaking coat and encircled his hard waist. He moaned and opened his mouth to hers, brushing her tongue with his own, breathing her in. She breathed him in too, drinking and tasting him. He was wine-sweet and strong, and so determined to make her warm. If they had enough time, he could melt more of her with the heat of his hands. His lips. The whole breadth and length of his body. Already, her core was damp with desire.

  A shrill whistle rang high through the mews, followed by applause.

  Augusta’s eyes snapped open. Not ten yards away in the shelter of a lean-to, a stable boy in rough work clothing grinned fit to bust his young face. “Don’t let me stop ye, govs!”

  Joss stepped back, chuckling. “Sorry, lad. Go to the theater if you want a show.”

  He slid an arm around Augusta’s shoulders in a gesture that felt more like politeness than passion, turning her in the direction from which they’d come. “That was not quite what I meant to do, my dear fake widow, though I shan’t apologize.”

  “Nor shall I.” Augusta could feel the blush rising in her cheeks, not from embarrassment but from shock at how quickly she had forgotten herself. Where was the control she sought? What was the point of taking a lover if she ended worse off than she already was?

  Joss was not a safe choice. She had known this at once. With all his pride, he would never stand for the limits she would set on a lover, nor the speed with which she intended to discard one. He was not at all what she wanted.