Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress (2 page)

This was Bath in miniature: a polite grouping of strangers thrust into close proximity. All unwilling to give offense, but unsure whether they ought to have anything to do with one another. Yet the people, like the ballroom walls, were plastered and painted. Hoping to impress.

Joss was no different, was he? Except that plaster and paint were beyond his means. He had only ever seen the
ton
from the outside, peering out from the corner of a ballroom or down from a balcony's dizzying height. This feeling of being melted and mixed into a crowd was unfamiliar and thus not entirely pleasant.

Before the dance dragged them apart again, Miss Meredith managed to hiss in his ear. “I will grant that I find you preferable to being pawed by a drunkard.”

“You honor me. As I am not intoxicated, may I be permitted to paw you instead?”

Stepping, sliding, hopping again. This dance was not conducive to conversation. And Joss much preferred boots to the ridiculous glossy shoes required by Bath's master of ceremonies at formal assemblies. It was so difficult to find his footing in this sort of place.

When they next passed each other, Miss Meredith gave him a truly lovely smile. “You are welcome to try it and see what happens. Are you fond of all your fingers?”

“Indeed I am, my dear Widow Flowers, so I shan't put a hand on you except as part of this dance. You deserve every courtesy, having married and buried a husband since we last met—when was it?”

“Last summer.” She frowned. “Just before the Duke of Wyverne's house party.”

“No doubt you are right,” he said lightly, as though he could not remember the exact dates. She had not been present at the ducal house party in Lancashire; he had noticed at the time. And he had wondered how bright her hair would appear under the cold northern sky.

A violin wandered out of tune; with a sweet rebuke, an oboe called it back. Joss stepped forward into the cross with the other men. Now the chain, in which his feet were supposed to do something intricate while he and Miss Meredith held hands. He settled for taking her fingers and shuffling back and forth just enough not to smack into the other dancers.

“As I said before, you have my condolences for your recent bereavement,” he pressed mercilessly. “This festive interlude must be an attempt to kick away your mourning. How brave and noble of you! Though it is a bit soon, if—”

“It's all a lie, all right?” she whispered. “Now stop talking. You know I'm not a widow.”

Her sudden frankness surprised him into silence, as did the hard expression that crossed her soft features.

For a moment they simply shuffled gracelessly, hands clasped and bodies a breath apart. The pale swell of her flotilla-launching breasts, the fiery glints of her hair under the chandelier light had him wishing she were a widow in truth.

But she was a maiden. A
dishonest
maiden. And two generations of family scandal had taught Joss that, though dishonesty was sometimes permissible, dallying with maidens was not.

“I know you are not.” Regret thickened his voice. “I would love to lie about who I am. I simply didn't think of it.”

“If only you had, then we would be on equal footing. As it is, my reputation is in your hands.”

“Mrs. Flowers, every time a woman dances with a man, her reputation is in his hands. That is why it is such an honor when a lady agrees to dance with a man.”

“But I asked you to dance,” she said. “Or if we are to be accurate, I informed you that you were to dance with me.”

“Then I suppose
my
reputation is in
your
hands.”

She looked at him with some surprise; then the dance separated them. There ensued an interminable winding and stepping and crossing, until finally the orchestra's sawing dwindled away. As Miss Meredith applauded with the other dancers, Joss caught her elbow and steered her to the edge of the room.

The crush was slightly less here. When Joss glared at a dandy seated on a small bench, the fellow scrambled away and Joss handed his partner into the seat. “Do tell me, Mrs. Flowers,” he said as he looked down at her, “how have you passed off this new identity?”

A fan dangled from one wrist; she caught it up in her other hand and began teasing it open. It bore a painting of some curly-headed, Greek-looking youth, with white draperies and tiny wings and puffed-out cheeks.

“Zephyr,” she said, noticing Joss's gaze. “The god of the west wind. An apt decoration for a fan, don't you think?” She waved it at him, and a welcome eddy of cool air brushed his features.

Joss ignored this attempt at diversion, lifting his brows.

She snapped the fan closed. “Very well. I'm visiting Bath in company with the Countess of Tallant. You have made her acquaintance, I think?”

“Yes, certainly.” The young auburn-haired countess and her doting husband were a popular pair, sharing unshakable good humor.

“Lady Tallant is”—Miss Meredith paused—“not well. She's here to take the waters and does not plan to mix much in Bath society. So I was tasked with visiting the Pump Room after we arrived, to sign our names in the guest book and meet the master of ceremonies and whatnot. I took the opportunity to…not be me anymore.”

“You are still you,” Joss reminded her. “You simply called yourself something different. Why Mrs. Flowers, by the way?”

She coughed. “I saw a vase of flowers in one corner as I was introducing myself, and that was that.”

“To think, if the master of ceremonies had made your introduction in a different room, Bath might now be admiring the charms of Mrs. Roman Statue.”

Her attempt at a frown was a dreadful failure; in a moment, it flipped into a smile and a low chuckle. The sound was throaty and knowing, entirely different from the feathery giggle she had used with the portly drunkard who had tried to seize her for a dance.

That had been a maiden's laugh. This? This was the chuckle of a woman who liked the company of a man.

Only when her laugh fell silent, the smile vanishing, did Joss realize he had been staring at her in some wonder.

“So you'll keep my secret?” she asked in a brittle voice.

“That depends on why you possess a secret in the first place.” Though his brows were getting tired from all the lifting, he kept the blasé expression on his face. “Why are you posing as a widow, Miss Meredith? Are you in some danger?”

Her features crumpled; then she straightened her shoulders. “Not at all.” She looked up at him, and her smile almost reached her brandy-gold eyes. “It's as simple as this, Mr. Everett. I require a lover.”

I
require
a
lover.

Augusta had never permitted herself to utter these words before; no, until now she had kept the idea carefully locked away. The word
require
muscled forth oddly with its implication that her plan held more of necessity than desire.

Now that it had escaped her lips, it was clearly the right word.

And the effect of her statement was rather marvelous: Mr. Everett's mouth fell open. Actually
fell
open,
as though her bosom had truly launched a thousand ships into the ballroom.

In an instant, he recovered his composure. “Why?”

Augusta drew herself up straight. “If you don't know the reasons people take lovers, I'm sure you could hire someone to explain them to you.”

He folded his arms.

“You're not terrible looking,” she added in a soothing voice. “You might even get someone to demonstrate for no charge.”

His lips curled slightly. “That is
not
what I meant. Why now? Or why do you
require
one?” His gaze dropped to her midsection. “Is there some medical urgency about the matter?”

“Not for the reason you suspect.” Augusta considered. She could refuse to explain, could return to Hiccuper and his ilk and hope that Everett would indeed hold his tongue.

But he had no reason to, did he? Men never behaved as they ought without some incentive. And when he inevitably told, scandal would follow. Augusta's hostess Lady Tallant, ailing though she was, would be driven from Bath when her houseguest's true identity leaked out.

Lady Tallant deserved better. And Augusta rather thought Mrs. Flowers did too.

“Let us go somewhere private,” she finally said. “I shall try to explain.”

“You honor me.”

“Don't be so sure of that,” Augusta said. “If you recall, I hold your frail reputation in my hands.”

When his smile turned to a grin, she had to look away to suppress a sudden flutter. It ought not to be a surprise that she had been found out, after all. And she was not entirely sorry it was by him.

Her fingertips on his forearm, her heart thudding quickly, she accompanied Mr. Everett through the crush at the edges of the ballroom. They exited into the Octagon Room, a butter-yellow polygon crowded with connecting doors and fireplaces and watched over by yet another of those giant crystal chandeliers. Groups of chairs in dark-stained wood flanked each doorway, and the pair settled in two of these.

Mr. Everett spoke first. “Now. Do tell me more about your unusual requirement, my dear fake widow.”

Augusta watched the people trailing by: some laughing, some flirting, some trying to hide tears; others bored, drinking cups of punch, cooling heated brows with fans. None with a care for her or Mr. Everett at all.

Nor did she care for them, really. She still felt as though a window divided her from her surroundings, and she, naught but a moth, was trapped behind the glass. If she could never get through, was there any purpose in continuing to flutter her wings?

There must be. There had to be. Surely one day she would break the glass and…belong.

Surely the yet-unknown lover would help her to do this: to set aside a past in which she had been deceived, judged wanting without even knowing she was on trial.

Surely it would be a way not to be alone anymore. On her terms, at last and only.

Her breath coming shallowly, she stared at the parquet floor. “To claim a lover would be a much-needed victory.”

“Over whom?” Everett's voice was quiet, or maybe the ringing in Augusta's ears was loud. “Not that it is any of my affair, I suppose.”

What would be the worst that would happen if she told him? He might reveal Mrs. Flowers to be a fraud. The same was true if she told him nothing, though. Simply knowing her identity was enough to ruin her.

And she ached to tell him a bit more. To free a few more words from their prison—one that had turned her too much inward, monitoring the locks and chains upon dark and treacherous thoughts. She had a terror of solitude. “It would be a victory over myself.”

“A victory well worth the pursuit. Yet you could marry and achieve the same…ah, carnal result.”

She looked up at him. “Mrs. Flowers is not a prize marriage prospect. As far as Bath knows, she has no birth and little fortune. Nothing to recommend her but her noble friend.”

“Right. Yes. That's why men flirt with you and praise your delightful appearance. Because you are friends with Lady Tallant.”

“They are flirting with
Mrs. Flowers
,” Augusta reminded him. “As a widow, she has more possibilities open to her than I do.”

“
She
is
you
. Simply you, frosted with a few lies.” Dark brown eyes held her gaze. “Do you not think you are worth marrying, then?”

“That is a remarkably impertinent question.”

His gaze was steady. “And that is not an answer. Which is answer enough.”

Aggravating
man.
“I do not think about marriage. I don't wish to marry.”

“A lovely heiress such as Augusta Meredith? Surely you could find some land-rich blue blood with pockets to let. He would be delighted to take you to wife.”

“Me? Or my money?”

A wry smile. “For most of the
ton
, there is little difference.”

“Ah, but there is to me.” Augusta rubbed at her upper arms above her long gloves, feeling chilled though this room was just as crowded as the ballroom. “I cannot allow anyone to have that sort of control over me. Once I trusted a man too much, and he abandoned me. This time, I shall do the choosing. All I require is a lover. I will take him, then leave him, when I see fit.”

Men did not mind this sort of treatment. Colin Hawford had proved to Augusta that sex had nothing to do with love, and that romance was only a veil for selfishness.

Hawford had seemed bright and strong at first, taking root easily in her life. Then he had grown not like a bloom, but a thistle. Able to draw blood when she least expected it. Impossible to eradicate from memory, even two years later.

She had always known her fortune would attract men. Foolishly, she had not realized they would conquer her body and her heart in a quest for her hand. For coin.

“If I married, I would lose myself,” she told Mr. Everett. “I cannot take that chance.”

For a moment, she felt lost again. Clenching her toes within her slippers, she pressed her feet to the floor.
Steady, Augusta
. She had been a fool, but she was wiser now, and protected by a false name.

Assuming Mr. Everett held his tongue.

At her side, he was silent for a long moment—silent and still. Finally, he said, “It seems to me you are still trying to lose yourself, Mrs. Flowers.”

“Not at all. The false name is a shield to make it easier to get what I want.”

His expression said
If
you
say
so
as clearly as if he'd spoken the words. “Well. I am sorry a man unworthy of your trust crossed your path in the past. You seem to have your victory strategy well in hand, though.” He began to rise to his feet. “Mrs. Flowers, I shall leave you to your plans, as I must be on with mine. I wish you all the best of luck in your search for a lover.”

Before she could think better of it, Augusta clutched at his arm. “You would do, Mr. Everett.”

He froze halfway to a stand, eyes fixed on Augusta's gloved hand on his sleeve. “I would do?” Dropping into his chair again, he added, “I presume you mean as a lover?”

“Yes.”

He lifted his chin, looking down his high-bridged nose at her. “Because I am convenient? Or because I am entirely unworthy of marriage?”

His tone froze her fingers, and she withdrew her hand to her lap. “Because”—she raised her own chin—“you bathe regularly and are not bad-looking. As I mentioned previously.”

“I may swoon.”

“And also you know the truth about what I want. And why.” Damnation, her throat was dry. She forced herself to hold his gaze. “It was not easy to tell you, but I'm glad I did.”

His dark brown eyes looked into her lighter ones, unsettling yet thoughtful. When, after a tense pause, he relaxed against the back of his chair, the scent of sandalwood teased Augusta again.

“You honor me.” For the first time, he sounded sincere. “But I cannot do as you ask.”

“No matter how much I may—want that?” She stumbled over the words.

Everett gave a harsh laugh. “Worse yet. No matter how much
I
may want that.”

“But if you and I both—”

“It's not a matter of desire, but decency.” He pressed at his temple with the heel of his hand. “My own background has made me painfully aware of the importance of a man's character. As I know you to be a maiden rather than a widow, I cannot be a part of your ruin.”

But
I
am
already
ruined
. And not only in the way society might suspect. No, her ruin came from within, from the spiraling thoughts in which she so often became entangled.

“It's not ruin if I seek it,” she said numbly.

“My apologies; that was a poor choice of words. I cannot share in your ‘victory,' as you call it. As I possess little beyond my pretense to honor, I beg you, do not ask me to give it up. I may not be able to refuse you a second time.”

“I see.” In her lap, she laced her fingers bloodlessly tight, so she would have something to hold fast to. There was nothing left outside herself to cling to, though hundreds of people were less than a cry away.

A gray-gloved hand patted her forearm, once, twice, and then it rested there. “Ah, my dear fake widow. I don't know if you
do
see. I am the most damnably proud fellow you can imagine.”

Where his hand touched her, a bit of warmth spread into her skin. She looked at the hand, wary, as though it might flee.

It did not, and Everett added, “Damnably proud. Why, when I arrived in Bath a few days ago, I neglected to call upon the master of ceremonies so that he might appraise me.”

So mischievous and conspiratorial was his smile, Augusta was not prepared for it. She was beginning to feel warmer yet, warm all over, and the feeling flustered her. Under his palm, within her own glove, the skin of her forearm tingled. Somehow she replied in a sensible manner: “With so many strangers mixing in this town, the master of ceremonies must vouch for their reputations.”

“A logical statement. But I did not choose to solicit the good opinion of a man I do not know, simply so he could make that good opinion known to other people with whom I am not acquainted. Thus am I served for my pride. I cannot conduct my business if no one will speak to me.” Lifting his hand from her arm, he scrubbed it over his face. “I have paid half a guinea for the privilege of walking about a crowded ballroom in relative solitude. Except for your company, my dear fake widow. But that was only because you knew me already.”

Augusta folded her arms, trying to preserve the warmth he'd imparted. “Mr. Everett, you must stop calling me
my
dear
fake
widow
. The mockery is entirely too obvious for me to ignore.”

“Ought I to refer to you as Miss Meredith, then?”

“No. If someone overheard you, my secret would be out. You can't call me that either.”

“What shall I call you, then?”

“Augusta, I suppose.” At his arched eyebrow, she explained, “It's the only name I've got left.”

“No middle name that's less terrifying and Roman-sounding?” When she shook her head, feeling a smile tug at her lips, he said, “
Augusta
it is, then. Thank you.”

“Won't you say I can call you Josiah in return? We can tell everyone we're distant cousins if you like, so they won't wonder at it.”

“God, no.” She must have looked affronted, for he explained, “That is, ‘God, no' to calling me Josiah. It's never suited me. Much too serious. You may call me Joss.”

“Joss.” She tested it out.

He nodded.

She nodded back. It felt…good. As though the window separating her from the world had opened, just a crack.

“We mustn't be cousins, though,” he added. “I've already got one of those, and one cousin like Sutcliffe is more than enough.”

How odd; she had thought Lord Sutcliffe extremely pleasant when she met the baron once in London. “Old friends, then?”

“I have far too few of those, especially in Bath. Everyone would guess it to be false.”

Augusta considered. “You made a jest while we danced that your reputation was in my hands. What if that were so?”

“It
is
so. I said so.”

She rolled her eyes. “You made a joke, but I speak in seriousness. You say you have some business to conduct. That is vague, but I assure you, I know a great deal about business. And because I am known to be Lady Tallant's guest—and because I paid my respects to the master of ceremonies—I can catch the ear of half the men in Bath.”

“Only half? How sad. Your popularity must be declining.”

He echoed her words of earlier, and she was tempted to put out her tongue at him.

“You forget, my dear—ah, Augusta,” he corrected himself. “I have the most damnable pride. I do not care to be beholden to anyone.”

“Oh, but you wouldn't be,” she explained in a rush. “It would be in exchange for you keeping the secret of my true name. Not a favor at all; just a bargain.”

He watched her narrowly from the corner of his eye. “Go on.”

“I could help you with your business. You could help me find a lover.” She fumbled for words. “Men won't lie to Mrs. Flowers about business matters, because they'll assume she won't understand. And men will not lie to Mr. Everett about what they really think about women. If any people we encounter are dishonest or dreadful, each of us can tell the other.”