Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress (17 page)

Unless he considered taking the position Lord Chatfield had offered. Would learning secrets to gratify a marquess's whims be better or worse than tidying up Sutcliffe's messes, protecting him from himself?

“You're right,” Joss said. “I told you I would take care of the matter of your blackmail, and I will. I'll let you know when there's any further news.”

***

He soon departed, leaving Sutcliffe in happy abandon with his spyglass and tea service. Knowing that the baron was again spying out the window, Joss tossed it a wave before continuing on his way to Trim Street.

The daylight was all but gone now, and Joss found his way back to his lodging by memory as much as sight. The world was shape and shadow, and he had much to think about as he walked.

For he had grown up not
in
Sutcliffe's shadow, but
as
it. While Joss's mother served as a companion and chaperone to the future baron's six sisters, the future heir was tutored. An indifferent, jittery student, he was steadied by the presence of his younger cousin, who proved a much more eager learner.

The boys became youths became men, and each took the presence of the other—the behavior of the other—for granted. Sutcliffe did what he wished; Joss dealt with the consequences. Yet he had never, it seemed, been regarded as essential. Not if he was of less import than maintaining a bedchamber dedicated entirely to spying.

Even so, Sutcliffe was all the family Joss had. The baron's numerous sisters were indifferent to him, and they all lived far north in Lancashire, where the distaff branches of the family dwelled on parcels of land willed to them through careful settlements.

They were fortunate in that regard. Kitty Sutcliffe Everett had been less so. In a house full of relatives, she and Joss had always been alone, shifted to the outside.

From the outside, one developed a different perspective. One could see a great deal. Perhaps even as much as others could see with a spyglass.

A rueful smile tugged at his lips—and then his lodging house loomed tall before him, lamplight winking like a lodestar from the drawing room window. As he entered, Joss felt in his pocket for coins, wondering if he could order tea. Best not to. He had overspent himself earlier in paying for Augusta's dinner.

He had meant well by the invitation. It had even gone well, for a time. He yearned for her, or for what she meant to him: a woman bright and lovely and able to afford any possibility. There weren't many women such as that.

Well. She certainly knew it. She knew she could do better for herself. And that had been that, hadn't it?

His cold fingers were clumsy with the latch on his chamber door. Stripping off his gloves, he finally coaxed the stubborn thing open—only to find the expected cold, dark room ablaze with lamplight and a generous fire.

Augusta Meredith was sitting on his narrow bed, dressed in pale silk, her hair shining like temptation. “I've ordered a tea tray and biscuits,” she said. “But we don't have to eat at all.”

If Augusta could have designed the expression that crossed Joss's face when he caught sight of her, it would have been just this: his eyes widened, his lips curved into a smile. But quickly, he wiped this expression from his face, instead narrowing his eyes. “How did you get in? The door was locked.”

“Money.” Doubtless he would dislike the answer, but it was the truth. “I gave coins to all the servants. They remembered me as your cousin, and I said it was your birthday and I wanted to surprise you.”

“My cousin, you say. And my birthday.” He knocked the door shut behind him. “I seem to have come in possession of a great many unexpected items.”

“You have not possessed me.” She stood, facing him across the small room. “Yet.”

“This is most unexpected coming from the woman who wanted only to hold my hand for a single minute, then darted away when I became too honest for her taste. What the devil are you up to, my dear fake widow?”

She deserved every bit of his wariness, yet it still stung. “I have asked you,” she said in a creditably crisp voice, “not to call me that. It is most insulting to be called fake all the time.”

“There's more to the phrase than that.” Joss stepped toward her once, then again, until they stood almost body to body.

Her eyes were at the level of his jaw: that clean, hard line he had shaved this afternoon, now just beginning to show a shadow of stubble. She wanted to touch it, to lean her head against his chest and catch his sandalwood scent, to let the beat of his heart carry her away. “I'm not a widow. So is it the ‘my' part or the ‘dear' part in which I am meant to believe?”

“I could never call you mine. You just informed me of that fact.”

“Dear?” This was nothing but a whisper as she swayed closer.

“Damnation,” he muttered. “I can't—no, Augusta.” He stepped backward so quickly he stumbled a bit, then crossed to examine the fire. “Quite a generous allowance of coal. Did you pay Mrs. Jeffries for an extra bucket, or shall I have to hock something to cover the debt after you leave?”

“I paid for it. And the tea tray. I thought”—she took a deep breath—“we would want the room warm when we removed our clothing. If you must know.”

He went still, hands gripping the rough board mantelpiece. “That does seem the sort of thing I ought to know.” Without looking at her, he strode to the desk, poured out a cup of tea, and gulped it with a wince.

“I—”

Clack.
His teacup hit the tray with ringing force. “What is going on, Augusta? Why are you tormenting me? You reject my politeness and seek to upend my honor, then you offer the ultimate intimacy as though it means nothing.”

She sat again on the bed. “We have a different idea of what constitutes the ultimate intimacy.” This seemed an inadequate reply, but what else could she say?
I
know
I
am
tormenting
you. I am tormenting myself too.
She was not feeling very wise right now, but she had wisdom enough to keep that particular thought to herself.

“Do we?” He began to fiddle with the items on the tea tray, his voice low and carefully steady. “Perhaps we do. To me, it can indeed involve undressing, just as you suggested. Or it can be experienced with the removal of no clothing at all. The
ultimate
intimacy
happens when two people want nothing more than to be together, and when being together is a pleasure in itself. When the joining of bodies is more than a lust slaked; it's heart to heart and mind to mind.”

As he spoke, he created a spell. Its ingredients were his low voice, the warm scent of coal, the slope of the ceiling like a secret cave over their heads, the rich sleekness of the old coverlet beneath her fingers. They were alone, they were together, and his voice was twining through her frozen depths, cracking shards of ice free. They were so sharp, like tiny knives.

She closed her eyes and pushed the feeling aside. Let him wake her body; let her mind sleep.

“We don't have a different idea of the ultimate intimacy, after all,” Augusta said. “But that's not what I'm offering you.”

The china cup on which his fingers rested rattled in its saucer. His fingers were trembling, then—and Augusta knew what it meant when one's face was stern but one's fingers trembled. He was hurt. She had hurt him.

Her heart thumped a protest. “I can't offer it to anyone,” she rushed to explain. “I'm not capable of it. But I want to…” What would the right phrase be? It could not be
make
love
without love.
Rut
and
swive
sounded so vulgar.

“You want to…” He prompted, lifting his hand from the treacherous china cup. “Ah, you are blushing. Permit me to guess what you want, then. You want to revenge yourself on your wretched former lover through me, even though he will never know or care. You want to be wanted yet not do any wanting in return. You want all the power, all the advantage. And then you want to be able to back away, done with me, and say that you've had enough.”

“All correct,” she said. “Except for one thing. I want you very much indeed.”

She did; she
knew
she did. That was why she had traipsed through the streets of Bath and strewn coin on every floor of this lodging house. She had wanted to make him hers; she had not expected him to mind.

But he did, and that hurt too. Many things hurt now that the ice had begun to crack.

Could this truly be the same day she had fled Emily's house in a borrowed cloak? She had run to Joss, then from Joss, then been brought back by Joss. She could not get away from this man, no matter how much she wanted to.

Obviously she did not want to.

Silently, he had crossed the room. Now he sat next to her on the small bed, ropes creaking as he settled. “Good lord,” he said quietly. “What
did
he do to you, this man from your past?”

The mattress sank beneath his weight, tipping Augusta closer to the wall of his chest. “Too much,” she said. “Or not enough. The end result was the same. But there's no room for someone else right now. Not here.”

Joss's mouth made a grim line. “I certainly don't want to be joined by another man, either in flesh or spirit. But can you forget him while you are with me?”

With
no
one
but
you.
“That is the reason I'm here.” Her voice sounded hoarse, choked. Her breasts were heavy; her sex clenched. Her heart was a frantic flutter. Why had she thought she could control Joss? She couldn't even control herself.

With a gentle forefinger, he turned Augusta's chin toward him. Eyes as dark as smoky quartz searched her, looking so deeply into her she felt as though he had seen the thoughts she did not speak. Closer, he bent, and when his lips parted, she closed her eyes.
Yes
. Now it would begin. He would kiss her again, and she would kiss him back, and somehow she would be knit back together.

But no lips touched hers, and her puzzled eyes opened. Instead, fingertips danced over her temple. “This hairpin must come loose.” With one little yank, he had it free, then pressed the curved pin into her palm.

At once, a band of tension she had not known she carried began to relax. She searched his face, dark and clever and impatient and wry. His eyes were kind. Too kind. Even pitying, maybe.

He had not told her yes. But he had not told her no, either.

She heaved a deep breath. “Will you take out some more pins?”

“Certainly.” Joss tugged more hairpins free, slipping his fingers through her locks, pins pinging onto the floor like tiny hailstones.

“It's such a trial to be female,” she said. “When I was preparing to debut in society, my mother often said, ‘You have to suffer to be beautiful.' And I told her, ‘It's not worth it!' But of course it was, for a while.”

Ping.
Another hairpin dropped to the wooden floor, a delicate sound. A shiver raced through Augusta's chest, her belly. She was not prepared for the eroticism of such a tiny noise: an unmistakable sound of undressing.

The last time she had undressed for a man, she had thought herself in love and beloved. She had been so innocent. The contrast was painful, yet she would not go back. Now that she had drunk of honesty, bracing and brave, she wanted nothing else.

So she must be honest too. “I shall tell you what happened,” she said behind the red fall of her hair. “The man—he was a master forger, feigning love so well I never suspected I was being deceived. I helped, too. I wanted to be loved, and so I was ready to believe.”

And she was the one to spin the spell now, as she told Joss the truth. The meetings in secret that seemed so romantic. The kisses and promises he extracted, the physical passion that began to enslave her. She agreed to marry him, but the trip to Gretna Green was put off for one reason, then another.

She was ensnared; she could think of nothing but him. She would go along with his every suggestion, falling deeply without knowing it.

“It was my fault,” she said. “My foolishness to believe him. I cannot trust myself to know what's right.”

“And you do not believe anything anyone says unless it is horrid.” Joss sighed. “You never made it to Gretna Green, I assume. Unless you had him killed, and truly are a widow?”

The idea brought a smile to her face, swift and wolfish. “Would that I had finished him off, though it wouldn't be worth the chance of being executed. No, we never eloped. And I never…ah, fell with child. In both instances I now consider myself fortunate.”

She shook back her hair so she could look Joss in the face. So far the pain of honesty had been like pinpricks, swift and sharp. Now she lanced herself. “When my parents died and my fortune fell under the control of trustees, he abandoned his suit.” Her heart gave its usual squeeze, hard and hollow. “He had, apparently, been courting someone else all along. Someone better.”

The stark, bare details were enough to sketch the picture for Joss. In her mind, though, the memory spread like watercolor bleeding over paper. The news of her parents' accident arriving at the London house, instead of her parents themselves. Their clothes still in the wardrobes, their shoes and boots cleaned and lined up, waiting for them to step back in. This was the worst part: the reminders of how swiftly they had vanished.

She had just returned from Colin's lodging when the messenger arrived from Portsmouth with the tale. Her parents had arranged a quick sail for pleasure; city-bound folk, they could not resist the chance to ruffle the open water they missed so much. But a sudden squall, or maybe no more than the wake of a larger boat, tipped their vessel.

City-bound folk, dressed in costly, heavy layers. They could not swim to safety.

As she listened to the message that upended her world, her skin was still pink and sensitive from Colin's stubble. He had scratched at her as he uncovered, kissed, licked every inch of her body, but it was not for this reason she felt unbearably raw. The marks had still not entirely healed when a servant mentioned a few days later that “nice Mr. Hawford” was now betrothed to a sugar heiress.

It was embarrassing. It was shameful. That was the moment she realized she had thrown her heart after someone who did not want it. She had lost everyone she loved at once, and she felt she had lost herself.

Desperate, she had tried to bring herself back by coloring in the lines more brightly: clothes, gaiety, flirtation. But society had faded away until she was alone, her flash and dazzle only making the darkness about her more unrelenting.

Taking a deep breath, she explained to Joss, “No one thought to keep his betrothal from me because no one knew he was courting me. Which means, I suppose, that it was never courtship at all. I think he was pursuing both of us, and whoever was the easiest to topple would become his wife. Or maybe I was
too
easy to topple.”

Joss looked as he always had: wry and wistful and wicked all at once. “Are you sure you do not wish him killed?” He reached behind Augusta's head, sliding his fingers through her hair.
Ping
. Another hairpin fell to the floor.

“I wish him gone,” she said. “That's what I wish. But I was the one who vanished.”

Somehow, she thought he would know what she meant: he, who spent his life at the whim of a relation who scarcely acknowledged him. It was easy to vanish—far easier than one might expect.

“I understand,” Joss said. “But you are here now, entirely present. And you are worthy. Just as you are.”

***

This woman would be the death of him.

If Joss had one guiding principle in his life, it would be:
don't use women for your own selfish pleasure.
Men who did not agree ended by ruining lives. Joss's mother's. Jessie the maid's. Augusta was, as she had said, lucky to have escaped with no wounds to her body. Even so, her mind and heart and reputation had all suffered.

And tonight, she placed them all in his hands. She meant to use him—but did that not also mean she trusted him to make things right for her? He had no idea what to do with such trust.

So he plucked more hairpins free and flicked them to the floor, trying to ignore the delicate floral scent of each tumbling lock. Running his fingers through her dark-red strands merely to check for further pins. Certainly
not
noticing their sleek texture, or the way the long strands fell like gossamer once he released them.

He tried. He tried to close his ears to the deep breaths Augusta took, the faint “Oh” of pleasure when he removed a particularly tight pin. Though it was difficult indeed to let that last one pass. The little catch of her voice vibrated through him, plucking at his resolve. To unbind a woman's hair—to be allowed to run his fingers through it—
God.
His few partners of the past had never permitted him such intimacy, nor had he wished it.