Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress by Theresa Romain Page A

acquaintance.”
    â€œEvery man?”
    â€œOh, well—perhaps half. As I said on the occasion of our first meeting in Bath, I haven’t spoken to everyone.”
    â€œNor have I, so you needn’t make me sound like a hussy.” She said this without heat, turning over the idea in her mind. Meeting Lord Whittingham would be a delight, a reminder of the years before she lost her parents. And it would knit her, in some small way, to Joss’s side. It would be a place to fit, to belong, for a sliver of time.
    He offered to open that window between her and others—or no, he asked her to open it herself.
    â€œI shall think about it,” she added. “We still have a bit of time before he arrives.”
    â€œIf you stay for our meeting, say whatever you like, as long as you somehow discuss Whittingham giving money to Sutcliffe. I don’t even care for what reason, honestly. If he wants to pay Sutcliffe to strip naked and dance through the streets of Bath, that’s quite all right with me. I don’t know who would want to see it, but Sutcliffe would certainly be willing to do it.”
    Augusta grinned. “I simply must meet your employer again.” She recalled the baron as cheerful and impulsive, but then, she’d only met him and his baroness once at a ball. At which no one, to her knowledge, had stripped naked.
    â€œYou might be required to meet him eventually, but let us hope not.”
    Another passing man—vaguely familiar as a recent caller in Queen Square—tipped his hat to Augusta. She waved and smiled with her fluffy glove and friendly smile.
    â€œWould he do as a lover, do you think?” some imp made her nudge Joss in the ribs and ask in a low voice.
    There was no unsettling the man; he only leaned back against the bench and stuck out his boots, the picture of comfort. “I think not. Though I cannot judge male beauty with anything like the proper eye, he appears too languid for you. See how slowly he walks?”
    â€œThat could be because he wants to hang back and look at me more.”
    He arched a brow. “If he’s that fascinated, then he ought to have the stones to turn around and speak to you. Unless you wish for a lover with no stones? That would seem to defeat the purpose, though.”
    This was what the imp had wished for: Joss Everett, shaping words like lover and stones with his beautifully cut mouth. Warm and liquid, desire swirled within her. “I am quite sure that you ought not to be speaking this way to me,” she managed.
    â€œI am quite sure,” he countered, “that you are right. But I am also quite sure that you like it. There is no need for you to play Mrs. Flowers with me.”
    Odd indeed, that the widowed part she played was far more innocent than her unwed true self. Yet Mrs. Flowers had to be bright as sunlight, where Augusta burned low and hot as fire.
    Figuratively speaking. She shivered; within her dainty gloves, her fingers were cold.
    â€œPerhaps you might satisfy my curiosity on one point, Augusta. If Mrs. Flowers is not meant to be wealthy nor wellborn, what is it about her that appeals to so many men?”
    â€œHer lack of wealth and birth is to keep them from entertaining notions of marriage. Aside from those dreadful flaws, she is everything a man should wish.”
    â€œWhich is?”
    Twirling the flimsy handle of her parasol, she considered. “Pleasant, soft-spoken. Cheerful. So feminine—observe the gown, if you will—that she is a creature entirely without threat. Generous with laughter and with flaunts of the bosom.”
    He gave her a sidelong glance so quick she almost missed it. “I have observed no such behavior. Are you depriving me of bosom-flaunting?”
    â€œYes, but you are a special case. As you just informed me, there’s no purpose to being Mrs. Flowers with you because you know she doesn’t exist.”
    â€œAnd what of the other poor