Secrets of a Scandalous Heiress by Theresa Romain Page B

fellows of Bath?” Joss nodded toward the smoothly paved path, along which yet more individuals and couples promenaded. “With this figment, you shall spoil them for all other women. Then they shall be left with nothing.”
    â€œExactly right. Nothing but a beautiful memory.” The words were unexpectedly piquant on her tongue. She savored the taste.
    â€œYou sound a bit bloodthirsty,” Joss observed. “But I’m sure that cannot be your intention, since you have just told me that you mean to be both soft-spoken and cheerful.”
    â€œI would find it easier to be so if you were a bit more soft-spoken and cheerful yourself.”
    â€œRot,” he said in a voice of perfect cheer. “Though I can be agreeable. Do look at the path: several gentlemen are walking in this direction. Perhaps I might identify one who will do as your lover.”
    She should have paid the extra sixpence for tea; her mouth felt dry. Moistening her lips, she offered a honeyed smile. “How industrious you are. Which one would you suggest?”
    Joss indicated a bewigged elderly man the shape of a kettledrum, hitching himself along with the aid of two canes. “What of him? With that expression of good cheer, he would doubtless treat you with great solicitude.”
    â€œYou are terrible. That man is as fluffy-haired and fat as a pregnant sheep.”
    â€œGood heavens, you are particular,” Joss chided. “I thought you wished only for someone to perform a service for you. Must he be as good-looking as all that?”
    â€œI would prefer he not be painful to look upon.”
    â€œYou underestimate the importance of an expression of good cheer,” Joss said. “But let us pass on. What about the light-haired fellow swinging his cane about with such spirit?”
    The object of Joss’s comment was clearly a dandy, and something in his appearance set her on edge at once. Maybe it was the man’s ringlets or his wasp-waisted coat or the smug expression on his indolent features.
    Augusta pretended not to notice as her parasol knocked against Joss’s hat. “What an excellent suggestion,” she cooed. “He is handsome. And well-dressed, too. Should I speak to him? No, I suppose you’d best introduce us.”
    â€œPlease cease beating me with your parasol.” With a determined gesture, Joss tugged the parasol from Augusta’s grasp and folded it shut. “Your bonnet is large enough to shield you and several other individuals from the sun. You’ve no need of this. And I am devastated to learn that Mrs. Flowers does not number an understanding of satire among her virtues.”
    â€œOf course she doesn’t. She’s too cheerful for satire.” Augusta snatched back her parasol and held it sideways in her lap, a feminine bayonet. “To what do you refer?”
    â€œI was not serious when I suggested the light-haired fellow. Well-dressed, indeed. His coat shoulders are as padded as his calves. Only imagine bringing him to your bedchamber, then gaping in dismay as his fine figure is left on the floor for a valet to pick up.”
    â€œYou’re saying things you ought not to say again.” Her cheeks felt as pink as one of the blown roses scattered over her gown. Saying what he ought not to say, yes—because the man she pictured in her bedchamber was Joss, and the form about which she wondered was his. No padding filled out the shoulders of his black coat, well cut but not tailored for his form. The thin knit of his trousers, snug over muscular thighs; the worn leather of his boots—he was unpretentious, unconcerned, and unimpressed.
    And she was beginning to fear he would spoil her for other men.
    He spoke again. “Here’s a promising prospect. Do look at that fellow with his hair tugged back into a queue. Like a pirate, wouldn’t you say? He could drag you off to the docks and ravish—”
    â€œStop.”