Sweetest Little Sin by Christine Wells Page B

pirouetted before the cheval glass in her boudoir, clad in a sprigged muslin gown that made her look like a debutante.
    “Not at all, Mama. You are a picture to gladden any man’s heart.”
    Millicent’s features lit like moon glow. “Do you really think so, Louisa? You have such exquisite taste. I rely on your opinion utterly.”
    “When you begin to resemble any species of livestock, I assure you, I shall be the first to comment upon it.”
    Millicent tilted her head, giving her own reflection another doubtful survey. “Are you quite certain? Because I had thought these ribbons might be too fussy.”
    Louisa took a deep, calming breath.
    The air was fragrant with lilac blossoms—overpoweringly so. Thank the good Lord above that her mother’s wedding was set for the following week.
    Smiling a little, Louisa pictured Woolly relating his plans for Millicent’s entertainment abroad. Nothing could have been more calculated to please her mother in every respect. Millicent was more fortunate than she knew.
    The door opened and Finch announced, “A Mrs. Burton has sent up her card, ma’am.”
    Millicent’s vigorously plucked brows drew together. “Mrs. Burton, you say? Why didn’t you deny me, Finch? I am not receiving visitors today.”
    “Beg pardon, ma’am, I did mention that you were not at home, but I gather it’s Lady Louisa whom Mrs. Burton wishes to see.” The glint in Finch’s austere eye told Louisa the mysterious Mrs. Burton had given him a handsome douceur for unbending sufficiently to allow her access.
    Calmly, Louisa rose and shook out her skirts. “Thank you, Finch. I shall be down directly.”
    Millicent wrinkled her brow. “Burton? Who is this Mrs. Burton?”
    “A very agreeable lady,” said Louisa. She hoped so, anyway. “I made Mrs. Burton’s acquaintance last week at the British Museum.”
    If Louisa had mentioned meeting the lady in a brothel house, her mother could not have been more disapproving. “Bluestocking, is she? Honestly, Louisa. I don’t know where you find these people.”
    “I told you, Mama, I found her at the museum.”
    Louisa moved to the door. “I assume you don’t wish to meet her. I’ll have the phaeton brought ’round, and we’ll go for a drive.”
    Millicent made a little moue of disapproval. “Do as you wish, darling. Only take your wide-brimmed hat. With Mr. Radleigh’s house party approaching, I don’t want you to develop a freckle.”
    Refraining from rolling her eyes, Louisa gave the order to Finch about the phaeton, then tidied her hair and hurried downstairs to the drawing room.
    As she walked into the cavernous salon, a figure standing at the window turned quickly, an expression of amused surprise sweeping her features.
    The woman was no fresh-faced girl, but she was far younger than Louisa had expected an agent of Faulkner’s to be—perhaps younger even than Louisa herself.
    “Oh, how fortunate I am to find you home, dear Louisa!” The woman started forward, holding out her hands and drawing Louisa in for a kiss on each cheek, in the French fashion.
    Louisa had an impression of vivid, cool beauty—blond hair, ice-gray eyes, a delicately provocative mouth—before she became immersed in a cloud of expensive scent, felt the soft press of a rose-leaf cheek against each of her own.
    A little overwhelmed at this enthusiastic greeting, Louisa’s body stiffened slightly.
    Smoky eyes laughed at her with understanding and a hint of friendly derision. It flashed across Louisa’s mind that this woman was everything she herself would like to be.
    “Won’t you sit down, Mrs. Burton? I’ve ordered my phaeton to be brought around. Would you care to take a drive with me?”
    “Oh yes, indeed! I adore going on drives,” said Mrs.
    Burton, managing to convey by her excess of enthusiasm that nothing could have been more calculated to bore her. “Do, please, call me Harriet, darling. None of this stuffy Mrs. Burton!”
    Something offhand, almost