Too Sinful to Deny (12 page)

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Authors: Erica Ridley

Tags: #Man-Woman Relationships, #Historical Fiction, #Smuggling, #Smugglers, #General, #Romance, #Historical, #Secrecy, #Fiction, #Love Stories

BOOK: Too Sinful to Deny
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It meant, Evan realized with another glance at the ruined decor and the cargo-free entryway, that things were far, far worse than he thought.
When dawn came, Susan was still staring into the blackness of the canopy.
She hadn’t slept. She’d lain in bed, listening for the cries of the belated Lady Beaune and hearing what she feared were the faint whimpers of the present (no doubt soon-to-be-belated) mistress, Lady Emeline.
And, guiltily enough, reliving a certain kiss.
She still couldn’t believe her instantaneous reaction to the illicit contact . . . and to the man himself. He was nothing but an unapologetic rake. Yet she could no longer look him in the eyes without remembering what he looked like with them closed in passion. And how he felt. How he tasted.
She suffered through the hourlong hair-curling process in uncharacteristic silence. If only because she scarce registered it happening. Her mind swirled with the memory of those heated kisses . . . and the humiliating realization that she’d
liked
it.
Despite her blue blood and her family money and her parents’ titles and the years and years of proper upbringing and education and (mostly) impeccable deportment, when push came to shove . . .
The inner Susan was a common hussy.
Still in a bit of a daze from that undesirable conclusion, she eventually found her way downstairs and out the front door. She could not indulge such fantasies. She was a lady out to ensnare a lord. A plan not served by slumming with the commoners. If she was willing to stoop so far as to stage a compromise in order to capture the wealthy lordling of her dreams (and, yes, she was more than willing), the least she could do was provide said lordling with a worthy bride. A proper bride. A demure bride. A chaste bride. A woman who did
not
take pleasure in stolen kisses by men far beneath her station.
Worse than anything . . . she’d wanted more.
But she could not risk it. Her romantic reputation (or rather, lack thereof) was the one thing she had to offer her future husband. A compromise worked only if the man in question believed himself to be the one who had done the compromising. She needed to remain pure and untouched until the day she set foot back in London. In the middle of nowhere she might be, but she was still Miss Susan Stanton, sole heiress of a reasonably wealthy baron, eligible young lady soon to be re-immersed in the glory and gaiety of High Society.
The simple thing to do—the smart thing to do—would be to avoid Mr. Evan Bothwick at all costs.
However.
He had a secret.
She didn’t know what it was, but she burned to find out. The tantalizing promise of gossip had always been her one weakness. The not knowing of Mr. Bothwick’s secret was eating Susan from the inside out.
Last night, he’d all but thrown her over his shoulder and dumped her back in the Manor without another word. The reprobate. He could’ve at least helped speculate on what manner of ruffian might’ve ripped apart his brother’s home.
Then again, seeing a coin like that in one’s brother’s sitting room would unsettle anyone. Even a libertine like Mr. Bothwick, with little more on his mind than finding a new maiden to deflower. Country folk might not realize the significance of the coin’s insignia, but Susan Stanton certainly did. Gooseflesh rippled up her spine at the unquestionably dangerous raison d’être:
Pirates.
Now, it
was
possible that the coin was merely a collector’s item and didn’t mean much of anything other than Mr. Bothwick’s brother being a bit of a pig, who ought to have invested a little money in a proper display case for his collection. And perhaps a housekeeper. Who was to say? She wasn’t one to leap to conclusions.
But she’d bet her month’s allowance (assuming it came—Janey had shaken her head
no
that morning before Susan could even ask) that the slovenly fool had gotten himself killed by the simple virtue of being at home when seafaring footpads came to ransack his house. They’d probably robbed him blind and then killed him. Or possibly the other way around. Or perhaps it had been simultaneous and he’d perished in the mêlée. She’d tried to speculate but, as before, Mr. Bothwick had been maddeningly unwilling to participate.
But she knew who might.
She reached the foot of the path and cut across the sand and dirt toward the dress shop. Had she not hotheadedly alienated Miss Devonshire and Miss Grey yesterday afternoon, they would’ve made precisely the sort of diverting companions with whom Susan surrounded herself in London: gossip-minded women. She absolutely had to find a way to make up. Decision made, she pushed open the door and stepped inside enemy territory.
They were not alone.
Mr. Forrester, the local magistrate, rested a well-tailored elbow (he couldn’t be
that
poor) against a ream of crimson silk. Excellent. She needed to speak with him anyway. His golden head was bent alongside the porcelain doll’s in a cozy tête-à-tête. When they both glanced over upon hearing the hinges creak open, the magistrate’s eyes crinkled into a welcoming smile. Miss Devonshire’s, however, sparked with murderous rage.
Susan decided it would be best to just go ahead and give them a minute to finish their conversation. She turned her gaze toward the ginger-haired witch stitching a hem in the dim candlelight. When Miss Grey looked up from her handiwork, her eyes were not filled with hate, but with an intense, watchful craftiness. Susan had been told on many occasions that she wore that look quite often herself.
“Miss Grey,” she murmured, treating her to a curtsy by way of apology.
“Miss Peeks-Through-Windows,” the witch returned, without bothering to set down her needle.
Susan’s eyes widened painfully as she jerked her gaze toward the magistrate. His head remained next to Miss Devonshire’s, their eyes only for each other.
“Don’t worry,” drawled the witch, not bothering to hide the bitter sarcasm in her tone. “When Dinah captivates a man, he wouldn’t notice the room catching fire.”
Susan couldn’t help but cast an involuntary glance at the charred rafters, still spicing the dank air with remembered smoke from long-ago flames. Was that what had happened here? She glanced at the couple again.
“I—” she began, then stopped, unusually tongue-tied. “That is to say, you—”
The needle stabbed through the cloth without pause. “We haven’t mentioned your peculiar . . . proclivity . . . to anyone just yet, if that’s what you’re asking. Dinah says you’ve realized your mistake and won’t compound it by making another one.”
Susan took a fortifying breath. “And you?”
The witch’s smile was slow and unforgiving. “I say, who cares?”
Well. So that’s how it was. Susan swallowed. At least she knew where she stood.
“I must say,” the witch continued, “you’re the last one I expected to cross that threshold. What demon drove you to put your face back in our line of sight?”
“I . . .” The response died on Susan’s lips. Her earlier hope now seemed far too silly to voice aloud. Her muscles itched to spring for the door.
The witch’s skinny red brows rose to mock her. “You didn’t think we’d make up and be
friends,
did you?”
Her cackle was loud enough to earn an annoyed glance from the couple in the corner.
“Of course not,” Susan denied, her voice empty. Even her limbs felt hollow. “How foolish that would be.”
“Indeed,” agreed the witch, stabbing her needle through the folded cloth again. “Not that it would’ve mattered anyway.”
“What wouldn’t have mattered? Whether I sought friendship?”
“No.” The witch tore a thread with her teeth and flipped over the fabric. “Whether I cared.” She cast a disgusted glance at the quietly conversing twosome before turning her shrewd gaze back to Susan. “I’m leaving. Forever.”
Susan raised her brows at the giggling porcelain doll entrancing the handsome magistrate.
“Miss Devonshire doesn’t know . . . ?”
“Oh, she knows,” said the witch with a derogatory chuckle. “You think I’d tell
you
something I hadn’t told my best friend?” The needle resumed its attacks on the fabric. “She just doesn’t believe me, that’s all.”
Miss Grey. Leaving. Forever. Hope blossomed anew in Susan’s thumping chest. Her London connections were much better resources than a mere country magistrate. She could escape
and
rescue her cousin Emeline. Perhaps today!
“So . . . ,” she began carefully, trying to mask her eagerness. “You have a horse? A carriage?”
From Miss Grey’s incredulous expression, Susan might as well have inquired about dragons and magic carpets.
“I have my
brother,
” the witch responded haughtily. “He’s getting a ship.”
A ship! Susan hadn’t considered that possibility. Largely because the traditional path to London was by land. A ship could make an excellent vehicle of escape. But, unfortunately for them both . . .
“Your brother?” she repeated, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice. “Have you got more than one, by any chance?”
“No, I haven’t got more than one.” Miss Grey’s tone dripped with condescension. “And he’ll only have the one ship, if that’s your next question. Luckily for me, that’s all we need. No more needles in this lifetime! The moment he gets back, I’m gone.”
“I see.” A cold sweat began at the nape of Susan’s neck, now that she’d been given a conversational opening she truly didn’t wish to take. Miss Grey’s brother was never coming back. And, viper though she might be, she deserved to know. Susan just didn’t want to be the one to tell her. “What if Red—er, Joshua—
weren’t
coming back? For some reason. Ever.”
Miss Grey stopped sewing. Unguarded fury replaced the scorn in her dark tone. “Why would you say that?”
“I just mean . . .” Susan wracked her brain, trying to recall exactly what the persistent ghost had told her to say. Where the bloody hell
was
Red, anyway? “He wouldn’t have left you without instructions, right? That is . . . you’d know what to do if he weren’t ever returning. Wouldn’t you?”
“Who the hell do you think you are to suggest such atrocities?” The witch’s eyes burned with brimstone and her handiwork fell to the floor. “My brother
is
coming back. We
are
leaving Bournemouth. He would
never
leave me behind.”
“No. No.” Susan floundered for the right words. If any existed. “I’m not saying he wouldn’t
wish
to return. I’m just saying, what if he’d love to spirit you away forever but couldn’t do so after all? Or get word to you to explain why? You would have an alternate plan, then, wouldn’t you?”
The witch leapt to her feet, destroying the forgotten crumple of cloth with the heels of her boots. “Give me one good reason why
that
would be possible, Miss Peeping Tom. Did you
spy
on him planning not to come back? Ha! Impossible. You have no way of knowing what he’s intending to do or not do. He’ll be back as soon as he has the ship.”
“Well, it might be possible to surmise he couldn’t return, if he were . . . dead.” The syllable floated from her mouth so faintly, Susan could scarce hear herself speak the word.
“He’s not dead.”
“Perhaps Red wished to come back, to send word—”
“
He’s not dead.
”
“—but most of all, wished for you to take care of both yourself and the situation in whatever manner it was that you’d decided upon in case of emerg—”
“Get out! Get out! Get out!”
This time, even the lovebirds in the corner couldn’t help but turn and gape at the spectacle unfolding before them.
Susan backed hastily toward the door. The razor-sharp tip of the witch’s umbrella jabbed into Susan’s chest, to ensure she did so as rapidly as possible.
She fled. But she didn’t get far.
For a doll made of porcelain, Miss Devonshire could sprint across sand at exceptionally high speeds.
“You told Harriet her brother was
dead?
” she half-screeched, half-panted upon reaching Susan’s side.
Susan stopped running. She’d already been caught.
“I said ‘might’ be,” she mumbled defensively, but this only inflamed the tiny doll even more.
“That is the most despicable trick I could ever imagine someone playing on another human being!” Miss Devonshire’s bow-shaped mouth gaped in both anger and shock. Her big blue eyes narrowed dangerously. “I was a fool to want to give you an opportunity to redeem yourself. You’re obviously vermin without hope of redemption. But hear me now: I will get you for this, Susan Stanton. You
will
be sorry.”
“Y-you’re going to spread rumors about me?” Susan stammered, frantic.
The laugh that escaped Miss Devonshire’s perfect teeth was nothing short of terrible.
“I’ll do better than that, you horrible little tramp. Revenge so swift, you will never see it coming.” Hatred soaked through each snarled word. “You predicted a death, Miss Stanton.
I’ll
make sure it’s yours.”

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