Authors: Erica Ridley

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

Too Sinful to Deny (5 page)

BOOK: Too Sinful to Deny

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Coming here was a very, very bad idea.

“Perhaps I should go,” she suggested as brightly as possible, hoping to give the confident impression of a strong woman instead of a querulous victim-to-be. He’d made no bones about what he intended to do the next time they were alone. And she’d allowed herself to be carried to a location with a
bedchamber.
She sat up straight, ignoring the pain in her backside, and placed a firm palm on the arm of the sofa. “I do appreciate your hospitality.”

He shrugged but made no move to ravish her. “I have no hospitality.”

“Then why am I here?” she blurted, not trusting his intentions for a moment. Nor, truth be told, overly trusting her own. Susan gripped the arm of the sofa even tighter. Why wasn’t she fleeing? She should escape while she still could. Yet for some reason, the sort of danger he exuded was more exciting than terrifying.

“I’ve been asking myself from the first.” He rose and crossed the room to a small sideboard adorned with hand-blown glassware and a bottle of brandy. “You may leave whenever you like, Miss Stanton. But I won’t be carrying you.”

“Perfectly reasonable,” she said, jerking her hands into her lap. “Once was enough for me, too.”

“Twice,” he corrected without turning around.

“Er . . . right.”

To be honest, it had been a relief to melt into his arms, to relax in his strength and heat. He wasn’t a ghost. He was real. Solid. A familiar face. That the face had belonged to a man capable of ruining her reputation just by being in the same room with her hadn’t crossed her mind at that moment. Nothing had crossed her mind . . . but him. Warmth. Gratitude. Safety.

He reached into his vest pocket and laid a pistol atop the sideboard. Had she said
safety?
This was no doubt the very pistol with which he’d almost shot her host hours earlier! Susan had conveniently forgotten
that
little incident while she’d been busy being rescued.

He poured a glass of brandy. The golden liquid sparkled in a shaft of sunlight sneaking through the curtains. He sniffed the glass absently, swirled it, then held it in her direction.

She shook her head. She should go. Brandy was almost as boring as ratafia, and she had plenty of other concerns to attend to. Like removing herself from his company. And quitting Bournemouth altogether.

“Certain?” He sipped, closing his eyes in pleasure. “Delicious. It’s French, you know. Quite expensive these days.”

Quite illegal, if that were the case. Susan wavered.
Illicit
brandy wasn’t boring. As tempted as she was to sample a bit, accepting drinks meant one ought to stay and drink them. And she was leaving. Now.

Brandy at his lips, he crossed the drawing room and retook his chair, looking for all the world relaxed and content. Despite the sand still dusting his muscled limbs.

The abandoned pistol was now closer to her than it was to him. That provided some measure of comfort, did it not? To be fair, she had no experience firing weapons of any kind. But at the very least, should he decide to go on a murderous rampage in his drawing room, traversing the length to fetch his pistol would give her advance notice as to his intention.

His clear gaze heated her face once more. “Not a drinker?”

“Not
staying,
” she countered primly. She sneaked a reassuring glance at the sideboard. The pistol was still there. As was the brandy.

“You didn’t drink at the Shark’s Tooth,” he reminded her. “And you stayed there for a while.”

“That was different. I was . . . having an unpleasant day.” She choked on the understatement. She was being haunted. Good God. How was she supposed to ensnare a rich, titled gentleman whilst being
haunted?

“Must be something in the water.” He took another sip of brandy, but this time his eyes did not close in pleasure. He looked . . . anguished. But then he blinked, and the moment was gone. “I suppose you wish to talk about it?”

She snorted. (A habit she was truly endeavoring to break.) Talk about her inexplicable ability to see spirits? Never. Not to him. Not to anyone. The ghosts themselves were bad enough. Having others suspect such madness would ruin her life. She’d end up the subject of gossip instead of the one spreading it, and never make the kind of match she needed. “Absolutely not.”

His eyebrows lifted. She’d surprised him, then, by not wishing to chat about her troubles. “Fair enough.” He shrugged and returned his attention to his glass of brandy. “I’d have been feigning attention anyway.”

Her mouth fell open. He was
so rude.
“Because I’m a woman?”

“Because whatever it is, I don’t want to get involved.”

Well, she scarce wished to be involved with him either. “Understandable. Well, I’m afraid I must be off. I do appreciate your many kindnesses this morning, Mr. . . .”

Incredible. Twice in his arms and she didn’t even know his name.

“Bothwick,” he supplied helpfully. “Marquess of Gower, Earl of Huntington, Viscount Rockham.”

“
What?
” There was no such—

“Just bamming you.” His grin was infectious. “Evan Bothwick.” He rose to his feet and held out his hand. “Plain old ‘mister.’”

Right. Susan shook his hand without a word.

Now that he had a name and a personality—and no pistol—he was a little less frightening and a little more . . . well, not
normal,
given the grains of sand caught in his hair (although that was her fault) or the drinking habit (possibly her fault as well) or the missing stockings (God only knew whose fault that was). He seemed approachable. Uncouth, but good-spirited. The sort who never had a problem making friends.

What on earth was he doing in Bournemouth?

“Have you lived here long?” she found herself asking.

“Longer than you. What brings a proper London miss to this great metropolis?”

Stalemate. Neither one of them was eager to discuss their past. Susan leaned back in the sofa and regarded him beneath her lashes. She should go. She really should. But she had never been able to resist a bit of gossip. Whenever someone staunchly refused to elaborate more than three words on a topic, something rife with scandal was surely at its root. The best plan, she decided, was to keep him talking. He’d reveal himself naturally, during the course of conversation.

“I must admit,” she said casually, “the ‘city’ ambience here in Bournemouth isn’t quite the same as back home.”

“Oh?” He swirled his brandy glass and played along. “Is something lacking?”

“It may be the case that I haven’t explored the entire shopping district yet,” she allowed magnanimously, “but I didn’t seem to come across jewelers, frozen ices, modistes, and the like. Nor did I notice any theaters, pleasure gardens, racing tracks . . . not even a church.”

“Which explains what our man of the cloth was doing in Sully’s tavern. Poor sap has nowhere else to be.”

This gave Susan pause. “Does
anyone
here have somewhere to be?”

Something in her voice made him lean forward, elbows on knees, and ask, “Truthfully?”

She nodded.

He appeared to ponder the question. “No.”

That’s what she was afraid of. She wasn’t sure how long her parents expected her to remain here (they’d surely said “forever” out of anger) but Susan didn’t intend to stay one more day.

“You may have noticed the beach,” Mr. Bothwick continued slowly, appearing to give her question much thought. “But I wouldn’t recommend bathing in it.”

“Too cold?”

He plucked a piece of seaweed from his breeches. “I can assure you.”

“And the neighboring cities?”

“We have neighboring cities?”

“Er . . . I was told Bath was somewhat nearby.”

“A bit of a walk, wouldn’t you say? In general, the locals stay local. About ten miles to the nearest posting-house.”

Ten—Susan’s lungs seized. When her parents’ money finally arrived, she would have to beg a ride from one of the alleged persons with horses.
He
certainly didn’t have any. The trail leading to his door scarcely allowed for a man on foot. And as he’d said, the locals preferred to stay local.

“Strong currents in the water.” He gazed into his brandy. “Watch out for that if you do end up in the ocean for some reason. Cliffs are a bit dangerous around here, too. But I suppose you’ve figured that out for yourself.”

“Er, yes.” Susan shifted on the sofa cushion. “I did notice, thanks.”

She had no wish to analyze whether her discomfort was due to her bruised derrière or the memory of wrapping her arms tight around his neck. Had she really clung to him in such abandon, chest to chest, her heart beating against his? And was her traitorous pulse truly speeding back up at the mere memory?

“—a few young ladies,” he was saying now, obviously not plagued with memories of holding her in his arms. “Try the dress shop for that. You can talk fashion, I suppose, and see the new arrivals.”

Susan doubted anything new had ever arrived in Bournemouth. “Where—”

“It’s the only dress shop,” he assured her, a wry smile at his lips. “You’ll find it.”

She doubted it. She still got lost in her Mayfair town house. “Would . . . would you walk me there now? I have a tendency to get turned around.”

He rubbed his chin, looking at her as if he couldn’t decide whether accompanying her would be a good idea or a ghastly one. Why? Was he afraid he would find her in his arms once again? Or that he wouldn’t?

“All right,” he said at last. “But I won’t stay. I have to find a missing person.”

“A missing person?” Susan leaned forward. How romantic! This explained his mercurial moods. And why he was equally averse to being sighted along with Susan. “Who is she? Where do you think she went? Why do you think she left?”

“Not a she.” He drained his brandy. “And I doubt he had much choice in the matter. He’s dead.”

“You lost a dead person?” she echoed, fingers gripping her knees in horror.

His face hardened and his eyes sparked with simmering fury. “To be honest, I rather suspect somebody stole him from me.”

“You . . .” Whatever she was going to say died on her tongue.

Susan leapt to her feet. What the bloody hell had she been
thinking,
whiling away the morning with this madman as if he’d invited her over for biscuits and tea? He carried a
pistol.
And misplaced
dead people.
(Of which she was seeing entirely too many as of late.) She fled from the elegant drawing room as if it had caught fire around her. How many times had gossip-seeking gotten her into trouble? How many times had she promised herself “never again”?

When did she plan to start keeping those promises—once she was dead?

Chapter 4

The dress shop was the last of the rotten wooden cubes jutting up along the bone-white shore. A long-ago fire had charred the lilting roof, adding the impression of a festering cavity to the illusion of giant’s teeth. The faint smell of smoke still whispered beneath the salt of the frothing ocean. When the crooked door listed open on rusted hinges, Susan half-expected a nursery-tale witch to emerge from within, broomstick in hand.

She was not disappointed.

A pale young woman swung a spindly black parasol in place of a broom, its broken spines no doubt the cause of her tattered grey skirts’ shredded appearance. Strands of flyaway red hair snaked across her face and neck. Wild eyes swept their gaze up and down the empty shoreline. Then she paused, ear to the cliff, as if anticipating an unwanted arrival. After a moment, she spun around, crimson pelisse rippling in the breeze, and closed the door behind her.

Susan shivered. Whatever sort of cabal gathered beneath the scorched rafters of the dress shop, Susan was certain she’d best not interrupt. Even if that meant spending the next eight hours trying to discover a usable path back to Moonseed Manor on her own.

She had just decided to brave the cliff ’s face alone when she caught sight of someone skulking in the shadows behind one of the shuttered shops.

The scarecrow.

Were it not for his shock of straw hair catching the occasional ray of morning sun from the overcast sky, she might not have noticed his presence. As it was, she definitely did not wish for him to notice her. Although he undoubtedly knew how to return to Moonseed Manor, he did not appear to be en route to that locale. He appeared to be digging beneath the sand.

His jagged slash of a smile flashed grotesquely across his uneven face each time his shovel struck the earth. His eyes slid side to side in their sockets as he shot furtive glances over his shoulder as if expecting to see a Jolly Roger fluttering above the watery horizon. He raked his gaze around the entire perimeter of the village.

And saw her.

When his eyes locked with hers, Susan couldn’t prevent a gasp from strangling in her throat.

The scarecrow’s ragged-tooth smile disappeared into a thin line. His fingers flexed, then tightened around the shovel. Without bothering to refill the hole—no matter why he’d dug one to start with—he swung the sharp metal base over one bony shoulder like a deadly infantryman poising his bayonet. Then he stepped toward her.

She could run. But not fast and not far, and she hadn’t the slightest clue where to run
to
that would possibly offer shelter from a homicidal butler who knew every grain of salt in this godforsaken village. Yet staying out in the open, alone, had ceased to be an option that ensured survival.

He crept closer. His jerky limbs gave his gait a disjointed rhythm, but the steel glinting behind his head lent him an air of imminent danger.

She needed to hide amongst people. Living people.
Now.
Before she had a chance to change her mind, Susan did the only thing she could.

She bolted into the dress shop.

Thick curtains blocked the sun. A flickering candelabrum illuminated the dank interior, casting a hellish orange glow over the two women hunched together between rows of dark, flowing silk. The witch stood mostly in shadow, the tip of her parasol digging into the floor next to her feet. She spoke in hushed tones to a porcelain doll of a woman with strawberry-blond locks and a beautiful lace-trimmed gown.

Both ceased talking at the hollow click of the door. They turned.

Two pairs of suspicious eyes glinted at Susan. The tiny flames from tarnished candelabra sent shadows scurrying across their faces. Susan hesitated, but could not flee. She knew what lurked, shovel in hand, on the other side of these walls.

“Will you look at that,” the witch murmured without straightening her hunched spine. “A customer.”

“Fresh blood.” A terrible smile formed in the porcelain doll’s perfect face.

They broke their tête-à-tête and advanced toward Susan. The porcelain doll’s steps were as silent and sure as a prima ballerina flying across a London stage. The tip of the witch’s closed parasol scraped across the hardwood floor like a sword hanging free from its scabbard.

The door creaked open behind Susan, sending a gust of salty air swirling through the room. Layers of silk fluttered with the chill. Neither the witch nor the porcelain doll halted their approach. Footsteps sounded in the doorway behind Susan. A shadow fell across the floor.

She turned to face the scarecrow.

He wasn’t there.

Instead, a man of no more than thirty years stood silhouetted in the doorway, his body backlit by the morning sun and his features cast in shadow. He was nearly as tall as Mr. Both-wick, if a bit less muscular. Strands of golden hair danced between the sunlight and the breeze. He stepped forward. The door swung shut behind him.

“Mr. Forrester,” the two women behind Susan breathed simultaneously.

“Ladies.” He bowed. “Good morning.”

Susan blinked. A
real
gentleman?

His gaze met hers. “I came to see the two prettiest young ladies in Bournemouth, and must say I’m delighted to discover a third in your midst.”

Candlelight lit Mr. Forrester’s face, exposing angel-blue eyes and a boyish smile beneath his head of golden curls. Blues and reds lent his attire the classic air of a Rubens portrait. He reached for Susan’s trembling hand, dipped, and pressed a kiss against the back of her gloved fingers.

An awkward silence wafted amongst the shadows. “M-Miss Susan Stanton,” she stammered when she realized no one else would be able to make the introduction for her. Had she mentioned she
hated
not being in London?

“Gordon Forrester.” He rose to his feet before releasing her hand. “Delighted to meet you.” He inclined his head, then moved past her to buss the other ladies’ cheeks without another word.

Dismissed so easily?

Susan stared after him in shock. That had to go on record as the shortest conversation she’d ever held with a gentleman. The sharks that swam up to her in London ballrooms smelled Stanton money in the water and scarcely let her have a moment alone to visit the retiring room. The ones who approached her outside the ballroom walls—well, those fancied an intimacy Susan had sworn never to grant any man unworthy of being her husband. But none had ever
dismissed
her.

And for women such as these!

She stared, arms crossed beneath her bodice, as the porcelain doll performed a perfect pirouette to show off her fashionable gown (and no doubt the ankles beneath). A blush as deep a red as her flyaway hair stole up the witch’s pale cheeks as she curtsied behind her closed parasol. Neither one of
them
had bothered to introduce themselves.

Susan’s jaw clenched. In London, she knew every face worth knowing and they all knew her. In London, hers were the cheeks being bussed by this viscount or that countess. In London, a thick ring of admirers stayed well within her orbit, eager to hear whatever words might fall next from her lips. But she was in Bournemouth.

Well, while she was stuck here, she’d show these “ladies” how quickly a Stanton could surpass their supposed popularity. Father’s escape money should arrive within the week, but Susan doubted she required half that long to have the town salivating for her company. After all, she was queen of the world’s one irresistible sweet: gossip.

First, however, she had to make her presence felt. She straightened her glasses and stepped forward. Mr. Forrester glanced up, but instead of smiling at her as all men did, his cherubic brow furrowed in a frown.

“I keep feeling we’ve met before, Miss Stanton. Have you been in Bournemouth long?”

“I’m afraid I arrived last night.”

The witch leaned forward on her parasol, her pale white fingers gripping the ebony handle. “Do you drink, Miss Stanton?”

She shook her head. “I do not.”

“What a relief,” the porcelain doll cooed with false sweetness. “We were afraid you and an unfortunate blond girl who collapsed this morning in Sully’s tavern might have been one and the same.”

Susan’s head swam. They’d been gossiping. About
her.
And it was true! (If not for the reasons they assumed.)

Mr. Forrester’s lips rounded into an
O.
“
That’s
where I saw you.”

Her face flamed.

The two ladies tittered. They’d known precisely who she was—most likely from the moment she’d stepped into the shop—and had chosen this method of revealing their knowledge so as to provide maximum humiliation before a handsome gentleman.

Susan knew this trick well. She had just never been on the receiving end of it.

No matter. She would rise above. So long as her name was never again linked to gossip-worthy behavior, talk would quickly die down. In the meantime, she would simply need to appear the veriest paragon of respectability and normalcy.

She opened her mouth to reply before she realized they’d moved on without bothering to wait for her response. They stood in a closed circle, heads bowed together. Short bursts of laughter punctuated their murmured conversation.

Susan stood off to the side.
Cut.

Harrumph. The least these country bumpkins could do was provide a newcomer clear instructions on how best to return to her lodgings. Susan stepped forward again, piqued enough at their sophomoric behavior to interrupt their conversation, despite the rudeness of such an act.

Before she could do so, however, a fifth joined their midst. He entered by floating through the far wall.

The bearded ghost.

There was nowhere to run. The scarecrow could still be outside, waiting for her with his shovel poised behind his head. Even if the scarecrow had crept back home, mere walls would not prevent the bearded ghost from pursuing her.

Of course, whiling away the morning with
this
trio was no more palatable.

What she needed to do was get directions back to Moonseed Manor without letting the presence of a ghost in the room cause her to appear distracted (or insane).

“Ho there!” the bearded ghost exclaimed, catching sight of her. He ran a meaty hand over his bald pate and stared at her expectantly. “Don’t you recognize me?”

She didn’t answer.

He hopped up and down in front of her. Careful not to touch her, he waved his hands in front of her face.

Susan ignored him as best she could and tried to determine the best way to catch the others’ attention without flat-out interrupting.

“When did you see him last?” Mr. Forrester was asking.

The porcelain doll rolled her eyes. “One doesn’t keep tabs on one’s grown brother.”

“Especially a will-o’-the-wisp like Joshua.” The witch picked at the spines of her umbrella. “He’s here. He’s gone. And then you wonder if he was ever here at all.”

“Excuse me,” Susan put in when they lapsed into thoughtful silence. “Could one of you direct me to Moonseed Manor?”

“It’s at the top of the cliff,” the witch said, pointing out the obvious.

“Yes, I know, but—”

“Didn’t you
come
from there?” asked the porcelain doll with an equally amused expression.

“Yes, but I—”

“The easiest way,” said Mr. Forrester in what he probably thought was a helpful tone, “might be to go back up along the same path you came down.”

“And you know, I considered that,” Susan said through clenched teeth. “But as the entire path slid down the cliff behind me, I suspect an alternate route back to the top might be in order.”

The porcelain doll choked on a giggle. “You didn’t take—”

“She did,” crowed the witch. “She must have.”

“Bothwick’s the only one reckless enough to cut down that way.” The porcelain doll shook her perfect head. “Next time I see him, I’ll—”

“I thought you weren’t seeing him anymore.” The witch’s eyes lit with mischief.

“That doesn’t mean I won’t
see
him,” the porcelain doll snapped. “It’s not as though there’s an overabundance of crowds to lose oneself in around here.”

“So . . .” Susan prompted. “The path I
should
be taking is . . .”

The women ignored her and continued bickering.

She affixed her desperate gaze on the cherubic Mr. Forrester.

He smiled apologetically. “I’d take you myself if I knew the area.”

The bearded ghost leapt between them and began gesticulating wildly, pointing at himself, then the others, then back to himself.

Susan pushed up her spectacles and tried to focus on Mr. Forrester. “You’re not from around here, then?”

“I am from
around
here, but not from Bournemouth itself.”

BOOK: Too Sinful to Deny

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