Too Sinful to Deny (10 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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The sudden image was almost his undoing. He backed up slightly. There was now enough room between them for . . . well, maybe a feather. He fought the urge to press against her again.
“I—” The empty tumbler she clenched in one of her hands knocked against the corner wall. There you go. He could act normal, be a gentleman. Not that any of this was normal. “May I buy you a brandy?”
Stupid. He should have brought a bottle with him. As many as he could carry. Now that he was here, so close that her jasmine-scented skin set his blood to sizzling, he had no intention of leaving her side.
The rolling roar of the crowd masked her reply. It had almost sounded like,
please buy them all.
Evan frowned his confusion and took the drunken revelry as an excuse to lower his head and breathe in her scent more deeply.
When she opened her mouth, her lower lip scraped across his cheek. He was too close for propriety. He knew it. But he couldn’t make himself care. Or give her space.
“I want out.”
This time, he heard her clearly. And her wish dovetailed nicely with his own, which was to remove them both to the nearest secluded area. Wherein he hoped they’d remove their clothes.
He took her hand. She let him.
He’d have carried her, if there’d been room to do so, just to feel her soft curves in his arms again. Instead, they forged their way together. He was the bow, parting the sea. She was—well, she was the sea he’d
rather
be parting. There was nothing he desired more than to feel her turbulent wetness on his—
“Thank you.”
Evan blinked away the image. They were outside. He still held her hand.
“This way,” he said, without letting it go. Without letting her go.
She hesitated, glanced back at the tavern, then allowed herself to be propelled forward. “Where are we going?”
Evan didn’t rightly know himself. Until he saw it, pushed open the door, pulled her inside.
“The apothecary?” She glanced about. “Are you ill?”
Absolutely. Ill with desire. He dropped her hand, backed up to the counter, forced himself to think carefully about what he was doing. This had been a bad idea, from the moment she’d caught his eye. Yet he felt as powerless to change course as an iron ball firing from a cannon.
She gave up waiting on an answer and wandered around the tiny store, peering at this and that with an expression that indicated she wasn’t truly registering any of the gewgaws. He propped his elbows on the counter behind him and watched her. To his surprise, he could’ve gladly done so all day. She was not at all his normal fare. Slender instead of voluptuous. Viper-tongued instead of saucy. Intelligent instead of—well, he normally didn’t waste time with conversation at all. After all, it wasn’t as if men and women were meant to be
friends.
They joined together for pleasure, and pleasure only. Or there was no point being together at all.
A cold worm of doubt wriggled along the edges of Evan’s desire. She wasn’t his usual pickings for a reason. Many, many sound reasons. There were wenches you tumbled, and women you didn’t. If a female fell into the latter category, you stayed as far away from her as possible, because to do otherwise was nothing but folly.
But, oh, he yearned to kiss her anyway.
She glanced up as if reading his mind. No—that wasn’t lust in her eyes. That was suspicion. For a moment, she might as well have been a figurehead afore a ship, frozen in position forever.
When she spoke, her tone was wary. “Where is the apothecary ?”
Evan glanced over his shoulder. No one there. He turned back to face the empty little room behind her, but he’d already come to the same conclusion she had. They were alone.
“Shark’s Tooth, I think.” He belatedly recalled shoving the apothecary aside in his determination to reach Miss Stanton. The old fool had been too drunk to even grunt. “I imagine everyone in town is inside the tavern right now. Free drinks are always a lure.”
She closed her eyes as if in pain. Probably to block out the impropriety of his words, to pretend she was not alone with him. To calculate the best moment to punch him in the ribs again. Or just to erase him from sight.
He, on the other hand, drank in every detail. Her soft eyelashes, dark brown against pale cheeks. The tendril of pale blond hair curled around the thin arm of her spectacles. Her breath, audible, coming faster.
Was this how she’d look when he kissed her? Eyes closed, lips parted, face tilted up for more? He could no longer take the suspense.
He closed the distance in one stride, held her face in his hands before she’d have a chance to realize how imminent was her danger. His mouth was on hers before she could protest.
Just one kiss, he told himself. Just one kiss, one touch, one taste, and he would leave her alone forever, no harm done. They were alone. Nobody would have to know.
He brushed his lips against hers, slowly, softly, dragging the unhurried contact from one side to the other, trying to coax a response.
She sucked in a breath.
He kissed her.
No sloppy, brutish kisses, these. He knew better than to startle her with too much, too fast. Just slow, seductive, open-mouth kisses, where he could occasionally catch the edge of her lower lip gently between his teeth and taste the spicy flavor of Miss Susan Stanton.
Then she started to do the same.
Her lips parted, her mouth opened beneath his, she bit his lower lip—much harder than he’d nibbled hers—but followed the brief sting with more kisses. One of his hands slid to the back of her head, destroying her prim coiffure, locking her into place. Soft hair spilled across his hand, tangled in his fingers.
Something clinked against the wooden floor. Some useless frippery, fallen from her hair. He didn’t pause. Neither did she. Her hands gripped his sides, his shoulders, his back. Pulled him closer.
Perhaps she wouldn’t be
very
startled if he swept his tongue inside, just for a second. He tried it. Her breath caught, and for a moment he thought he’d gone too fast. Too far. He retreated into the safety of his own mouth.
Her tongue followed his. Sweetly. Tentatively.
Evan groaned, kissed her again, holding nothing back this time. He kept one hand cradling her head, slid the other down her spine to the curve of her arse, and pressed her to him.
The door swung open.
Chapter 8
Before the iron hinges on the apothecary door had time to finish creaking, Mr. Bothwick had scrambled backward as if jerked by a string, leapt over the impressively tall medicine counter, and disappeared through a window Susan was fairly certain wasn’t meant to be an escape route. The capricious good-for-naught was leaving her on her own to deal with—
Red?!
The ghost floated inside, causing Susan’s mind to boggle for the third time in as many seconds. How the dickens . . . ? But right on Red’s (quite invisible) heels were the two women Susan was least hoping to see: the porcelain doll, Miss Devonshire, and the neighborhood sorceress, Miss Grey.
Spectacular. Susan lifted a hand to her swollen mouth, although whether she intended to wipe away the kiss or seal it there forever, she wasn’t sure.
“Ho,” cackled the witch, jabbing her spindly black umbrella in Susan’s direction. “Look at her trying to hide the evidence!”
“Where is he?” the porcelain doll demanded, her voice as thin and frail as her delicate body. “Where did he go?”
That was a bloody good question, now, wasn’t it? A flash of anger welded Susan’s spine ramrod straight. Next time she saw that man, she’d push him off a cliff. She rubbed at her mouth, disgusted with herself for letting him maul her like that. Even if it hadn’t felt precisely like mauling in the moment.
“He can’t just disappear into thin air,” announced the witch, whose magical talent appeared to be pointing out the obvious. The razor-thin tip of her umbrella thrust toward Susan again. “Ask
her.
”
Red danced between them. “Tell her! Tell her now! Say ‘Your brother Red—’ Or Joshua Grey, if you like, but those who knew me best knew me as Red, and there ain’t none that don’t know a man as well as his own family, says I, so if I was you, right now I’d say, ‘Your brother Red—’”
Susan’s hands flew away from her lips in order to gesture him off. He jerked backward, eyes wide, hands in the air.
“No-ho, you troublesome bit of baggage. You’re not doing that to me again. Not until you’ve kept your promise to tell my sister I’m now one of the dearly departed.”
With her head still abuzz from Mr. Bothwick’s kisses—and subsequent cowardly defection—it took Susan a moment to decipher what it was that the ghost didn’t want her to do. Then it hit her. Rather, the first time, he’d hit her . . . and then promptly disappeared. The second time, she’d done the honors herself. Which meant if she could just . . . reach . . . him, she could get him out . . . of . . . here—
She missed her mark, lurched to an awkward stop, and realized both women were staring at her as if even bats would be too leery to reside in her belfry.
“I . . .” Susan was at a loss to explain her actions.
The porcelain doll rounded on her, perfect ringlets bouncing about her perfect face. “Don’t think you’re going to win him from me,
Miss Stanton,
because you’re not.”
Susan had never heard her name sound more like an epithet.
“I don’t fancy him.” No point pretending she didn’t know of whom they spoke.
“That’s not what it looked like.” The witch’s crimson coat fluttered behind her as she stalked closer to Susan. “That’s not what
you
look like.”
Bloody hell, how bad did she look? Susan’s fingers returned involuntarily to her lips, then over to her hair, which was definitely not in its impromptu chignon. The blond mass now tumbled about her face in all its half-straight, half-curled glory. Spectacular.
“Do you realize that if anyone else had caught you two together, the next time you saw him would be at the altar?” The porcelain doll’s voice rose to such a glass-shattering level, Susan half-expected cracks to spider across Miss Devonshire’s china-perfect features.
Then the words sunk in. No. No, she hadn’t thought of that. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Because she was too busy kissing and being kissed? No wonder Mr. Bothwick disappeared through the closest window. He didn’t want to be saddled with her any more than she wanted to have her life destroyed by being stuck here in hell with him.
“He’s all yours.” Susan knelt to pick up her fallen pearl comb. When she glanced up at the porcelain doll’s continued pique, she couldn’t help but add, “If you can find him.”
Miss Devonshire’s face went livid. “You think you’re special just because he kissed you? Do you know how many women he’s loved and left?”
No, Susan didn’t think she was special because she’d let him kiss her. She was pretty certain her promiscuous behavior indicated an impending aneurysm. And yes, she had a fairly good idea as to how unremarkable she was compared with the legions of beautiful, moral-free women composing the colorful backdrop of Mr. Bothwick’s personal life. Which was yet another indication she’d completely lost her mind.
“Who cares about Bothwick?” the ghost called from the safety of the ceiling. “Just tell Harriet I’m dead and we can all get out of here.”
Susan’s teeth set. Sure, that’d cheer them up. Then maybe they could sing songs and bake pies.
“It’s his money, isn’t it,” the witch said slowly, leaning on the curved handle of her umbrella. “Dinah, she’s after his money!”
Susan rolled her eyes. She was not. Well, perhaps a little. Just enough to cover the bar tab. But she’d pay him back the moment her allowance arrived. She could buy the girls’ entire dress shop when her allowance arrived.
If her allowance arrived.
“It’s not fair for you to set your sights on the richest bachelor in Bournemouth,” the porcelain doll shrilled. “Aren’t there plenty of eligible dandies with buckets full of money for you to choose from back in London?”
Why, yes, there were. And Susan would capture one by fair means or foul. Once she made it to London alive. But—wait a minute.
She removed her spectacles and cleaned them in her skirts so as not to be distracted by the ghost’s constant gesticulation. Mr. Bothwick had money? That meant . . . the gorgeous house with its tasteful, elegant interior . . . did belong to him after all. That man was getting curiouser by the second.
“Make that the only rich gentleman from here to Bath.” The witch elbowed the porcelain doll, clearly trying to needle her into a murderous rage. “And she’s trying to take him from you.”
“Not the only rich gentleman,” was all Susan could think to say to defuse the situation, since continuing to deny interest in Mr. Bothwick was obviously pointless.
“That right?” One of the witch’s thin red brows lifted. “Who else is there?”
“Er . . .” Rot. Now she had to think of someone. “Mr. Forrester?”
“Is poor as a church mouse. And he’s a
magistrat
e.”
The word was spoken with as much disdain as if she’d said “stable boy.” Fair enough. Who else in this town had money? Well, her charming host, for one. “My cousin?”
The witch laughed. “He’s plain old Oliver Hamilton, from nowhere.”
“Not a connection to his name,” the porcelain doll agreed with a little sniff. “He married the Beaune money.”
“They all do,” the witch added darkly.
They leaned in, as if waiting to see if Susan would take the bait of promised gossip. Since the two were thereby distracted from tearing her limb from limb, far be it from Susan to put the conversation back on track.
“What is that supposed to mean?” she asked, with genuine interest. “Who else married Lady Beaune for her money?”
“Not
her.
The
real
Lady Beaune. The first one. You’re thinking of her daughter. Lady Emeline.”
“The first one,” Susan echoed faintly. The chill racing down her spine assured her she’d already met the lady in question. Haunting the Beaune chamber. And the terrified young woman in the cellar was the ghost’s daughter. Lady Emeline. A cousin who must be very near Susan’s age . . . yet had endured so much more.
“Who cares about that old history?” Red shouted, floating closer. “I’m the only dead person you should be talking about!”
She ignored him.
“Legend has it—” the witch began.
Susan frowned and interrupted. “What do you mean, legend? Didn’t he die last year? Wouldn’t that mean you
know
what happened to him?”
“They were both reclusive,” the porcelain doll explained. “Nobody saw Lady Beaune. She was always cloistered inside Moonseed Manor. I almost didn’t think she was real, until the day she—”
The redhead glared at her friend. “May I
tell
the story?”
“Please,” Susan intervened before the ladies came to fisticuffs. “From the beginning.”
“Legend has it,” the witch repeated, stepping forward as if to edge the porcelain doll from Susan’s view, “Lady Beaune’s beauty and riches made her the fairest catch for miles, despite being a deaf-mute who—”
“She wasn’t a deaf-mute yet, Harriet.”
“Dinah, I swear, if you don’t let me—”
“Then tell it right!”
“
Somebody
tell me,” Susan begged. “Please.”
“He married her for money,” the porcelain doll blurted, casting a wary glance at the witch, who simply crossed her arms and hexed them both from narrowed eyes.
“Who did?”
“Lord Jean-Louis Beaune. He was in love with the Moonseed fortune and she was the sole heiress. Nobody knows what he was lord of—if he even was. But he was handsome and titled and penniless, and she was beautiful and rich and title-less, and they married within a fortnight.”
“And
then
she became deaf-mute,” the witch muttered.
“Yes.” The porcelain doll nodded, as if this made perfect sense. “Exactly so.”
Susan fought the urge to shake them both. “This unfortunate change occurred . . .”
“On the wedding night.” The porcelain doll shivered delicately. “She was never seen again . . . alive. But Lord Beaune had the signed wedding contract, and with it came the land and the money.”
“As far as I’m concerned, the contract could have been nullified,” said the witch. “Think about it. Would you consummate marriage with a deaf-mute?”
“I’d consummate marriage with an
Irishman
if he were rich enough to whisk me out of here,” the porcelain doll said, and tittered half-hysterically.
Susan considered throttling her.
“So,” she said slowly, “this all took place . . .”
“Thirty years ago.”
“Thirty—” Susan choked. “This woman became spontaneously deaf-mute the night her money-grubbing fiancé gained control of her funds and properties. She subsequently went missing for thirty years, and . . . nobody thought anything of it?”
“It was terribly romantic,” the witch agreed absently.
“And tragic,” the porcelain doll added. “What with the daughter and all.”
Susan blinked. “But you said they might not have consummated—”
“On the
wedding
night,” the witch corrected. “That’s when her family could’ve annulled the marriage, had they known what had happened. Obviously the two consummated at some point. No doubt frequent . . . consummation. Men do want their heirs.”
Susan stared at her, horrified. “And nobody thought her new husband might be a villain?”
“He was titled,” the porcelain doll said with a careless wave, as if titles excused everything. “Besides, why would he have kept her alive for thirty years if he wished her dead?”
“Although . . . he did kill her eventually,” the witch mused.
The porcelain doll’s chin lifted. “He felt terrible about it, poor man.”
Susan felt the bones in her skull slowly cracking apart. Somebody needed to teach these two how to gossip properly before their nonlinear, nonsensical storytelling made Susan’s head explode.
Red popped in front of her, agitated. “If you would just—”
She slashed a hand through his face and he was gone.
“Who can tell me in twenty words or less,” she articulated carefully, “how he killed her, why he killed her, and why nobody in this town did a bloody thing about it?”
“Pistol,” the porcelain doll answered promptly. “And he did it out of love.”
“She’d gone mad and thrown herself from her bedroom window.” The witch’s voice held a tremor of remembered terror. “It was a frightening sight. She didn’t die on impact, but there was nothing to do. Being mute, Lady Beaune couldn’t scream in agony from all the cuts, all the breaks. She could only lie there brokenly and whimper.”
“Yes. She had the most terrible, heartrending whimper. . . .” The porcelain doll’s eyes squeezed shut as if to block out the memory. “That’s when Lord Beaune went for his pistol. Lady Beaune was dying, and he didn’t wish for her to suffer. He said . . . He said . . .”
“He said it’s a sad day when a man has to put his wife out of her misery like a common horse,” the witch finished. “And then he shot her.”
Susan’s head reeled. Lord Beaune killed his wife like a common horse?
Nothing
about this story was common. Was that why the poor woman was haunting Susan? Because she was spending every night in the very chamber from which Lady Beaune had taken her own life in a desperate leap for freedom? Susan would never have another wink of sleep.

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