Too Wicked to Kiss: Gothic Love Stories #1

by Ridley, Erica

  Susan shook her head. “Don’t be silly. Husbands don’t hit their wives for no reason.”

  Evangeline strangled on an outraged reply. Was “because Mama happened to be standing there” a good enough reason for fists to fly? Or “because he was drunk” or “because he was hungry” or “because his horse threw a shoe that day?” Neal Pemberton might think so. Evangeline did not. But in the end, she decided not to share her opinion aloud. Perhaps Susan was better off not knowing how the world really worked.

  “Shhh, here she comes.” Susan leapt to her feet. Evangeline followed suit.

  The countess approached with wary eyes and a hesitant smile. She’d reapplied her face powder, somewhat masking the redness of her cheek. “Are you ladies game for some dancing later?”

  “Oh, yes,” Susan gushed, clasping her hands together. “I love dancing.”

  “I’m afraid I am to be a wallflower,” Evangeline said. There hadn’t been much time for dancing in their little village, though she’d always wanted to try. But with less than a week gone by since her mother’s funeral, dancing seemed wholly out of the question.

  “Just as well,” Lady Heatherbrook said with a relieved expression. “We are an uneven eleven, but ten is well-suited for dancing.”

  Although Lady Heatherbrook appeared neither angry nor resentful for their skewed numbers, Evangeline was well aware her uninvited presence was the cause. She didn’t belong at a house party. She didn’t belong in the world of the ton. She belonged in a simple little shire off in the country, where the townsfolk actually needed her. Somewhere she could put her Gift to use without fear of repercussion.

  At that thought, the weight of the servants’ furtive stares upon her back finally proved too much for Evangeline. She needed to find Ginny—now, while all the others were guaranteed to be occupied in their separate after-dinner rooms—and discover if there were any way to undo whatever damage Ginny’s gossip had done.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Evangeline murmured.

  “Of course,” Lady Heatherbrook demurred. She linked her arm with Susan’s and turned to stroll about the room. “There’s Nancy,” she said as they walked away. “Shall we join her?”

  Evangeline, quite used to being dismissed, made a swift exit. Two servants raced to be the first to swing open the door for her, as though Evangeline were royalty and not a runaway orphan. At home, she didn’t mind such attention from the villagers. In this house, however, she preferred anonymity. The ton was far too dangerous for her to be openly different.

  As she stepped into the hall, she turned to smile her thanks at the servants because to do so was hopelessly ingrained upon her personality. Because her head was turned, she wasn’t watching where she was going.

  Which was how, not two steps from the closing door, Evangeline found herself belly to groin with Gavin Lioncroft.

  “It’s been a while since I had a woman hurl herself into my arms,” came a low, deep voice.

  With the side of her face plastered against his chest, each syllable rumbled from his body to hers, sending an unfamiliar sensation skittering across Evangeline’s flesh. The heat from his breath tickled the flyaway hair atop her head in a sensual, intimate manner. She sucked in an indignant breath, only to fill her lungs with the heady scent of expensive port and fresh soap and virile man. Her eyes closed, just for a moment, to better allow the combination of scent and proximity to invade her senses.

  And then Evangeline remembered exactly whom she’d collided with.

  She pushed away. Or tried to, but his warm strong arms were still locked tight around her, likely to prevent her from toppling over when she’d first crashed into him. As she was no longer in danger of falling, he should let her go.

  He did not.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, the words coming out breathy and muffled against the hardness of his chest and the softness of his cravat.

  “Holding you,” he answered, his tone droll, as if the situation was ridiculously obvious.

  Which, she supposed, it was.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded. As defiantly as one could, with one’s breasts flattened against a muscular male torso and one’s legs tangled with long, lean limbs.

  “I live here.” His nose glided along the top of her hair. He inhaled, shuddering slightly as if her scent affected him as much as his affected her. “What are you doing here?”

  Before Evangeline could form a sharp retort about being unable to do much of anything, what with him crushing her to him in the middle of a darkened corridor, he abruptly released her. The withdrawal of his support was somehow more damaging to her equilibrium than his audacious presumption in the first place. In attempting to regain her balance, she stumbled. Very briefly, but in that moment, he caught her to him again.

  And this time was different.

  Instead of enveloping her body in a steadying sort of hug, now his arms were bent and loose, his shoulders relaxed, his fingers resting lightly above the curve of her hips. His legs intertwined with hers. And with his back leaning against the wall opposite the (thankfully) still-closed door, his body was at just enough of an angle that she straddled his strong, hard thigh.

  His entire frame was pressed against hers in the most shocking, scandalous, provocative of places.

  And this time, her breasts were not flattened against his chest, nor was her face smashed against the ruined creases of his cravat. This time, her shoulders were just far enough back that only the tips of her nipples pushed the silk of her gown into the starched perfection of his shirt. Her face tilted upward, bringing her mouth within inches of his. Instead of tickling against the top of her head, his port-spiced breath steamed against her cheek, her nose, her lips, causing the latter to part involuntarily.

  “Perhaps,” he said softly, never taking his heated gaze from hers, “you came out here to be kissed.”

  “I—” Evangeline stammered, violently shaking her head. At least, she hoped she was shaking her head. She might’ve just been staring at him, breathlessly awaiting his next move.

  It wasn’t until he lifted a dark brow and murmured, “No?” that Evangeline was assured she’d shaken her head after all.

  And it wasn’t until he still hadn’t let go that Evangeline realized he wasn’t even holding her against him. The tips of his fingers burned through the silk of her gown and the cotton of her shift to the shivering flesh beneath, but he was in no way preventing her from quitting his embrace.

  In fact, she was the one whose fingers clutched at the hard muscle of his upper arms. She was the one who leaned against him in wanton abandon, turning his indolent pose into something shocking and lascivious. She was the one with her face still tilted toward his, lashes lowered, lips parted, throat dry.

  Heaven help her, if she didn’t get away from him right this very second, she might be the one to close the distance between his mouth and hers, sweeping her tongue across his in a manner she’d only seen in visions, discovering for herself whether he truly tasted as hot as he felt and as wicked as he looked.

  Evangeline jerked out of his grasp, tripping over her own feet and righting herself with a palm to the wall. Still clutching the wainscoting, she peeked over her shoulder at him, half-afraid of what she might see.

  He was right where she’d left him, lounging in the shadows, with his shoulders braced against the serpentine walls. One leg stretched slightly before him. The other was bent at the knee, the sole of his boot against the footboard. His thumbs hooked into his waistband, giving him the same careless pose as when she’d first run into him outside the dining room door.

  Then, her eyes catalogued the curl of his dark hair, the smart cut of his clothes, the arrogance of his manner. This time, she couldn’t help but notice the way his gaze heated as he looked at her. The way his chest shifted with each breath. The way the curving of his fingers seemed to point directly at the unmistakable interest evident in the tight fit of his breeches.

  Evangeline spun away, simulta
neously gulping and blushing and pretending she hadn’t seen what they both knew she’d seen.

  Please, God, she prayed silently. Don’t let him mention it, for I think I might die.

  “I’ll be here,” came Mr. Lioncroft’s sinful voice from the shadows, “if you change your mind about the kissing.”

  She shivered, turning to face him despite herself. Why was the idea so tempting? Perhaps the man truly was the devil himself.

  “What are you really doing out here?” she stammered, hoping to change the subject to a far safer topic than kisses.

  He gazed at her for a moment, as if her feeble attempt at distraction amused him.

  At first, Evangeline thought he didn’t plan to answer. After all, he’d already spoken more words to her here in the silent corridor than he had during the dinner hours and the anteroom introductions combined.

  But then he shrugged, kicked off from the wall, and took a step closer. She flinched, but held her ground. He smiled.

  “I’m here,” he said, motioning to an open door some six or seven yards down the hallway, “because were I in there, I would find my fist in Heatherbrook’s face.”

  Well. Evangeline swallowed. That was certainly a straightforward response. And just what she needed to remind herself that he was no dark prince to be kissing in the corridors, but a savage wolf, fully capable of attacking in anger. Had she not compared him to her stepfather just five minutes prior? Thank heavens she hadn’t been foolish enough to let her lips brush against his. All skin-to-skin contact sparked visions, and she’d seen plenty of violence from her glimpses into her stepfather’s mind. She had no wish to witness whatever Mr. Lioncroft had done to his poor parents, and everyone else who’d crossed him in some way.

  “Besides,” he continued with a surprisingly boyish grin. “It’s Edmund’s turn now.”

  “Edmund’s turn?” Evangeline echoed, reminding herself that a heart-melting smile did not make Mr. Lioncroft a trustworthy man.

  “We’d been in the library not two seconds when Heatherbrook’s brother pulled him aside. Between coughing fits, Benedict managed to rail at his elder brother Lord Heatherbrook for a good ten minutes before Edmund lurched betwixt, swearing and stumbling and drinking my best scotch like water.” He grimaced. “All of that was perfectly tolerable compared to being subsequently trapped by Teasdale.”

  “Mr. Teasdale trapped you?” Evangeline bit back an involuntary laugh. “How is that even possible?”

  “One word,” Mr. Lioncroft said with a melodramatic sigh. “Nancy. He’s contemplating an offer, according to my sister, and I’m to facilitate the match as best I can. But there’s no way I can condemn my niece to a wedding with Father Time, especially now that I know he’d never even laid eyes on her before this evening. All that girl needs is a Season or two. She’s bound to collect a slew of better suitors.”

  “I agree,” Evangeline said slowly. “W-why are you telling me?”

  “Because you seem different,” he answered after a moment’s reflection. His steady gaze still focused on her face. “Intelligent, self-sufficient, and… alone.” He drew in a breath, then let it out slowly. “Like me.”

  “I’m not like you.” Evangeline recoiled in horror. “I’m nothing like you.”

  A flicker of something indecipherable crossed his face, but she stalked away from him before she could identify the exact emotion. How could he possibly compare himself to her? She wasn’t a violent beast of a man like him. She had a soul. She had a talent. She used her Gift to help others. Which made her good. Nothing like him at all.

  He reached her side before she rounded the first corner.

  No matter how fast she walked or how many corners she turned, he was right there beside her, silent and brooding.

  Evangeline gave up on her illogical hope of losing him so she could find Ginny when she realized the only person she’d managed to lose was herself.

  Although this narrow, empty hallway had the same dark wainscoting and undulating paper as the rest, she didn’t recognize the series of closed doors before her. In fact, she realized as she glanced over her shoulder at the branching corridors beyond, she wasn’t even sure which intersection led back to the drawing room.

  “I give up,” she admitted, and blinked when he started, as if he’d forgotten her presence beside him. “Where are we?”

  “By the nursery.” He motioned up ahead toward a shaft of light flickering beneath a wide door. He stared at her for a long moment. “Do you care to meet my nieces?”

  “I…” Evangeline stared at Mr. Lioncroft. Nieces. She’d been so fixated on him being a heartless killer, she’d quite forgotten he was also an uncle. “All right.”

  He smiled, that eye-crinkling, teeth-flashing grin, but his eyes showed surprise, as if he’d fully expected her to shove her nose in the air and storm off, turning her back on both him and his innocent nieces.

  Evangeline followed him into the room, and curtseyed at each wide-eyed little girl as Mr. Lioncroft introduced them.

  “Jane, this is Miss Pemberton,” he said, addressing the tallest of the three. “Miss Pemberton, this beautiful young lady is Miss Jane Heatherbrook, whose very favorite game is pall-mall.”

  Jane turned shining blue eyes to Evangeline. “My birthday is in three days, and Uncle Lioncroft says the children and adults can play together. Oh, and we’re to have kite-flying,” she added, slanting him a coy look. “You promised.”

  “If it doesn’t snow,” he confirmed before crouching to introduce the other two girls, each as fair and blond as the other. “These two troublemakers are Rachel and Rebecca, whose birthday is not for several months.”

  “Twins,” Jane said with a roll of her eyes. “Twice the terror.”

  Mr. Lioncroft rose to his full height again and stared at all three girls, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do next, now that the introductions were over.

  After a moment, the two younger ones wandered back to a porcelain doll. A sudden, fierce ache twisted in Evangeline’s gut as she stared after them. As a young girl, she would’ve given anything to have had friends, to be normal, to link arms with another child without her head exploding in an onslaught of unwanted visions. As a woman…She glanced at Mr. Lioncroft through lowered lashes. As a woman, the yearning to touch and be touched had not waned. She’d simply become old enough to realize a true relationship would always be an impossible dream. After all, her mother had tried—and failed.

  Clearly bored with the conspicuous absence of conversation, Jane crossed the room to tease the twins, and an immediate row broke out.

  Rather than interrupt the argument, Mr. Lioncroft seized their distraction as an opportunity to escape, backing up to the doorway and holding the door open for Evangeline without another word.

  Men. They never did know what to do around children. She supposed he’d done as fair a job as anyone, considering he’d been shuttered in a childless mansion for more than the past decade.

  “Well,” he said after they’d regained the hallway and the door had closed behind them, “now you’ve met my nieces.”

  “Yes.” She could hardly believe those adorable girls were related to their violent, sneering father or their violent, reclusive uncle. But aloud, all she said was, “They’re darlings.”

  “Indeed,” Mr. Lioncroft uttered, his voice oddly hesitant. “They’re the only people in this house not frightened of me.”

  Not frightened of a murderer?

  “That’s because they’re not old enough to know better,” she said without thinking—and then started thinking. Thinking about just whom she was alone with, in a darkened passageway so far from the others. She spun away from him and headed back the way they came, her footsteps pounding as rapidly as her heart.

  Evangeline hadn’t gone far before her back slammed against the wainscoting, her breath whooshed from her lungs, and Mr. Lioncroft’s strong hands pinned her gloved wrists to the wall on either side of her head.

  He loomed over her, block
ing out the flickering sconce light and filling her nostrils with his unmistakable scent. Her traitorous body reacted just as it had before. By the heat smoldering in his dark gaze, she was sure he hadn’t missed the quickening of her pulse or the stuttering of her breath.

  When she struggled against him, he leaned closer, pressing his chest to her breasts, his thighs to her hips, until she was trapped motionless beneath him. And then he said the most surprising thing.

  “I apologize,” he muttered, the words coming out hot and moist and strained. “For earlier, when I first held you in the hallway.”

  Evangeline twisted in his grasp and merely succeeded in rubbing her aching body even more fiercely against his. “For attacking me?” she panted, glaring up at him. “Like the brute you obviously are?”

  “I wish I’d kissed you then,” he said softly. “When I thought you were different.” His lip curled with an expression bordering on disgust. “I was clearly mistaken.”

  He released her and pushed away in a single movement, leaving her wrists bruised, her flesh overheated, and her body off balance once again. She fought for both her breath and her footing.

  This time, he didn’t bother to help her. He strode down the hallway without another word or a backward glance. Within seconds, he had disappeared into the teeming shadows.

  Evangeline stared at the empty corridor, hugging herself and cursing him. He left her. Alone. And lost.

  With no one to blame but herself.

  Chapter 7

  When Evangeline finally found the other guests, they’d reconvened in a large room devoid of carpet and filled with candelabra. A lone musician thrummed at an ancient pianoforte, but the guests’ feet leapt and thumped across the hardwood floor as though dancing in the thrall of a full orchestra.

  Evangeline slipped in as stealthily as she could, considering eleven people didn’t quite constitute a crush and her appearance would no doubt be noticed.

  She made her way to a row of tall wooden chairs lined flush with one wall and lowered herself to a cushioned seat to watch the whirling gowns.