Too Wicked to Kiss: Gothic Love Stories #1

by Ridley, Erica

  After a moment, her arms fell back to her sides. “To whom are you writing?”

  In the twenty years of Evangeline’s life, she had never before encountered a man who failed to take advantage of an opportunity to prove his mastery, his superior strength, his ability to be “right” whether or not it was so. She knew she was acting out-of-sorts, obstinate, contradictory. And Mr. Lioncroft merely nodded, allowed her to do so at her leisure, and returned to his correspondence. Maddening, unpredictable man. She had no idea what to make of him.

  “A toymaker.” He re-inked his pen. “I shall commission the finest dolls from London for the girls. They should arrive quickly.”

  She blinked at him for a moment, then stepped away from the comfort of the door and closer to the front of his desk. “Dolls?”

  “I’m afraid my boot shattered the original’s porcelain face. The least I can do is replace it.”

  “With two?”

  “The twins are two, are they not? And they should have two dolls. I am ordering an identical pair, each with a different colored bow, so there will be no cause for future rows on that score. The girls would not have gotten lost today had each possessed a plaything of her own.” He franked the parchment, placed it in the corner of his desk, returned his writing implements to their proper locations. “How lucky you were able to help me find them.”

  There it was again—an edge of suspicion. Evangeline could barely concentrate on the undercurrent in Mr. Lioncroft’s voice, however, because he was rising to his feet.

  What was he going to do? Why had he called her here if not to punish her for her inability to reenter that horrible dark passageway, even to rescue a small girl?

  She took a step backward, grateful to have the width of the desk between them.

  Rather than come around the wide teak surface toward her, he leaned his broad shoulders against the rear wall and hooked his thumbs casually in the waistband of his fawn-colored breeches in what Evangeline had come to suspect was his favorite pose, whether he realized it or not. He crossed one black leather boot atop the other and smiled. He looked powerful and rakish.

  As usual. Damn him.

  Dark hair fell forward across one of his eyes. He made no move to shove it from his face. Although his cream-colored waistcoat was crisply pressed and the creases of his cravat white and perfect, the faint stubble along his jaw had grown longer, thicker. If he kissed her again, she would feel it scratch against her skin.

  Evangeline swallowed, shivered, sought for a safer topic than the rough texture of his cheek against hers.

  To her right was the crackling fireplace. Being more than hot enough already, the last thing she needed was to get closer to its flames. Behind her was the door, but she could not quit Mr. Lioncroft’s company just yet. To her left was an oil painting in a large gilded frame, tilted slightly to one side as if recently jostled. Something was different about this painting than the other oils on canvas adorning the rest of the walls throughout his home. Something missing from the rest of the mansion…

  “People,” she breathed.

  Mr. Lioncroft stood. “What?”

  “The rest of your artwork is landscapes. This is the first portrait I’ve seen.”

  She gestured at the painting, strode forward, inspected it.

  Three laughing children posed before a river. A slender blonde perched atop a large gray rock, a basket of flowers in her lap. A tall skinny boy with a fishing pole in one hand and a bucket in the other stood to one side behind her. A dark-haired little boy crouched in front, paying more attention to ruffling the golden fur of a panting dog than to his siblings or the painter.

  “My family,” Mr. Lioncroft said gruffly. “Rose in the middle, David behind her, me with Wilson.”

  “Wilson?”

  “My dog. Named after the Welsh landscape painter, Richard Wilson.”

  “Your favorite artist?”

  “My father’s favorite artist.”

  “Did he paint the landscapes hanging throughout Blackberry Manor? They all seem to be of a similar style.”

  “No.” He leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

  Well. Clearly he didn’t wish to discuss landscape artists. Evangeline turned back to the painting. “You look happy.”

  “I was.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Ten.”

  “Do you have other family portraits?”

  He shrugged. “At Meadowbrook, where my brother lives.”

  His brother, the gangly teenage boy with the fishing pole. How lovely those days must’ve been. Evangeline had always wanted siblings. “Do you visit?”

  “Never.”

  “Has he visited you?”

  “He would rather die.”

  “Does—oh.”

  Evangeline turned from the painting of a small laughing child to consider the large serious man he’d become.

  Mr. Lioncroft’s gaze was dark, inscrutable. Although he remained in his usual pose, his muscles seemed tense, his posture less casual, as if answering her questions about his family was the last thing in hell he preferred to be doing.

  “Rose,” he said at last, “may not visit again, either. My proximity has a distinctly abortive affect on the longevity of her family members. I shouldn’t be surprised if this is the last time I see my sister or my nieces.”

  His jaw locked and he swiveled his gaze back to the painting, as if he regretted being so candid.

  Mr. Lioncroft, Evangeline was beginning to realize, had a lot of regrets. He was not the cold-blooded, black-hearted beast rumor made him out to be.

  “To be fair,” she ventured, “it is not as if you forced the girls into the passageway. Perhaps you ought to have locked the access doors a bit more securely”—his eyes flashed at this admonition, but he said nothing to defend himself—“but I, too, remember what it was like to be a child. Children get into mischief.”

  “And her husband?”

  “What of him?”

  “He didn’t get into mischief on his own.” He stepped closer, blocking the meager sconce light. “Everyone believes I killed him.”

  She shook her head. “Not everyone.”

  The words were scarcely out of her mouth before his lips crushed hers. His fingers gripped the sides of her face, bruising her with passion. The stubble of his jaw chafed deliciously against her skin, just as she’d imagined.

  Evangeline’s hands barely had the chance to grip the hard muscle of his upper arms before he pushed her from him, as though he had not meant to kiss her, and sorely regretted the impulse.

  She stood, wanting, trembling. Waiting for some explanation—why he’d kissed her, why he’d stopped, why he’d thrust her from him.

  He said nothing. Tensed. Turned away.

  “I’m not convinced Rose believes you a murderer,” she said at last.

  He smiled, a horrible, humorless mockery of a smile. “Yes, she does.”

  “I mean,” Evangeline corrected herself, “of this crime.”

  “And why wouldn’t she?”

  “Because anybody could’ve done it. Including her. Perhaps her suspicion is mere affectation. An attempt to lessen her own guilt and deflect blame onto you.”

  “If that is what you suspect,” he said, his voice low and terrible, “why don’t you find out?”

  She blinked. “Why don’t I…what? I can’t just ask her.”

  “No, you can’t, can you. Not if you want the truth. But you can find out a different way, isn’t that right?”

  “I—” Evangeline faltered. She’d meant her speech to be reassuring, but the earlier mistrust was back in his eyes with a vengeance. “What do you mean?”

  “What do you think I mean? I am many things, Miss Pemberton, but I like to think stupid is not one of them. As I told you before, I don’t believe for a moment you have little chats with God.”

  “You think I was lying about Lord Heatherbrook being—”

  “No, Miss Pemberton. That’s just it. I don’t.
I’m sure he did suffocate, exactly as you claimed. In fact, I believe,” he said, snapping out each carefully enunciated word like thrusts from a dagger, “you get your information not from the Lord, but from everyone around you. Surreptitiously. Dishonestly.”

  “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, but the denial sounded weak even to her own ears.

  “I don’t think you do any ‘talking’ at all,” he continued relentlessly. “I think you reach over and take the information you want. It’s why you laid your bare hands on Heatherbrook’s cheeks, is it not? It’s why you wanted to hold Rachel, upstairs in the hallway when Rebecca was still lost. It’s why you use your kisses and your body against me. A soulless murderer like myself must have countless lurid memories for you to steal. Tell me: just now, what did you see?”

  “No,” Evangeline said, shaking her head violently. “Nothing. You’ve got it wrong. I swear to you, I—”

  “I don’t believe you.” He strode past her, brushing her aside as if she were less than nothing. He threw open the office door. “I need a maid,” he called. “A footman. A—Miss Stanton? What the devil are you—oh, it doesn’t matter. You’ll do. Come.”

  He tugged a wary-looking Susan in by the wrist and thrust her before Evangeline.

  “Now,” he said. “Do you mean to tell me you don’t ‘see things’ from others’ touch? Take off your gloves, Miss Stanton. Put the backs of your fingers against Miss Pemberton’s arm.”

  “Er…” Susan stammered, clearly at a loss as to how to react to a conversation that had obviously taken a less than desired turn.

  “No,” Evangeline said. “Please don’t.”

  Even without Susan’s touch, a warning headache brewed at the back of Evangeline’s skull. She had no wish to see another vision, to have her head split open by the ever-worsening aftershocks, to faint from pain in the middle of Mr. Lioncroft’s office floor.

  “You confess it to be true?” he demanded, arms crossed, eyebrows raised.

  She took a deep breath, nodded. Heaven help her.

  “Go,” he said to Susan. “You do not wish to be present while I tell this liar exactly what I think about her deception.”

  Susan’s eyes widened, but she remained otherwise both motionless and speechless. Her gaze flicked from Mr. Lioncroft to Evangeline, back to Mr. Lioncroft, back to Evangeline, as though she couldn’t decide which desire was greater: to flee from Mr. Lioncroft’s obvious rage, or to not abandon Evangeline to suffer his wrath alone.

  At that moment, the footman who had earlier delivered Evangeline’s summons strode through the door.

  “You called for a servant, my lord?”

  Mr. Lioncroft’s forehead furrowed, then cleared. “I’m sorry, Milton. I no longer need your assistance. Miss Stanton helped me confirm what I needed to know about Miss Pemberton.”

  The footman glanced at Evangeline, then back to his master. “You…know?”

  Mr. Lioncroft’s voice rose. “You know?”

  Susan raised her hand. “I know.”

  Evangeline closed her eyes. “Who doesn’t know?”

  “I want to know why my staff knows.” Mr. Lioncroft faced Milton. “Explain yourself.”

  “It seems…She’s done witchery for a few servants, my lord. Missing items, and the like. News of such feats travels fast.”

  “It’s not witchery,” Evangeline muttered. “I’m no witch.”

  “You,” Mr. Lioncroft bit out, “are a…witch.”

  But she got the distinct impression he’d been about to call her something even worse.

  She cleared her throat. “I wasn’t going to—”

  “Your ‘witchery,’” he said, “appears to be common household knowledge. I do not appreciate being the last to know.”

  “You’re not,” Evangeline assured him. “That is, some of the staff may know—and I’m a woman, not a witch—but the only guests aware of my visions are those of us in this room and Lady Stanton.” At least, she hoped so. “I would much prefer to keep it that way.”

  “You would, would you? Did it occur to you I would prefer not to be spied upon every time you touch me?”

  Before Evangeline could respond, Lady Stanton swept into the room.

  “Well?” she demanded to Evangeline. “Yes or no?”

  Mr. Lioncroft’s eyes narrowed. “‘Yes or no’ what? Has this something to do with her witchery? Let me guess: the sole purpose of your visit was to peer into my mind without my knowledge.”

  Evangeline blushed, shook her head, motioned for Lady Stanton to speak no further.

  Lady Stanton ignored her.

  “Yes,” she said matter-of-factly. “Miss Pemberton was to discover whether or not you will hang for Heatherbrook’s murder. And as I have just overheard you mention she touched you, I am now expecting confirmation one way or the other. Miss Pemberton?”

  “Yes, Miss Pemberton.” The slow laziness in Mr. Lioncroft’s voice was unable to mask the hard edge of coiled danger beneath. “Seeing as how the only reason you suffer my presence is to pry my secrets straight from my flesh, I, too, am curious as to whether my neck will survive the fortnight. Care to apprise me of my future at the gallows?”

  To be honest, Evangeline felt like vomiting.

  If she lied and said, “No, you’ll escape punishment,” the expression on Lady Stanton’s face indicated she was more than ready to move forward with the ill-advised compromise, which meant in seconds Mr. Lioncroft would find himself saddled with both a new bride and a new scandal, and Evangeline would no doubt (rightfully) bear the brunt of his rage.

  If she lied and said, “Yes, you’ll swing,” the Stantons would head out at first light and abandon her at the first roadside inn…if she survived that long and avoided being committed to an asylum for her witchery.

  And if she confessed the truth with a murmured, “I have no idea and will never have any idea,” she would lose her usefulness to Lady Stanton altogether, giving the baroness no reason not to return her directly into her stepfather’s custody as threatened.

  All the potential outcomes were less than desirable. No matter which path she chose, her future would take a quick turn for the worse.

  Unable to conceive of a plan of action that would appease all parties and ensure her continued safety from her stepfather, Evangeline did the only thing she could think of to do.

  She faked a swoon.

  Chapter 21

  Having witnessed Miss Pemberton topple over in a lifeless, graceless heap after her encounter with Heatherbrook’s corpse, Gavin suspected her sudden sigh, fluttering eyelashes, and slow sinking to the floor were all affectation.

  But why? Had his touch shown her a vision of him stretched on a gibbet, and she found herself not wishing to admit it?

  He had made more than his fair share of mistakes in the eight-and-twenty years of his life, but he had no interest in being put to death for another man’s crime. If he found out who was standing silent, content to let him swing in his place, he’d kill the son of a bitch with his bare hands.

  Unless it was his sister, as Miss Pemberton seemed to believe. In which case…God, he didn’t know what he would do.

  “Evangeline!” the Stanton chit gasped, nudging her slippered toes against Miss Pemberton’s shoulder. “Is she dead?”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to say, “She’s not dead; she’s playacting,” but since he wasn’t 100 percent sure of that fact, Gavin ignored the question altogether and motioned for Milton to fetch smelling salts.

  The footman sprinted out the door in his eagerness to obey Gavin’s command.

  With a sigh, Lady Stanton flipped open a painted fan. When she directed its breeze at her own face instead of Miss Pemberton’s, Gavin gave up on the idea of assistance from that quarter.

  He knelt to the ground, knees spread, and sat back on his heels. Miss Pemberton’s shoulders brushed against his calves and her unruly mass of rich brown hair pooled against the fall of his breeches. He eased both
hands beneath her shoulders, palms up. His fingers curved against the soft silk covering the skin above her ribs. Slowly, carefully, he pulled her limp body toward his lap, sliding her warm torso up over his thighs until her head lolled against his chest.

  “Miss Pemberton?” he asked quietly.

  She said nothing.

  “She is dead!” exclaimed the Stanton chit, wild-eyed.

  Lady Stanton harrumphed and continued fanning her cheeks, as if the threat of perspiration was a much larger concern than human life.

  “Bitch,” he muttered under his breath.

  Miss Pemberton flinched.

  Gavin stared at her. She was feigning. He knew she was feigning!

  He dropped his head forward until the side of his mouth rubbed against her temple.

  “From this angle,” he breathed into tendrils of flyaway hair, so softly only she could hear him, “I happen to have an excellent view of your nipples. May I touch them?”

  Several things happened at once, none of which involved him touching Miss Pemberton’s nipples.

  First, the allegedly unconscious lady drove a sharp elbow directly into his crotch. Second, his footman shoved smelling salts beneath Miss Pemberton’s nose. Third, the collision of Miss Pemberton’s elbow with Gavin’s cock caused him to double over at the very moment the smelling salts caused her to jerk upright, thus cracking his jaw against the top of Miss Pemberton’s head with enough force to shatter teeth.

  And then more people arrived.

  Francine Rutherford first, looking ill. Then her husband Benedict stepped into the room, took in the scene with one glance, and began coughing into a frayed handkerchief. Edmund Rutherford, on the other hand, immediately burst into laughter.

  “I say,” he said over what appeared to be a glass of Gavin’s port, “you always seem to have the Pemberton chit sprawled across your lap. She seems so prudish whenever I try.”

  Gavin was pretty sure he heard Miss Pemberton mutter, “Kill him.”