by Erica Ridley
“Why not ask you instead?” she said loudly, striding toward the militia with the iron box on one hip and Lady Emeline still strong at her side. “You’re the one who’s been facilitating the transport of goods from the ship to the local merchants.”
Only a slight widening of the magistrate’s eyes gave away his fear. “Those are some strong accusations, Miss Stanton. I don’t know how High Society does things, but we small-town commoners don’t like to cast aspersions on a man without proof.”
Susan smiled. “Then you’ll be happy to know I brought plenty with me.”
Forrester’s dimples disappeared. With trepidation lining his features, he no longer looked angelic and self-assured. He looked guilty. And scared.
Good.
Susan handed both box and key to the closest constable, then walked back toward Evan.
His pistol was still trained at the magistrate’s head.
She crossed to him quickly and laid a worried palm on the hard muscle of his arm. He didn’t move.
“Put the pistol down,” she whispered urgently. “It’s over. Let the militia take him away.”
“I—I can’t,” he answered, his voice bleak. “He killed my brother.”
Susan swallowed her compassion. “I know.”
“He killed Timothy.”
“I know. But as horrible as that is, it can’t be reversed. Forrester’s going to hang.” She stared up at Evan beseechingly, but the dark light of vengeance was in his eyes. “You found the evidence that’s going to convict him. What else can we do?”
“Kill him,” Evan spat without hesitation, tightening his grip on the pistols. “He murdered my brother. A pirate would take revenge.”
“Yes,” she agreed softly. “A pirate would.”
Chapter 50
It wasn’t until the last of the militia’s coaches rolled away that Susan realized her parents’ carriage was missing. She had no fob, but the sun’s cloudy presence indicated it was by no means nightfall. Yet the driver had left without so much as a fare-thee-well!
She scanned the remaining crowd. Ollie Hamilton and his erstwhile butler could have nothing to do with the carriage’s untimely departure. They’d been marched from the cellar to the back of a coach, which the Runner had promised was headed straight to the prison where the men would await trial.
Dinah Devonshire and Harriet Grey were the next most likely culprits. Miss Devonshire, however, was nowhere to be seen, and Miss Grey was even now plodding down the path toward the beach, as if the call of hems and stitches was far more fascinating than smugglers being arrested at Moonseed Manor.
A warm arm drew Susan into a possessive embrace. With her cheek pressed against Evan’s chest, Susan squeezed him tight. For the first time, her muscles began to let go of the tension they’d carried since her arrival.
He kissed the top of her head. “What are you looking for?”
“You,” she answered automatically, and smiled up at him.
He hugged her close, then placed her hand in the crook of his elbow so they wouldn’t make such a public spectacle of themselves. Susan was tempted to throw herself back in his arms and overwhelm him with kisses, the remains of her tattered reputation be damned.
“That’s all?” he asked, his eyes toward the sea.
“And my parents’ carriage,” she admitted. “I can scarce believe the driver left without me.”
Evan’s gaze snapped to hers and he pulled her to him fiercely. “I would not have let you go.”
“No?” she asked breathlessly. The idea of launching herself at him and attacking him with kisses was sounding better and better. Before she could do so, however, he loosened her fingers from his elbow. He dropped to his knees in the rocky sand and took her hands in his.
“I love you,” he said, and the stark emotion in his face nearly brought Susan to her knees as well. “I cannot imagine life without you. I swear I will do everything in my power to make you the happiest woman alive, from this moment until the end of our days, if only you will agree to marry me.” His strong voice cracked, and his grip on her hands tightened. “Please.”
Susan pulled him to his feet. Now was the moment for the scandalous kissing.
“I’ve been waiting for you to ask,” she told him in the brief seconds when her mouth was not open against his. She twined her fingers in his hair and pressed herself to him. “I love you, Evan. You’ve already made me the happiest woman alive.”
His lips trailed kisses along her jawline to the lobe of her ear. “That’s a yes?”
“Absolutely.”
He swung her into his arms and covered her with kisses. Whether they were the object of scandalous attention, she had no idea. In that moment, her world consisted of only Evan and her.
Which was as it should be.
Epilogue
He went to the stupid assembly after all.
It had been one of the many conditions set down by his wife after their wedding breakfast. Along with providing for Miss Grey and ordering beautiful headstones for Lady Beaune, the Runner, Red, and Timothy. His condition was for every one of them to receive a proper funeral ceremony, whether their bodies had been recovered or not. She’d stared at him as if that much was obvious, kissed him, and said, “Of course.”
Wife. Just thinking the word still made Evan’s head spin. As did the fact he’d get to keep her forever.
Bath, Susan had agreed, was a compromise for them both. She would give up London—where, apparently, things hadn’t been at their finest anyhow—so long as he gave up Bournemouth. Scarcely a hardship. He’d move to the farthest corner of the globe so long as it meant he could be with her.
Which was why he was piling bland sandwiches onto a tiny plate and juggling two cups of the worst punch he’d ever tasted in his life. Laughing at himself, he made his way back to her side.
She accepted both the punch and the sandwiches with a grateful smile, and sipped a fair bit of the insipid liquid without spitting any of it onto the dance floor. How she could look as though she actually enjoyed the stuff, Evan had no idea. He had half a mind to upend a bottle of brandy into the mix, just to give it some flavor.
He restrained himself. His wife would probably frown upon such behavior. And he was trying to be a good husband. Well, depending on how you defined “good.” He’d danced two waltzes with her, and even managed to sneak her into the gardens during the boring country sets. He should probably let her know bits of leaf still clung to the back of her chignon... but he didn’t. He got a wicked sense of satisfaction from knowing how it got there.
He was damn glad he hadn’t shot Forrester after all. Going to Canterbury to fetch a special license had worked out much better than going to Newgate for murdering a magistrate in front of witnesses. Evan still hadn’t decided if he wanted to be present when Forrester hung, but he kept an eye on the papers for news. His wife might wish to attend Ollie’s drop with her companion.
Even now, Susan and Lady Emeline were engaged in one of their odd conversations, wherein Susan did all of the talking and Lady Emeline mostly just nodded. It seemed to suit them both just fine.
Apparently able to feel the heat of his gaze on her neck, his wife turned and raised her brows at him from over the tops of her spectacles. Then she winked. Evan got the distinct feeling she well knew there were leaf bits in her hair and was keeping them there on purpose, just so he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about her. As if he ever could. She was perfect.
Susan whispered something to Lady Emeline and both women toasted him with their matching cups of pink water. He toasted back with a flask from his waistcoat pocket. Susan affected a scandalized expression, but his partner in crime laughed her infectious silent laugh and held her pink punch out for another dollop of French brandy. Susan held out her cup, as well. When he took her cup, she plucked the flask from his hands and downed a healthy swallow. Was it any wonder he was absolutely mad for this woman?
Evan pulled her into his embrace and swung her in a circ
le. Still smiling, he covered her mouth with his. She nipped at his lower lip, then pulled him closer. Her kisses tasted like warm brandy.
She would’ve made an excellent pirate.
* * *
THE END
What hidden secrets and romantic intrigue are afoot in a lonely Cornwall castle overlooking a deadly cliff?
Find out in Too Tempting to Resist, the next Gothic Love Story!
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In order, the Gothic Love Stories are:
Too Wicked to Kiss
Too Sinful to Deny
Too Tempting to Resist
Too Wanton to Wed
* * *
In order, the 12 Dukes of Christmas:
Once Upon a Duke
Kiss of a Duke
Wish Upon a Duke
Never Say Duke
Dukes, Actually
The Duke’s Bride
The Duke’s Embrace
The Duke’s Desire
Dawn With a Duke
One Night With a Duke
Ten Days With a Duke
Forever Your Duke
* * *
In order, the Rogues to Riches books are:
Lord of Chance
Lord of Pleasure
Lord of Night
Lord of Temptation
Lord of Secrets
Lord of Vice
* * *
In order, the Dukes of War books are:
The Viscount's Tempting Minx (FREE!)
The Earl’s Defiant Wallflower
The Captain’s Bluestocking Mistress
The Major’s Faux Fiancée
The Brigadier’s Runaway Bride
The Pirate's Tempting Stowaway
The Duke's Accidental Wife
* * *
In order, the Magic & Mayhem books are:
Kissed by Magic
Must Love Magic
Smitten by Magic
* * *
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Acknowledgments
As always, I could not have written this book without the invaluable support of my critique partners and my amazing literary agent. Huge thanks go out to Lauren Abramo, Janice Goodfellow, Jackie Barbosa, Darcy Burke, Emma Locke, and Erica Monroe. You are the best!
Lastly, I want to thank my Historical Romance Book Club and my fabulous street team. Your enthusiasm makes the romance happen.
Thank you so much!
About the Author
Erica Ridley is a New York Times and USA Today best-selling author of paranormal romantic comedies and historical romance novels.
In the 12 Dukes of Christmas series, enjoy witty, heartwarming Regency romps nestled in a picturesque snow-covered village. After all, nothing heats up a winter night quite like finding oneself in the arms of a duke!
Her two most popular series, the Dukes of War and Rogues to Riches, feature roguish peers and dashing war heroes who find love amongst the splendor and madness of Regency England.
When not reading or writing romances, Erica can be found riding camels in Africa, zip-lining through rainforests in Central America, or getting hopelessly lost in the middle of Budapest.
* * *
Let’s be friends! Find Erica on:
www.EricaRidley.com
