Too Wicked To Kiss Part 42

"No pugilism in the family portrait," Gavin shouted, poking his head from behind his easel. "What has you ladies so excited?"

"We're talking about families," Evangeline called back. "And having one of our own."

Gavin's eyes crinkled. He tossed his paintbrush over his shoulder, strode into the middle of the melee, and scooped Evangeline up into his arms.

"I think," he murmured into her hair, "I just changed my mind about what I want for my birthday."

She threw her arms around his neck and squeezed.

"Splendid," she whispered back. "That's exactly the present I wanted to give you."

Dear Reader, There are those who opine that gothic romances routinely feature a dark, brooding, dangerous hero and the helpless, weak (some might say...Too Stupid to Live) heroine who loves him, despite the fact that he's a raging dissociative psychopath. If a devilishly attractive dissociative psychopath. With a large...ego.

With TOO WICKED TO KISS, I was totally on board with the dark, brooding, dangerous hero (although I hope you'll find Gavin still firmly rooted in sanity) but I wanted an unquestionably strong heroine. A woman with goals, with dreams, with brains. And then I wanted to rip her life apart and make her prove her courage, tenacity, and heart despite everything I threw her way.

Because I am nice, I gave Evangeline a special Gift: psychic visions from skin-to-skin contact. Because I am evil, I made sure this Gift gave her a life of lonely isolation, plagued with debilitating migraines from the slightest touch. Oh, and just so it wouldn't be anything resembling easy, easy, I made sure the success and relevance of said visions was a roulette wheel of its own. (And you thought Sleeping Beauty's wicked G.o.dmother gave bad gifts!) I made sure the success and relevance of said visions was a roulette wheel of its own. (And you thought Sleeping Beauty's wicked G.o.dmother gave bad gifts!) What kind of (dark, brooding, dangerous) hero would actually deserve a woman like this, who can rise above all adversity with steel in her spine and selflessness in her heart? Clearly, he would need to be tested, as well. So I made his past come back to haunt him (figuratively) and gave him a few new troubles. Like falling in love. And finding a dead man in the guest room. With Gavin's own handprints laced around the corpse's neck.

I hope you love Gavin and Evangeline as much as I do. (Susan's book is next, so feel free to love her, too.) As a special bonus, don't miss the following sneak peek. Please come visit me at ericaridley.com. ericaridley.com. I promise to be more hospitable than Gavin... I promise to be more hospitable than Gavin...

All the best, Erica Ridley

Please turn the page for a sneak peek of Erica Ridley's next historical romance, coming in 2011!

March. The last of the plumed lords and ladies swooped into Town like crows feasting upon carrion. Miss Susan Stanton had escaped the confines of her bedchamber for the first time in six long, dark weeks-only to be bundled in the back of a black carriage and jettisoned into the vast void of nothingness beyond London borders.

To Bournemouth. Bournemouth Bournemouth. An infinitesimal "town" on a desolate stretch of coastline a million miles from home. Less than a hundred souls, the carriage driver had said. Spectacular. Thrice as many bodies had graced Susan's London come-out party four years ago, not counting the servants. Being banished from Town was the worst possible punishment for disobedience Mother could've possibly devised. Nothing could deaden the soul quite like the prospect of- Moonseed Manor.

Susan's breath caught in her throat. Her mind emptied of its litany of complaints as her eyes struggled to equate the stark, colorless vista before her with "town of Bournemouth."

Dead brown nothingness. Miles of it. A steep cliff jutted over black ocean. There, backlit with a smattering of fuzzy stars, a bone-white architectural monstrosity teetered impossibly close to the edge.

Moonseed Manor did not look like a place to live. Moonseed Manor looked like a place to die.

Not a single candle flickered in the windows. As the carriage drew her ever closer, its wheels bouncing and slipping on sand and rocks. Susan's skin erupted in gooseflesh. She hugged herself, struck by an invasive chill much colder than the ocean breeze should cause.

The carriage stopped. The driver handed her out, then disappeared back into his perch, leaving her to make her presence known by herself. Very well. He could stay and mind the luggage while she summoned the help. Miss Susan Stanton was no shrinking violet. Although she wished for the hundredth time that her lady's maid hadn't been forbidden from accompanying her. She was well and truly exiled.

The back of her neck p.r.i.c.kling with trepidation, Susan found herself curling trembling fingers around a thick bra.s.s knocker, the handle formed from the coil of a serpent about to strike. The resulting sound echoed in the eerie stillness, as if both the pale wood and the house itself were hollow and lifeless.

The door silently opened.

A scarecrow stood before her, all spindly limbs and jaundiced skin with a shock of straw-colored hair protruding at all angles above dark, cavernous eyes. The sharpness of his bones stretched his yellowed skin. His attire hung oddly on his frame, as though these clothes were not his own, but rather the castoffs of the true (and presumably human) butler.

"I...I..." Susan managed, before choking on an explanation she did not have.

She what? She was the twenty-year-old sole offspring of a loveless t.i.tled couple who had banished their ostracized disappointment of a daughter to the remotest corner of England rather than bear the continued sight of her? She nudged her spectacles up the bridge of her nose with the back of a gloved hand and forced what she hoped was a smile.

"My name is Miss Susan Stanton," she tried again, deciding to leave the explanation at that. Mother had written in advance, and what more need be said after Mother's missive? "I'm afraid I was expected hours ago. Is Lady Beaune at home?"

"Always," the scarecrow rasped, after a brief pause. His sudden jagged-tooth smile unsettled Susan as surely as it must frighten the crows. "Come."

Susan slid a dozen hesitant steps into a long narrow pa.s.sage devoid of both portraiture and decoration before the oddity of his answer reverberated in her ears. Always Always. What did he mean by that, and why the secret smile? Once one entered Moonseed Manor, was one to be stuck there, entombed forevermore in a beachside crypt?

"P-perhaps I should alert my driver that your mistress is at home." She hastened forward to catch up to the scarecrow's long-limbed strides. "I have a shocking number of valises, and-"

"Don't worry," came the scarecrow's smoky rasp, once again accompanied by a grotesque slash of a smile. "He's being taken care of."

Normally, Susan would've bristled with outrage at the unprecedented effrontery of being interrupted by a servant. In this case, however, she was more concerned with the rented driver's continued wellbeing. She was not sure she wanted him "being taken care of." Shouldn't the butler have said her trunks trunks would be taken care of? She glanced over her shoulder at the corridor now stretching endlessly behind them, and wondered if she were safer inside these skeletal walls or out. would be taken care of? She glanced over her shoulder at the corridor now stretching endlessly behind them, and wondered if she were safer inside these skeletal walls or out.

Susan didn't notice a narrow pa.s.sageway intersecting the stark hall until the scarecrow disappeared within. She stood at the crossroads, hesitant to follow but even more nervous not to. After the briefest of pauses, she hurried to regain the scarecrow's side before losing him forever in the labyrinthine walls.

If he noticed her moment of indecision, he gave no sign. He made several quick turns, pa.s.sing tall closed door after tall closed door, before finally making an abrupt stop at the dead end of an ill-lit corridor.

This door was open. Somewhat.

A candle flickered inside, but only succeeded in filling the room's interior with teeming shadows.

"Sir," the scarecrow rasped into the opening. "It's Miss Stanton. Your guest."

"Guest?" came a warm, smartly-accented voice from somewhere within. The master of the house? No. "You were expecting guests at this hour, Ollie?"

Ollie? Susan echoed silently in her head. Wasn't Lady Beaune's husband named Jean-Louis? Perhaps she was about to meet a distant relation. A cousin would make a lovely ally. Susan echoed silently in her head. Wasn't Lady Beaune's husband named Jean-Louis? Perhaps she was about to meet a distant relation. A cousin would make a lovely ally.

"All guests arrive at this hour," a deep voice countered. "It's midnight."

Before Susan had a chance to pa.r.s.e that inexplicable response, the door swung fully open and a fairytale giant filled the entirety of the frame.

Her shoulders reached his hips. His His shoulders reached the sides of the doorframe and very nearly the top as well. His broad back hunched to allow his dark head to pa.s.s beneath the edge. Small black eyes glittered in an overlarge square face, his mouth hidden behind a beard the color of fresh tar. Arms that could crush tree trunks flexed at his sides. He did not offer his hand. shoulders reached the sides of the doorframe and very nearly the top as well. His broad back hunched to allow his dark head to pa.s.s beneath the edge. Small black eyes glittered in an overlarge square face, his mouth hidden behind a beard the color of fresh tar. Arms that could crush tree trunks flexed at his sides. He did not offer his hand.

"Miss Stanton."

Although her name was more a statement than a question, Susan's well-trained spine dipped in an automatic curtsy as her mouth managed to stammer a simple, "Yes."

He did not bow in kind. Nor was it remotely possible he was a child of Lady Beaune. He was easily five-and-thirty. Had Papa's fourth cousin thrice removed remarried in the unknown years since Mother had last spoken to this distant limb of the Stanton family tree? Did Mother comprehend comprehend where exactly she'd condemned her daughter to? Or care? where exactly she'd condemned her daughter to? Or care?

"Move out of the way, oaf," came the cultured voice from before. "I must see this creature that travels alone and in dark of night to visit the likes of you."

Rather than move aside, the giant stepped forward, crowding Susan backward. Her shoulders sc.r.a.ped the wall opposite. Her hands clenched at her sides.

A new figure filled the doorframe. Tall, but not impossibly so. Well-muscled, but not frighteningly so. As smartly tailored as any London dandy, but with an air of barely contained danger more suitable to the meanest streets where even footpads feared to tread. Alarmingly attractive despite the too-long chestnut hair and day's growth of dark stubble shadowing the line of his jaw.

"Mmm, I see." An amused grin toyed with his lips. "My pleasure."

He performed as perfect a bow as any Susan had ever encountered in a Town ballroom. Before her trembling legs could force an answering curtsy, the giant moved back into place, blocking the...gentleman?...from her view.

The giant's thick arms crossed over his barrel chest. "Carriage?"

"Gone," rasped the scarecrow.

Susan jumped. She'd forgotten his silent presence.

"Driver?"

The scarecrow's terrifying smile returned. "Taken care of."

Satisfaction glinted in the giant's eyes. Susan was positive panic was the only thing glinting in hers. Would she be "taken care of" next?

"Take her to the bone chamber."

Susan's heart stuttered to a stop until she realized the giant had said Beaune Beaune chamber, not chamber, not bone bone chamber. Beaune, like Lady Beaune, her father's fourth cousin thrice removed, with whom her family clearly should have kept a much more detailed correspondence. Yet even with this correction firmly in mind, Susan couldn't help but doubt the Beaune chamber would remotely resemble the sumptuous Buckingham-quality guest quarters she'd hoped to find. chamber. Beaune, like Lady Beaune, her father's fourth cousin thrice removed, with whom her family clearly should have kept a much more detailed correspondence. Yet even with this correction firmly in mind, Susan couldn't help but doubt the Beaune chamber would remotely resemble the sumptuous Buckingham-quality guest quarters she'd hoped to find.

The scarecrow turned and headed down the hall without bothering to verify that Susan followed. He was wise not to worry. She had no intention of standing around under the giant's calculating gaze any longer than necessary.

Susan scrambled after the scarecrow without a single word of parting for her host-not that the giant seemed particularly concerned about adhering to social niceties-and rounded a corner just in time to see the scarecrow ascend a pale marble staircase she swore hadn't existed when they'd traveled this exact sequence of corridors moments before.

She hurried to his side before she got lost for good. "That...wasn't Lord Beaune."

A dry laugh crackled from his throat, accompanied by a sly glance from his dark glittering eyes. "He seem French? Or dead? That's the new master of Moonseed Manor. It's to him you owe the roof over yer head tonight."

Dead. Her ears buzzed at the news. The news that Lady Beaune had been widowed and remarried was surprising. But the idea that Susan owed anything to anyone-much less her cousin's new husband-was intolerable. She had once been Society's princess! And would be again. Just as soon as she got back to London.

The wiry manservant led her through another complicated series of interconnected pa.s.sageways. A lit sconce protruded from the middle of an otherwise unadorned pa.s.sageway, as bleached and unremarkable as all the rest. Orange candlelight spilled from an open doorway, chasing their shadows behind them. Susan wished she could flee as easily.

"Your room," came the scarecrow's scratchy voice.

Susan nodded and stepped across the threshold. When she turned to ask him directions to the dining areas and drawing rooms (and when she might hope to see the lady of the house) he was already gone.

She faced the cavernous chamber once more, doing her best to ignore the uneasy sensation of walking into a crypt. Although the room was as cold as any catacomb would be, a large canopied bed, not a casket, stood in the center. The shadowy figure next to the unlit fireplace had to be a maid provided to ensure Susan's comfort. Thank G.o.d. At least there was some some hint of London sensibilities. hint of London sensibilities.

Susan stepped forward just as the cloaked figure swiveled without seeming to move her feet. Long white braids flanked a narrow face hollowed with hunger and despair. Age spots mottled her clawed hands and pale neck. An ornate crucifix hung from a long gold chain. Trembling fingers clutched the intricate charm to her thin chest. She did not appear to be starting a fire in the grate. She did not appear to be a maid at all.

"M-may I help you?" Susan asked.

The old woman did not answer.

Were there more sundry guests in this pharaoh's tomb of a manor? Was this one lost, confused, afraid? So was Susan, on all counts, but the least she could do was help this poor woman find her correct bedchamber.

Before she could so much as offer her hand, however, a sharp breeze rippled through the chamber. She shivered before she realized she could no longer feel the phantom breeze-although it continued to flutter the old woman's dark red cloak and unravel the braids from her hair.

In fact...the breeze began to unravel the old woman herself, ripping thread by red thread from her cloak like drops of blood disappearing in a pool of water. The wind tore long curling strands of white hair from her bowed head, then strips of flesh from her bones, until the only thing standing before Susan was the empty fire pit. The glittering crucifix fell onto the hardwood floor and disappeared from sight.

The chamber door slammed shut behind her with foundation-shaking force. Susan didn't have to try the handle to know she was trapped inside.

She wondered what else was locked inside with her.