Too Sinful to Deny by Erica Ridley

frightening and a little more . . . well, not normal, given the grains of sand caught in his hair (although that was her fault) or the drinking habit (possibly her fault as well) or the missing stockings (God only knew whose fault that was). He seemed approachable. Uncouth, but good-spirited. The sort who never had a problem making friends.
    What on earth was he doing in Bournemouth?
    “Have you lived here long?” she found herself asking.
    “Longer than you. What brings a proper London miss to this great metropolis?”
    Stalemate. Neither one of them was eager to discuss their past. Susan leaned back in the sofa and regarded him beneath her lashes. She should go. She really should. But she had never been able to resist a bit of gossip. Whenever someone staunchly refused to elaborate more than three words on a topic, something rife with scandal was surely at its root. The best plan, she decided, was to keep him talking. He’d reveal himself naturally, during the course of conversation.
    “I must admit,” she said casually, “the ‘city’ ambience here in Bournemouth isn’t quite the same as back home.”
    “Oh?” He swirled his brandy glass and played along. “Is something lacking?”
    “It may be the case that I haven’t explored the entire shopping district yet,” she allowed magnanimously, “but I didn’t seem to come across jewelers, frozen ices, modistes, and the like. Nor did I notice any theaters, pleasure gardens, racing tracks . . . not even a church.”
    “Which explains what our man of the cloth was doing in Sully’s tavern. Poor sap has nowhere else to be.”
    This gave Susan pause. “Does anyone here have somewhere to be?”
    Something in her voice made him lean forward, elbows on knees, and ask, “Truthfully?”
    She nodded.
    He appeared to ponder the question. “No.”
    That’s what she was afraid of. She wasn’t sure how long her parents expected her to remain here (they’d surely said “forever” out of anger) but Susan didn’t intend to stay one more day.
    “You may have noticed the beach,” Mr. Bothwick continued slowly, appearing to give her question much thought. “But I wouldn’t recommend bathing in it.”
    “Too cold?”
    He plucked a piece of seaweed from his breeches. “I can assure you.”
    “And the neighboring cities?”
    “We have neighboring cities?”
    “Er . . . I was told Bath was somewhat nearby.”
    “A bit of a walk, wouldn’t you say? In general, the locals stay local. About ten miles to the nearest posting-house.”
    Ten—Susan’s lungs seized. When her parents’ money finally arrived, she would have to beg a ride from one of the alleged persons with horses. He certainly didn’t have any. The trail leading to his door scarcely allowed for a man on foot. And as he’d said, the locals preferred to stay local.
    “Strong currents in the water.” He gazed into his brandy. “Watch out for that if you do end up in the ocean for some reason. Cliffs are a bit dangerous around here, too. But I suppose you’ve figured that out for yourself.”
    “Er, yes.” Susan shifted on the sofa cushion. “I did notice, thanks.”
    She had no wish to analyze whether her discomfort was due to her bruised derrière or the memory of wrapping her arms tight around his neck. Had she really clung to him in such abandon, chest to chest, her heart beating against his? And was her traitorous pulse truly speeding back up at the mere memory?
    “—a few young ladies,” he was saying now, obviously not plagued with memories of holding her in his arms. “Try the dress shop for that. You can talk fashion, I suppose, and see the new arrivals.”
    Susan doubted anything new had ever arrived in Bournemouth. “Where—”
    “It’s the only dress shop,” he assured her, a wry smile at his lips. “You’ll find it.”
    She doubted it. She still got lost in her Mayfair town house. “Would . . . would you walk me there now? I have a tendency to get turned around.”
    He