Too Sinful to Deny by Erica Ridley Page B

and she hadn’t the slightest clue where to run to that would possibly offer shelter from a homicidal butler who knew every grain of salt in this godforsaken village. Yet staying out in the open, alone, had ceased to be an option that ensured survival.
    He crept closer. His jerky limbs gave his gait a disjointed rhythm, but the steel glinting behind his head lent him an air of imminent danger.
    She needed to hide amongst people. Living people. Now. Before she had a chance to change her mind, Susan did the only thing she could.
    She bolted into the dress shop.
    Thick curtains blocked the sun. A flickering candelabrum illuminated the dank interior, casting a hellish orange glow over the two women hunched together between rows of dark, flowing silk. The witch stood mostly in shadow, the tip of her parasol digging into the floor next to her feet. She spoke in hushed tones to a porcelain doll of a woman with strawberry-blond locks and a beautiful lace-trimmed gown.
    Both ceased talking at the hollow click of the door. They turned.
    Two pairs of suspicious eyes glinted at Susan. The tiny flames from tarnished candelabra sent shadows scurrying across their faces. Susan hesitated, but could not flee. She knew what lurked, shovel in hand, on the other side of these walls.
    “Will you look at that,” the witch murmured without straightening her hunched spine. “A customer.”
    “Fresh blood.” A terrible smile formed in the porcelain doll’s perfect face.
    They broke their tête-à-tête and advanced toward Susan. The porcelain doll’s steps were as silent and sure as a prima ballerina flying across a London stage. The tip of the witch’s closed parasol scraped across the hardwood floor like a sword hanging free from its scabbard.
    The door creaked open behind Susan, sending a gust of salty air swirling through the room. Layers of silk fluttered with the chill. Neither the witch nor the porcelain doll halted their approach. Footsteps sounded in the doorway behind Susan. A shadow fell across the floor.
    She turned to face the scarecrow.
    He wasn’t there.
    Instead, a man of no more than thirty years stood silhouetted in the doorway, his body backlit by the morning sun and his features cast in shadow. He was nearly as tall as Mr. Both-wick, if a bit less muscular. Strands of golden hair danced between the sunlight and the breeze. He stepped forward. The door swung shut behind him.
    “Mr. Forrester,” the two women behind Susan breathed simultaneously.
    “Ladies.” He bowed. “Good morning.”
    Susan blinked. A real gentleman?
    His gaze met hers. “I came to see the two prettiest young ladies in Bournemouth, and must say I’m delighted to discover a third in your midst.”
    Candlelight lit Mr. Forrester’s face, exposing angel-blue eyes and a boyish smile beneath his head of golden curls. Blues and reds lent his attire the classic air of a Rubens portrait. He reached for Susan’s trembling hand, dipped, and pressed a kiss against the back of her gloved fingers.
    An awkward silence wafted amongst the shadows. “M-Miss Susan Stanton,” she stammered when she realized no one else would be able to make the introduction for her. Had she mentioned she hated not being in London?
    “Gordon Forrester.” He rose to his feet before releasing her hand. “Delighted to meet you.” He inclined his head, then moved past her to buss the other ladies’ cheeks without another word.
    Dismissed so easily?
    Susan stared after him in shock. That had to go on record as the shortest conversation she’d ever held with a gentleman. The sharks that swam up to her in London ballrooms smelled Stanton money in the water and scarcely let her have a moment alone to visit the retiring room. The ones who approached her outside the ballroom walls—well, those fancied an intimacy Susan had sworn never to grant any man unworthy of being her husband. But none had ever dismissed her.
    And for women such as these!
    She stared, arms crossed beneath her