Too Wicked to Kiss: Gothic Love Stories #1

by Ridley, Erica

  As the music segued from country dance to waltz, the dancers divided into couples. Mr. Lioncroft’s attention was concentrated on someone else. Someone far more appropriate than a country miss with a sharp tongue and a borrowed dress.

  He spun Susan about the floor with elegance and grace, his movements only occasionally hesitant—as might be expected in someone who hadn’t stepped foot in a soiree in over a decade.

  Try as Evangeline might to catch his eye, his gaze stayed focused on his partner’s face. Susan, who claimed to want neither his touch nor his kiss. Susan, who would marry him for his money, to appease and escape her mother. Susan, whose steps even now were stiff and jerky, plainly displaying her discomfort at being in such close proximity.

  Why, if Evangeline were dancing with him, she’d—

  Evangeline swallowed a self-deprecating laugh. She’d what? Press her body close? Beg forgiveness for her sharp tongue? Use that tongue to lick those wide, firm lips?

  She could do none of those things. She couldn’t publicly apologize for her rudeness, since nobody present even suspected they’d spoken. Only if they danced would she have a moment to whisper anything at all, but she’d already indicated her preference to remain a wallflower for the duration of the party. And Mr. Lioncroft seemed perfectly willing to leave her alone and unnoticed.

  While he danced with Susan.

  Susan, who flinched when he touched her, whose averted gaze missed his strained smile, who tripped over his feet with her inability to match his rhythm.

  Evangeline’s fingers clutched at her gown. She was not jealous of Susan. She was not. The curdling in her stomach was no doubt a reaction to the baked fish, not to the striking couple swooping and gliding together across the hardwood floor.

  No matter how Evangeline stared, Mr. Lioncroft managed to avoid her eyes. How could he not see her, when all she could see was him? She gripped the sides of her chair and continued to watch him, unable to tear her gaze from the whirling bodies.

  Where Susan was delicate and thin and fair, Mr. Lioncroft was big and muscular and darkly handsome. Susan’s opposite in every way, although just as striking.

  His jaw was firm, angular, shadowed with a hint of dark stubble, a perfect backdrop for that pale jagged scar. The mark made him overlarge, impossibly real. Human. Vulnerable.

  A loud clatter interrupted her thoughts. Evangeline jumped.

  Mr. Teasdale fell heavily into a seat near hers before leaning over to scoop up his fallen cane from the floor. His arm stretched. His hand shook. He managed to miss the cane altogether.

  Evangeline leaned over to fetch it for him. He reached out at the same time, and she was unable to avoid the pads of her fingers coming in contact with the spotted skin of his wrist. In a flash, she found herself just outside the open door of a strange bedchamber.

  * * *

  “What do you mean, French tutor?” Mr. Teasdale demands, the quaver in his voice more pronounced than ever.

  “I’m just as appalled,” Lord Heatherbrook replies, looking far more bored than appalled. He stifles a yawn. “But it changes nothing.”

  “Nothing?” Mr. Teasdale brandishes his cane with one speckled hand. “It changes everything. The deal is off.”

  Lord Heatherbrook’s eyes narrow and the ennui vanishes from his demeanor. “My good man, honor dictates—”

  “Honor?” Mr. Teasdale interrupts. “There’s more honor in my arse than in your daughter. I’ll not waste my fortune on a chit more interested in giving her charms to a common tutor than a respected member of Society. I leave in the morning.”

  “Now, look here, Teasdale—”

  * * *

  Evangeline jerked her hand back to her side. She shouldn’t have worn her mitts after all. She touched her bare fingertips to her temples, hoping to massage away the headache before it could overpower her. She winced, shut her eyes, scrubbed her temples harder—and then Mr. Lioncroft was right there before her.

  “What happened?” he asked, bending on one knee to better see her face. He lifted her chin with the curve of a gloved knuckle. “Are you all right?”

  “I…” Evangeline stared at him. Tendrils the color of dark chocolate fell across his furrowed brow, his eyes wide and the lines of his mouth taut. He was worried about her. And had left Susan standing by herself in the center of the dance floor.

  “Dance,” Evangeline hissed, catching sight of Lady Stanton’s malevolent stare. “You’re making a scene.”

  “I don’t care,” he answered, but his face softened as if having her glare at him again was a more assuring indicator of her well-being than just her word alone. “Come,” he said and tugged at her wrist. “Dance with me.”

  “I can’t,” she stammered. “You have Susan, and besides, I—”

  “They’re already playing a different melody,” he interrupted. “Listen to the melody. It’s a country dance. For everyone.” When she continued shaking her head, he added, “Mr. Teasdale is throwing our numbers off by snoring in his seat. You must dance.”

  “You don’t give a fig about dancing,” Evangeline muttered, positive the force of Lady Stanton’s glare was singeing holes in the side of her head. “I saw your face when your sister mentioned it.”

  But he was already pulling her to her feet and onto the floor, murmuring, “If I have to, you have to,” smiling at her as if they were friends conspiring against a common enemy.

  And she was so pleased at the return of both his rakish grin and his good favor that despite her protestations, she found herself in line with the other couples just as they started to move. She quickly discovered country dances were not at all the sort of thing one could figure out as one went along, and spent a good deal of time hopping in and out of line and tripping over others’ feet, spinning the wrong direction and flailing to regain her balance. Evangeline stumbled into one person after another, and the constant contact kept up a steady barrage of visions until she was sure her brain would explode from her pounding skull.

  Within a very few moments, Evangeline knew Edmund Rutherford had stolen wine from the cellar, Nancy had permitted Pierre Lefebvre several stolen kisses, and Lord Heatherbrook had severed the relationship with his mistress immediately before the party. Blood had been appearing in Benedict Rutherford’s handkerchief when he coughed as of late. His wife Francine was in an Interesting Condition. Their sister-in-law Lady Heatherbrook—Lioncroft’s elder sister Rose—had been forced into a “good match” against her will at seventeen. Lady Stanton had been frightened of Evangeline’s mother throughout her childhood. And country dances were impossible to execute with any degree of competency while suffering from a savage headache.

  Evangeline would never have removed her kid gloves in favor of mitts, had she not been desperate to understand what was happening around here.

  She took Mr. Lioncroft’s arm for the next turn and stopped breathing when she realized she’d suffered visions about every single person present—except him. Not now, and not in the hallway earlier.

  How could this be happening?

  She’d known such things were possible, although instances were rare. Her poor mother had been unable to glean visions from Neal Pemberton when she’d arrived pregnant and penniless in his small village, and had interpreted the odd immunity as an indication of True Love. The miscalculation had cost Mama her life.

  When Evangeline was a child, Mama had pointed out that the visions were always of emotional moments in people’s lives. She’d said Neal Pemberton didn’t care enough about anything or anyone to have emotion. After all, he prided himself on his cruelty and indifference. But unlike her mother, as Evangeline grew older she’d endured horrific visions with every strike of her stepfather’s hand. His endless trips to the taverns where he’d rut in nearby alleys with a serving girl, his perverse pleasure in beating her mother for the very “witchiness” he’d hoped to harness by marrying her.

  What could it mean for Gavin Lioncroft’s skin to be so relentlessly silent? A twist of
fate? Or more proof that he was even more like her monster of a stepfather than she had at first feared?

  Before she could come up with a satisfactory hypothesis, the music ended. Evangeline stumbled from Mr. Lioncroft before he could do more than toss her a quizzical glance.

  Just as quickly, Lord Heatherbrook inclined his head to his wife, bowed to the rest of the party, and excused himself for the evening with a murmured explanation of “business matters.”

  Still slumped in a wooden chair, Mr. Teasdale awoke, blinked at the non-dancing people standing awkwardly before him, and tottered out the door, his cane clomping with each step.

  Lady Heatherbrook frowned after him. “Now we’re six women and three men. This won’t do at all, if we’re to continue dancing.” She glanced at the pianist, the open door, and then her brother. “Gavin,” she whispered, “would you please ask them to return? I’d go myself, but I…”

  Mr. Lioncroft made eye contact with Evangeline for a split second before inclining his head to his sister and disappearing through the door. She had the sudden suspicion he’d gone to bludgeon his brother-in-law to death, not beg him to continue dancing.

  With a loud bark, Benedict Rutherford erupted into a vicious coughing fit. When he regained control, he mumbled, “I’ve had enough music for one evening.” Before Lady Heatherbrook could coax him to stay, he bowed and left.

  Francine Rutherford affected a huge yawn, covered her red-painted mouth with a chartreuse-gloved hand, and said, “I ought to retire with my husband.” She followed shortly behind him.

  Evangeline was afraid Lady Heatherbrook might burst into tears.

  “Mama.” Nancy tugged on Lady Heatherbrook’s arm. “If there’s to be no more dancing, and Mr. Teasdale isn’t even here to talk with me, may I go, too?”

  “Fine. Go.” A muscle pulsed in Lady Heatherbrook’s temple above her bruised cheek. “Get some sleep, and I’ll see you at breakfast.”

  “In that case, I’m going back to the library.” Edmund Rutherford inched toward the door. “I believe I abandoned a delicious port.” Within seconds, he was gone.

  Evangeline glanced about the almost empty room. All that remained were Lady Heatherbrook, whose hands clenched at her sides, Lady Stanton, who stood cold and unmoving, and Susan, who appeared thrilled with the entire debacle.

  Lady Stanton gestured toward the dance floor. “Will Lioncroft be right back, then?”

  Lady Heatherbrook’s face crumpled. “Tonight was a disaster. You might as well go to your rooms. We can save the dancing for next time. If there is a next time.”

  “Tonight was lovely,” Evangeline assured her, when neither Stanton spoke up.

  “Thank you, dear.” Lady Heatherbrook reached over to pat Evangeline’s arm and once again the room disappeared, replaced with the same bedchamber as in the vision with Mr. Teasdale. Except this time, Mr. Teasdale was nowhere in sight.

  * * *

  Lord Heatherbrook sits at a small desk, scrawling on parchment. His head snaps up as Lady Heatherbrook comes into the room. “What now?”

  “I saw your handkerchief.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” He turns his attention back to his scribbling.

  “You said you lost it weeks ago, and then there it was. With rouge stains.”

  His pen falters. “What are you implying, Rose?”

  “I don’t have to imply anything! Red stains on white linen speak for themselves.” She places one hand on her slender stomach, the other on his stiff shoulder. “Must you really—”

  Lord Heatherbrook stands so quickly his chair shoots backward. The sudden movement sets his wife off balance. Rather than right her, he sets a palm to stinging the side of her cheek. She collapses to the floor in a heap.

  The supper bell rings. Without bothering to help her up, he steps around her crumpled form.

  When she lifts up her head, he is gone.

  * * *

  Lady Heatherbrook removed her hand from Evangeline’s arm in order to give little hugs and cheek-busses to Susan and Lady Stanton. She then turned, chin down, and trudged from the room.

  Evangeline gazed after her, half-wishing Mr. Lioncroft really would plant his fist in Lord Heatherbrook’s face.

  Lady Stanton harrumphed behind her painted fan. “Well, Susan spent time with Lioncroft, and that’s what’s important. But what in the world were you thinking to join the dancing, Miss Pemberton? You are not one of us. Forget yourself again and I’ll have half a mind to toss you to the streets. You’re to be encouraging an engagement with Susan, not angling for attention of your own. Not that he’d be interested in the likes of you.”

  Evangeline’s jaw clenched. Lady Stanton had no idea what kind of attention Evangeline had managed to garner on her own.

  “Oh, Mother,” Susan said with a sigh. “Leave her be. I told you I don’t want to get compromised until the end of the party. I’m not used to him yet. Just dancing with him was horrible enough.”

  Horrible! Evangeline stared at her in disbelief. She’d never waltzed before, but she was quite certain if Mr. Lioncroft had whirled her about the floor like he whirled Susan, it would’ve been anything but horrible.

  “Get some sleep, Susan,” Lady Stanton commanded, snapping her fan closed. “You want to look your best in the morning.”

  And with that, she too strode from the room.

  Susan and Evangeline exchanged a look, but by the time they reached the doorway, Lady Stanton was already down the hall and around the corner. Other than a few servants tidying the music room, they were alone.

  Susan’s face twisted into a pout. “I suppose Mother left us unchaperoned for me to more easily be compromised. She no doubt believes Lioncroft is on his way back here at any moment, and that victory is at hand. I’d better find her fast and disabuse her of the notion. I said I wasn’t ready yet, and I meant it.”

  “You think he’s coming back?”

  “Suppose not. Even if he does, Lady Heatherbrook specifically requested he bring her husband with him.” Susan gave a little shudder. “I don’t intend to sit around chatting with that one, to be sure. He might start slapping me.” She squinted at Evangeline over the top of her spectacles before blurting out, “How did you do it?”

  Evangeline blinked at her. “Do what?”

  “Draw Lioncroft to you without so much as a word. One moment he was swinging me in the most nauseating of circles, and the next I was quite alone and watching the two of you from a distance.”

  “Oh,” Evangeline said, hoping the flickering candles hid the heating of her cheeks. “I don’t know. Perhaps he just noticed me there and wanted to say good evening.”

  “You jest.” Susan stared at her as if she’d gone mad. “First of all, Lionkiller doesn’t deign to say ‘good anything’ because he’s far too occupied being dark and brooding and deadly. Second, he knew the very moment you snuck through the door.”

  “Did he?” Evangeline fought a flattered smile. Despite her sharp tongue, he’d only pretended immunity to her presence. Or, perhaps, because of it. Her smile faded. She couldn’t blame him for ignoring her, and she still owed him that apology.

  Susan nodded. “It was the only time his steps faltered the entire evening. Oh, and when he nearly spun me into a wall after you made that odd grimace and rubbed at your head. You do seem to get a lot of headaches.”

  “True,” Evangeline agreed, wincing anew. “It’s a curse.”

  “Rather like this party is cursed.” Susan shoved her spectacles up the bridge of her nose with the back of one hand. “I say, I’ve never seen such an ignominious disbanding of a dance set in my entire life. It’s as if not a single person present wanted to be here.”

  “I certainly didn’t.” Evangeline muttered, frowning at her lacy mitts.

  Guilt plagued her. She hadn’t meant to dance. Watching Susan with Mr. Lioncroft had been uncomfortable enough. When he’d come and pulled her to the floor, Evangeline hadn’t thought twice. For a brief moment, she’d e
ven forgotten she was in mourning. How had one man filled her entire world for the space of a song?

  “Oh, I know you didn’t want to be there. You told Mother as much. But everyone else? Dancing at a house party is as common as breathing, Evangeline. Something isn’t right.” Susan flicked a glance into the music room then down the empty hall. “This place gives me gooseflesh. I’m heading back to our quarters.” She started to walk, then glanced over her shoulder at Evangeline. “Aren’t you coming? I have to catch up with Mother before I’m compromised.”

  “I—I will in a moment,” Evangeline hedged, belatedly remembering she never did have a chance to find Ginny. Perhaps now was as good a time as any. “Go on ahead. I’ll retire soon.”

  Susan frowned, shrugged, and sprinted down the hallway, leaving Evangeline to wander the dark mansion alone.

  Chapter 8

  Gavin burst into his candlelit office. The heavy oak door banged against the wall. A shiver rippled among a cluster of paintings, jostling several of them askew.

  Blackberry Manor was his home, and this his most private domain. No one with any sense would dare encroach upon his territory without first requesting permission. And even if the oily snake seated behind Gavin’s desk had bothered to ask, Gavin would have refused.

  “Get. Up.” He advanced toward the desk, biting out the words through clenched teeth. A fire sizzled behind the grate, filling the shadowed room with the stench of acrid smoke.

  Heatherbrook glanced up from a stack of papers with ill-concealed annoyance. “Lioncroft. I wondered if you would drop by.”

  With the sweep of an arm, Gavin knocked the contents of the desktop to the floor, papers and inkwell and all. Both hands splayed on the now-bare surface, he loomed over the desk until his face was inches from Heatherbrook’s. “I expect you didn’t wonder long. From the moment you struck my sister, you knew you’d have to answer to me.”