Too Sinful to Deny by Erica Ridley Read Free Book Online Page A

disarray, he cut an arresting figure. “You may be wondering why my stockings are missing and there’s dried seaweed crumbling from my clothes.”
    “Er, not at all,” Susan lied, intrigued despite herself. “One scarcely notices.”
    “Excellent.” He gave her a satisfied smile. “Then I shan’t bore you with the details.”
    Susan’s jaw dropped to realize the insufferable man had just managed her. He knew she was dying to know the explanation, and purposefully broached the topic in such a way as to close it forever.
    “Bore me,” she tried anyway. She leaned forward, certain here was an excellent story.
    His smile only broadened. “I couldn’t possibly. I pride myself on my ability to not bore women. I prefer to keep them . . . entertained.”
    Her eyes narrowed. Once again, he had successfully changed the subject without overtly changing the subject. In fact, he was now expecting her to rejoin with something like, Oh? And how do you plan to keep me entertained? but she was too prudent to say something so leading. After four years of spying on the upper ten thousand, one got a fairly good idea of the sort of “entertainment” a couple alone might get up to.
    She would only resort to such tomfoolery when she was back in London, safely ensconced in the arms of a titled gentleman about to find himself with a Stanton bride. Any flirtation, no matter how minor, with the man reclining in the chair opposite—devilishly handsome though he might be—could only get in the way of her goals. Susan never allowed anything to get in the way of her goals.
    She tore her gaze from his and glanced about the drawing room. Frowning, she tried to reconcile the cozy nook awash in luxurious jewel tones and velvet-covered cushions with the unshaven reprobate lounging before her in wrinkled breeches and salt-hardened linen. She failed.
    This had to be someone else’s house. Someone well-bred and elegant. Someone who was going to come home, catch them inside, and kill them both.
    Her gaze returned to the gentleman sprawled across from her. He was still watching her. One corner of his lips quirked up in a half-smile. The slight crinkle at the edge of his hazel eyes indicated he was laughing at her and trying not to show it.
    Nobody laughed at Susan Stanton. Not the ton in their fancy dress, and not this overgrown footpad in his water-shrunken breeches. If the proper owner of the house didn’t show up and start shooting, she’d shove the blackguard off the cliff herself. Then again, he’d probably pull out his pistol and shoot her on the way down, and where would that leave her then?
    Coming here was a very, very bad idea.
    “Perhaps I should go,” she suggested as brightly as possible, hoping to give the confident impression of a strong woman instead of a querulous victim-to-be. He’d made no bones about what he intended to do the next time they were alone. And she’d allowed herself to be carried to a location with a bedchamber. She sat up straight, ignoring the pain in her backside, and placed a firm palm on the arm of the sofa. “I do appreciate your hospitality.”
    He shrugged but made no move to ravish her. “I have no hospitality.”
    “Then why am I here?” she blurted, not trusting his intentions for a moment. Nor, truth be told, overly trusting her own. Susan gripped the arm of the sofa even tighter. Why wasn’t she fleeing? She should escape while she still could. Yet for some reason, the sort of danger he exuded was more exciting than terrifying.
    “I’ve been asking myself from the first.” He rose and crossed the room to a small sideboard adorned with hand-blown glassware and a bottle of brandy. “You may leave whenever you like, Miss Stanton. But I won’t be carrying you.”
    “Perfectly reasonable,” she said, jerking her hands into her lap. “Once was enough for me, too.”
    “Twice,” he corrected without turning around.
    “Er . . . right.”
    To be honest, it had been a relief to melt into