“Wait. Wait! Where are you going?” The faint sound of footfalls on sand. “Can I come with you?”
No. Lord no. Not now, not ever. Why was she following him? He did not need this type of distraction, even on the blandest of days. No ties, no expectations, noquestions.
She tugged at his sleeve. Unbelievable. All those warnings, and she still jogged at his side. What had he told Ollie just last night? Wenches were simple. Wenches were perfect. London ladies were an absolute mess.
Evan stopped. “Woman—”
“Stanton.” She gave him a suspiciously sunny smile. “Miss Susan Stanton. So pleased to meet you. Oh, and thanks for saving me. Even if you were surly about it.”
“It’s my nature.” He raked a long glance up and down her frame. Unfortunately, she hadn’t gotten ugly in the past few minutes. If anything, the run gave her cheeks a healthy glow and the exertion made her breathing sound like she’d just been—No. He refused to let that image in his mind. For long. “Where are you from, Miss Stanton?”
“Mayfair. That is to say, London.” She eyed him doubtfully. “Er... if you didn’t know.”
He chose not to respond to that comment. The only way to get rid of her would be to scare her off, once and for all. Because if she continued throwing herself in his arms... Well, what was a part-time smuggler to do? He couldn’t be held responsible for the aftermath.
He let his gaze travel down her figure once more. Not quickly, surreptitiously, as he’d done before. Slowly. Enjoying the view. So she’d see him looking—and realize the danger she was in.
“In this ‘Mayfair,’” he asked softly, “do unmarried young ladies trot off alone with respectable young gentlemen, much less conscienceless blackguards?”
Color leeched from her once-pink cheeks. Ah. His words made her as uncomfortable as his gaze. He smiled.
“N-not generally, no.” She glanced behind them at the empty beach and sucked in a shaky breath.
“Know why that is, Miss Stanton?”
“I...” She retreated a step. Then two. Then three. “You weren’t meant to notice me behind you.”
He advanced. “Not notice a beautiful young lady all by her lonesome without a soul watching over her?” He allowed his meaning to sink in, then stepped forward, towering over her, and then lowered his mouth to her ear.
She swallowed nervously, her eyes wide and her body frozen. Except for the pulse pounding wildly at her throat.
He framed her face with his hands, his ungloved fingers cradling her skull and sinking into the rich softness of her hair. He leaned back down until his mouth was a millimeter from her skin. The unshaven edge of his jawline brushed against the smooth curve of her cheek. She gasped but did not pull away.
“If that’s what you fancy, Miss Stanton—to experience firsthand the sort of trouble a man like me can bring—then I might have a little time to kill this morning after all.”
She trembled. “I—I—”
“Shhh.” He dragged his mouth to her ear. “I’m going to walk down the beach. If you’d like a taste of the kind of trouble I can provide, feel free to follow me again.” He let his lips linger against her cheek. “If you don’t, then I suggest you return to Moonseed Manor while I still find it amusing to allow you to do so.”
In one fluid movement, he straightened, let go, and faced the opposite direction. Before his enflamed body could talk his brain out of behaving, he strode forward without a backward glance.
God help them both if she followed.
Chapter 5
Susan turned and ran.
This was a nightmare. For the second time in her life, she’d been discovered whilst spying. Also for the second time in her life, a man’s lips had touched her face. The first such occasion had been that return-to-life-from-drowning incident with the river water and the horrible algae. Since she’d been unconscious, that contact was unavoidable. What did she have to say for herself this time?
He’d caught her. Figuratively and then literally. But that was no excuse.
She could accept being an incompetent spy (although of course she wasn’t). She could accept being stuck in Bournemouth a few more days until her money arrived. (Actually... no. That’s why she’d kept following him—in the hopes he’d pass by a carriage she could rent or borrow or steal.)
But what she could not accept was the notion that Miss Susan Stanton, an accomplished young lady of unimpeachable marriageability, had behaved like a common tart.
Untenable. She would return to London, to a life of crowds and gaiety and comfort. She would marry a rich, titled aristocrat with a busy social schedule at the first available opportunity. To do so, she had to remain untouched and uncompromised. She knew this. She’d always known this. What the bloody hell had she been thinking, standing cheek-to-cheek with that—that—
She stopped dead.
