“Must be something in the water.” He took another sip of brandy, but this time his eyes did not close in pleasure. He looked... anguished. But then he blinked, and the moment was gone. “I suppose you wish to talk about it?”
She snorted. (A habit she was truly endeavoring to break.) Talk about her inexplicable ability to see spirits? Never. Not to him. Not to anyone. The ghosts themselves were bad enough. Having others suspect such madness would ruin her life. She’d end up the subject of gossip and never make the kind of match she needed. “Absolutely not.”
His eyebrows lifted. She’d surprised him, then, by not wishing to chat about her troubles. “Fair enough.” He shrugged and returned his attention to his glass of brandy. “I’d have been feigning attention anyway.”
Her mouth fell open. He wasso rude.“Because I’m a woman?”
“Because whatever it is, I don’t want to get involved.”
Well, she scarce wished to be involved with him either. “Understandable. Well, I’m afraid I must be off. I do appreciate your many kindnesses this morning, Mr....”
Incredible. Twice in his arms and she didn’t even know his name.
“Bothwick,” he supplied helpfully. “Marquess of Gower, Earl of Huntington, Viscount Rockham.”
“What?” There was no such—
“Just bamming you.” His grin was infectious. “Evan Bothwick.” He rose to his feet and held out his hand. “Plain old ‘mister.’”
Right. Susan shook his hand without a word.
Now that he had a name and a personality—and no pistol—he was a little less frightening and a little more... well, notnormal,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 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. “Doesanyonehere 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?”
