“No.” It was Evan at eight years old. Right around when Timothy, then six, had decided his older brother could do no wrong and should be emulated in all things. That had turned out to be one of the worst decisions Timothy had ever made. Whether holding on to such a portrait indicated blind faith or just plain blindness, Evan couldn’t say. Yet a stabbing sense of loss throbbed beneath his ribs at the realization that he wished more than anything that he owned a painting of his innocent, impressionable brother at that young age. Or any likeness of Timothy. Something to gaze upon in those moments when he wanted nothing more than to talk to his brother one more time. “Wait for me outside.Go.”
Something in his tone startled her enough to check her from continuing her trajectory into Timothy’s sitting room. She turned around, bit her lip, nodded. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
But she hadn’t taken more than a few steps toward the door before dropping to her knees and sliding two slender fingers into a crack in the floorboard.
“Ooh,” she exclaimed. “What’s this?”
Evan ground his teeth. In this house, it could be anything—biscuit, bullet, chamber pot cleaning schedule. He almost didn’t want to know.
“What’s what?” he asked anyway, despite his better judgment.
“This.” Miss Stanton rose to her feet and came toward him, her prize enclosed in her fist.
He held out his hand.
She placed the back of hers inside his larger palm and uncurled her fingers.
A skull-and-crossbones winked up from the center of a large gold coin.
“That’s a Jolly Roger, isn’t it?” she breathed, awestruck. “But why? What could it mean?”
It meant, Evan realized with another glance at the ruined decor and the cargo-free entryway, that things were far, far worse than he thought.
Chapter 18
When dawn came, Susan was still staring into the blackness of the canopy.
She hadn’t slept. She’d lain in bed, listening for the cries of the belated Lady Beaune and hearing what she feared were the faint whimpers of the present (no doubt soon-to-be-belated) mistress, Lady Emeline.
And, guiltily enough, reliving a certain kiss.
She still couldn’t believe her instantaneous reaction to the illicit contact... and to the man himself. He was nothing but an unapologetic rake. Yet she could no longer look him in the eyes without remembering what he looked like with them closed in passion. And how he felt. How he tasted.
She suffered through the hourlong hair-curling process in uncharacteristic silence. If only because she scarce registered it happening. Her mind swirled with the memory of those heated kisses... and the humiliating realization that she’dlikedit.
Despite her blue blood and the family money that came along with her parents’ titles, and the many years of proper upbringing that accompanied a fine education and (mostly) impeccable deportment, when push came to shove...
The inner-Susan was a common hussy.
Still in a bit of a daze from that undesirable conclusion, she eventually found her way downstairs and out the front door. She could not indulge such fantasies. She was a lady out to ensnare a lord. The least she could do was provide said lordling with a worthy bride. A proper bride. A demure and chaste bride. A woman who didnottake pleasure in stolen kisses by men far beneath her station.
Worse than anything... she’d wanted more.
But she could not risk it. Her romantic reputation (or rather, lack thereof) was the one thing she had to offer her future husband. A compromise worked only if the man in question believed himself to be the one who had done the compromising. She needed to remain pure and untouched until the day she set foot back in London. She might be in the middle of nowhere, but she was still Miss Susan Stanton, sole heiress of a reasonably wealthy baron, eligible young lady who would, if she played her cards right, be welcomed back home to London… and perhaps even High Society.
The simple thing to do—the smart thing to do—would be to avoid Mr. Evan Bothwick at all costs.
However.
He had a secret.
She didn’t know what it was, but she burned to find out. The tantalizing promise of gossip had always been her one weakness. Not knowing Mr. Bothwick’s secret was eating Susan from the inside out.
Last night, he’d all but thrown her over his shoulder and dumped her back in the Manor without another word. The reprobate. He could’ve at least helped speculate on what manner of ruffian might’ve ripped apart his brother’s home.
Then again, seeing a coin like that in one’s brother’s sitting room would unsettle anyone. Even a libertine like Mr. Bothwick, with little more on his mind than finding a new maiden to deflower. Country folk might not realize the significance of the coin’s insignia, but Susan Stanton certainly did. Gooseflesh rippled up her spine at the unquestionably dangerous raison d’être:
Pirates.
