Page 39 of Too Sinful to Deny
“That’s not what it looked like.” Miss Grey’s crimson coat fluttered behind her as she stalked closer to Susan. “That’s not whatyoulook like.”
Bloody hell, how bad did she look? Susan’s fingers returned involuntarily to her lips, then over to her hair, which was definitely not in its impromptu chignon. The blonde mass now tumbled about her face in all its half-straight, half-curled glory. Spectacular.
“Do you realize that if anyone else had caught you two together, the next time you saw him would be at the altar?” Miss Devonshire’s voice rose to such a glass-shattering level, Susan half-expected cracks to spider across Miss Devonshire’s china-perfect features.
Then the words sunk in. No. No, she hadn’t thought of that. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Because she was too busy kissing and being kissed? No wonder Mr. Bothwick disappeared through the closest window. He didn’t want to be saddled with her any more than she wanted to have her life destroyed by being stuck here in hell with him.
“He’s all yours.” Susan knelt to pick up her fallen pearl comb. When she glanced up at Miss Devonshire’s continued pique, she couldn’t help but add, “If you can find him.”
Miss Devonshire’s face went livid. “You think you’re special just because he kissed you? Do you know how many women he’s loved and left?”
No, Susan didn’t think she was special because she’d let him kiss her. She was pretty certain her promiscuous behavior indicated an impending aneurysm. And yes, she had a fairly good idea as to how unremarkable she was compared with the legions of beautiful, moral-free women composing the colorful backdrop of Mr. Bothwick’s personal life. Which was yet another indication she’d completely lost her mind.
“Who cares about Bothwick?” the ghost called from the safety of the ceiling. “Just tell Harriet I’m dead and we can all get out of here.”
Susan’s teeth set. Sure, that’d cheer them up. Then maybe they could sing songs and bake pies.
“It’s his money, isn’t it,” Miss Grey said slowly, leaning on the curved handle of her umbrella. “Dinah, she’s after his money!”
Susan rolled her eyes. She was not. Well, perhaps a little. Just enough to cover the bar tab. But she’d pay him back the moment her allowance arrived. She could buy the girls’ entire dress shop when her allowance arrived.
If her allowance arrived.
“It’s not fair for you to set your sights on the richest bachelor in Bournemouth,” Miss Devonshire shrilled. “Aren’t there plenty of eligible dandies with buckets full of money for you to choose from back in London?”
Why, yes, there were. And Susan would capture one by fair means or foul. Once she made it to London alive. But—wait a minute.
She removed her spectacles and cleaned them in her skirts so as not to be distracted by the ghost’s constant gesticulation. Mr. Bothwick had money? That meant... the gorgeous house with its tasteful, elegant interior... did belong to him after all. That man was getting curiouser by the second.
“Make that the only rich gentleman from here to Bath.” Miss Grey elbowed Miss Devonshire, clearly trying to needle her into a murderous rage. “And she’s trying to take him from you.”
“Not the only rich gentleman,” was all Susan could think to say to defuse the situation, since continuing to deny interest in Mr. Bothwick was obviously pointless.
“That right?” One of Miss Grey’s thin red brows lifted. “Who else is there?”
“Er...” Rot. Now she had to think of someone. “Mr. Forrester?”
“Is poor as a church mouse. And he’s amagistrate.”
The word was spoken with as much disdain as if she’d said “stable boy.” Fair enough. Who else in this town had money? Well, her charming host, for one. “My cousin?”
Miss Grey laughed. “He’s plain old Oliver Hamilton, from nowhere.”
“Not a connection to his name,” Miss Devonshire agreed with a little sniff. “He married the Beaune money.”
“They all do,” Miss Grey added darkly.
They leaned in, as if waiting to see if Susan would take the bait of promised gossip. Since the two were thereby distracted from tearing her limb from limb, far be it from Susan to put the conversation back on track.
“What is that supposed to mean?” she asked, with genuine interest. “Who else married Lady Beaune for her money?”
“Nother.TherealLady Beaune. The first one. You’re thinking of her daughter. Lady Emeline.”
“The first one,” Susan echoed faintly. The chill racing down her spine assured her she’d already met the lady in question. Haunting the Beaune chamber. And the terrified young woman in the cellar was the ghost’s daughter. Lady Emeline. A cousin who must be very near Susan’s age... yet had endured so much more.
“Who cares about that old history?” Red shouted, floating closer. “I’m the only dead person you should be talking about!”
She ignored him.
