Page 52 of Too Sinful to Deny
Forrester didn’t notice, because he was already walking toward Miss Stanton, leaving Miss Devonshire bereft in the open doorway, the last dregs of their conversation still clinging to her tongue. She ran after him, but Forrester apparently hadn’t been interested in Miss Devonshire after all. He’d just been biding his time until the real sweetmeat of Bournemouth walked right into his hands.
Evan hauled himself to his feet. He was going to have to make an appearance after all. Just to keep Miss Stanton safe. Not because he was jealous. He could scarce consider that toady Forrester a romantic threat, for Christ’s sake. Not that Evan was interested in romance.
As he cut across the sand, the disturbing question heshouldhave been asking himself prodded at the back of his mind. What was Mr. Drinking-Is-a-Disgusting-Habit still doing here? Evan hadn’t expected the magistrate’s high insteps to touch town until it was time for the precious assembly.
Granted, Miss Stanton was certainly alluring enough to turn any red-blooded man’s bimonthly visits into biweekly ones. But it wasn’t as if the magistrate had known she’d be moving to town. Was it as simple as an upwardly mobile man seeking to make an advantageous match? Or was there an ulterior motive for the unexpected visit?
A motive like... investigating the Bothwick brothers?
Evan paused, then shook his head, laughed at himself, and continued forward. Forrester couldn’t detect a raindrop in a thunderstorm. The man was too much of a stick to ever actually nab anyone for anything. The day that idiot put two and two together and got an even number would be the day jellyfish fell from the sky.
As further proof, the blank look of confusion that Forrester blinked from his eyes at Evan’s approach was all Evan needed to see—his name couldn’t have been further from Forrester’s flirtatious little brain. Now to get the slug’s sights off of Miss Stanton.
Who, upon catching wind of the dashing magistrate in his dry costume and sand-free hair, set off toward him at a dead run.
It was enough to make a man stop in his tracks. And load his pistols.
From the clenched fists on her hips and the upward tilt of her chin, if Miss Dinah Devonshire had artillery of her own, Miss Stanton would already be dead.
“Mr. Forrester! Mr. Forrester!” the latter shouted as she ran. “I amso pleasedto see you!”
Evan scowled. She had never greetedhimsuch.
The dress shop door swung open. Miss Harriet Grey stalked down the steps and to the side of the building. Presumably to watch the proceedings from the open air, instead of the grimy window from whence she usually spied upon the outside world.
Her attention seemed focused on the back of Miss Devonshire’s head. Miss Devonshire’s attention seemed focused on the back of the magistrate’s head. Forrester was facing the sea—or rather, the undulating bounce of Miss Stanton’s incoming bosom.
Evan’s trigger finger itched.
Miss Devonshire made her move. She sashayed forward, swinging her hips in an almost comical arc until she reached Forrester’s elbow. The magistrate didn’t appear to notice. His gaze remained on Miss Stanton.
Forrester had never looked so focused. Miss Devonshire had never looked so homicidal.
Evan knew the feeling. From the current angle, he’d have to shoot straight through Miss Devonshire in order to hit any of Forrester’s vital organs. While such a trick shot might be eminently satisfying for multiple reasons, Miss Stanton was now within curtsying distance. In a gown far too lovely to splatter with blood.
He stalked closer.
By the looks of the situation, Forrester had completely forgotten Evan watching them from the shadows. The man wasn’t qualified to be magistrate of a weevil in a peapod. Miss Devonshire also had yet to notice Evan’s approach, largely because she was clutching Forrester’s arm and cooing something into his ear so spellbinding that the poor sap’s entire face had turned to stone. Miss Grey kept up her role as flying buttress to the dress shop, one stick-straight arm glued to the wall by five splayed, spindly fingers.
Miss Stanton, on the other hand, had no reason not to notice him. She was the only one facing his direction. He wasn’t more than ten yards away. Nine. Eight. But she’d apparently gone blind to everything but the angelic magistrate, for she reached forward, clutched the hand opposite Miss Devonshire, and reprised her earlier monologue.
“Oh, Mr. Forrester. How very, very good it is to see you! Can we speak privately? Please?”
Forrester seemed even more entranced by Miss Stanton. Miss Devonshire looked ready to poke her eyes out with sewing needles. Then she registered his approach.
“Evan!” she screeched, in that lovely banshee-at-midnight voice of hers. She started to release Forrester’s arm—no doubt to latch herself to Evan’s—but then thought better of it, a crafty smile spreading beneath her apple cheeks.
Was she trying to make him jealous? Evan kept walking. Good luck. He’d never suffered a jealous moment before in his life. He almost laughed at the preposterousness of the idea. Then his eyes narrowed. Perhaps heshouldlaugh. Loudly. Miss Stanton somehow still hadn’t noticed him, although he was now inches from her side.
“Can we go somewhere?” she whispered to the magistrate, his free hand still in her grasp. “Alone?Now?”
Everyone present gasped at this over-the-top outrageousness. Except Forrester. Whose eyes lit like Christmas candles as he smiled and said, “Why, I think—”
“—that would be a terrible idea,” Evan concluded, his voice booming overloud in the otherwise calm beach.
But at least it earned him a glance from Miss Stanton. A quick, dismissive one. Then a longer, puzzled stare. Then a startled look of recognition. And then she returned her gaze to Forrester.
Evan’s jaw set. He could swear that for a moment there, Miss Stanton hadn’t recognized him. Two inches from her face. Who the devil had shethoughthe’d been? St. Nicholas? Perhaps it was time for new spectacles. Particularly since she’d failed to notice the bunched fury in his muscles or the cannon blasts firing from his eyes.
