Part 42 (1/2)
”No pugilism in the family portrait,” Gavin shouted, poking his head from behind his easel. ”What has you ladies so excited?”
”We're talking about families,” Evangeline called back. ”And having one of our own.”
Gavin's eyes crinkled. He tossed his paintbrush over his shoulder, strode into the middle of the melee, and scooped Evangeline up into his arms.
”I think,” he murmured into her hair, ”I just changed my mind about what I want for my birthday.”
She threw her arms around his neck and squeezed.
”Splendid,” she whispered back. ”That's exactly the present I wanted to give you.”
Dear Reader, There are those who opine that gothic romances routinely feature a dark, brooding, dangerous hero and the helpless, weak (some might say...Too Stupid to Live) heroine who loves him, despite the fact that he's a raging dissociative psychopath. If a devilishly attractive dissociative psychopath. With a large...ego.
With TOO WICKED TO KISS, I was totally on board with the dark, brooding, dangerous hero (although I hope you'll find Gavin still firmly rooted in sanity) but I wanted an unquestionably strong heroine. A woman with goals, with dreams, with brains. And then I wanted to rip her life apart and make her prove her courage, tenacity, and heart despite everything I threw her way.
Because I am nice, I gave Evangeline a special Gift: psychic visions from skin-to-skin contact. Because I am evil, I made sure this Gift gave her a life of lonely isolation, plagued with debilitating migraines from the slightest touch. Oh, and just so it wouldn't be anything resembling easy, easy, I made sure the success and relevance of said visions was a roulette wheel of its own. (And you thought Sleeping Beauty's wicked G.o.dmother gave bad gifts!) I made sure the success and relevance of said visions was a roulette wheel of its own. (And you thought Sleeping Beauty's wicked G.o.dmother gave bad gifts!) What kind of (dark, brooding, dangerous) hero would actually deserve a woman like this, who can rise above all adversity with steel in her spine and selflessness in her heart? Clearly, he would need to be tested, as well. So I made his past come back to haunt him (figuratively) and gave him a few new troubles. Like falling in love. And finding a dead man in the guest room. With Gavin's own handprints laced around the corpse's neck.
I hope you love Gavin and Evangeline as much as I do. (Susan's book is next, so feel free to love her, too.) As a special bonus, don't miss the following sneak peek. Please come visit me at ericaridley.com. ericaridley.com. I promise to be more hospitable than Gavin... I promise to be more hospitable than Gavin...
All the best, Erica Ridley
Please turn the page for a sneak peek of Erica Ridley's next historical romance, coming in 2011!
March. The last of the plumed lords and ladies swooped into Town like crows feasting upon carrion. Miss Susan Stanton had escaped the confines of her bedchamber for the first time in six long, dark weeks-only to be bundled in the back of a black carriage and jettisoned into the vast void of nothingness beyond London borders.
To Bournemouth. Bournemouth Bournemouth. An infinitesimal ”town” on a desolate stretch of coastline a million miles from home. Less than a hundred souls, the carriage driver had said. Spectacular. Thrice as many bodies had graced Susan's London come-out party four years ago, not counting the servants. Being banished from Town was the worst possible punishment for disobedience Mother could've possibly devised. Nothing could deaden the soul quite like the prospect of- Moonseed Manor.
Susan's breath caught in her throat. Her mind emptied of its litany of complaints as her eyes struggled to equate the stark, colorless vista before her with ”town of Bournemouth.”
Dead brown nothingness. Miles of it. A steep cliff jutted over black ocean. There, backlit with a smattering of fuzzy stars, a bone-white architectural monstrosity teetered impossibly close to the edge.
Moonseed Manor did not look like a place to live. Moonseed Manor looked like a place to die.
Not a single candle flickered in the windows. As the carriage drew her ever closer, its wheels bouncing and slipping on sand and rocks. Susan's skin erupted in gooseflesh. She hugged herself, struck by an invasive chill much colder than the ocean breeze should cause.
The carriage stopped. The driver handed her out, then disappeared back into his perch, leaving her to make her presence known by herself. Very well. He could stay and mind the luggage while she summoned the help. Miss Susan Stanton was no shrinking violet. Although she wished for the hundredth time that her lady's maid hadn't been forbidden from accompanying her. She was well and truly exiled.
The back of her neck p.r.i.c.kling with trepidation, Susan found herself curling trembling fingers around a thick bra.s.s knocker, the handle formed from the coil of a serpent about to strike. The resulting sound echoed in the eerie stillness, as if both the pale wood and the house itself were hollow and lifeless.
The door silently opened.
A scarecrow stood before her, all spindly limbs and jaundiced skin with a shock of straw-colored hair protruding at all angles above dark, cavernous eyes. The sharpness of his bones stretched his yellowed skin. His attire hung oddly on his frame, as though these clothes were not his own, but rather the castoffs of the true (and presumably human) butler.
”I...I...” Susan managed, before choking on an explanation she did not have.
She what? She was the twenty-year-old sole offspring of a loveless t.i.tled couple who had banished their ostracized disappointment of a daughter to the remotest corner of England rather than bear the continued sight of her? She nudged her spectacles up the bridge of her nose with the back of a gloved hand and forced what she hoped was a smile.
”My name is Miss Susan Stanton,” she tried again, deciding to leave the explanation at that. Mother had written in advance, and what more need be said after Mother's missive? ”I'm afraid I was expected hours ago. Is Lady Beaune at home?”
”Always,” the scarecrow rasped, after a brief pause. His sudden jagged-tooth smile unsettled Susan as surely as it must frighten the crows. ”Come.”
Susan slid a dozen hesitant steps into a long narrow pa.s.sage devoid of both portraiture and decoration before the oddity of his answer reverberated in her ears. Always Always. What did he mean by that, and why the secret smile? Once one entered Moonseed Manor, was one to be stuck there, entombed forevermore in a beachside crypt?
”P-perhaps I should alert my driver that your mistress is at home.” She hastened forward to catch up to the scarecrow's long-limbed strides. ”I have a shocking number of valises, and-”
”Don't worry,” came the scarecrow's smoky rasp, once again accompanied by a grotesque slash of a smile. ”He's being taken care of.”
Normally, Susan would've bristled with outrage at the unprecedented effrontery of being interrupted by a servant. In this case, however, she was more concerned with the rented driver's continued wellbeing. She was not sure she wanted him ”being taken care of.” Shouldn't the butler have said her trunks trunks would be taken care of? She glanced over her shoulder at the corridor now stretching endlessly behind them, and wondered if she were safer inside these skeletal walls or out. would be taken care of? She glanced over her shoulder at the corridor now stretching endlessly behind them, and wondered if she were safer inside these skeletal walls or out.
Susan didn't notice a narrow pa.s.sageway intersecting the stark hall until the scarecrow disappeared within. She stood at the crossroads, hesitant to follow but even more nervous not to. After the briefest of pauses, she hurried to regain the scarecrow's side before losing him forever in the labyrinthine walls.
If he noticed her moment of indecision, he gave no sign. He made several quick turns, pa.s.sing tall closed door after tall closed door, before finally making an abrupt stop at the dead end of an ill-lit corridor.
This door was open. Somewhat.
A candle flickered inside, but only succeeded in filling the room's interior with teeming shadows.
”Sir,” the scarecrow rasped into the opening. ”It's Miss Stanton. Your guest.”
”Guest?” came a warm, smartly-accented voice from somewhere within. The master of the house? No. ”You were expecting guests at this hour, Ollie?”
Ollie? Susan echoed silently in her head. Wasn't Lady Beaune's husband named Jean-Louis? Perhaps she was about to meet a distant relation. A cousin would make a lovely ally. Susan echoed silently in her head. Wasn't Lady Beaune's husband named Jean-Louis? Perhaps she was about to meet a distant relation. A cousin would make a lovely ally.