Free Too Sinful to Deny by Erica Ridley

Delightful.
    “Nothing.”
    “Didn’t look like nothing.” His smooth voice came closer. “Looked rather like talking to yourself and throwing punches at the wind.”
    Susan ground her teeth. This sort of reaction was precisely why she would not be bringing Bournemouth inhabitants any ghostly messages from the grave. The only thing worse than being ignored was being mocked. Although she supposed fleeing his house at a dead run hadn’t precisely been putting her best foot forward, as far as impressions went. Not that she cared about his opinion. Much.
    “Just exercising,” she said, turning around to wait for his inevitable reappearance on the serpentine path. “Latest London craze. You wouldn’t understand.”
    Mr. Bothwick rounded another winding corner and appeared on the trail before her. He had bathed and groomed since the last time she saw him, and the change was breathtaking. He could have mingled in any ballroom to devastating effect. Out in the open air, however, with the wild ocean at his back . . . this was his element.
    No tailor could hide the muscular lines of a body used to the out-of-doors (why would one try?) and the snowy whiteness of his perfectly creased cravat only served to accentuate the unfashionable bronze of his skin. A look, Susan admitted privately, that Mr. Bothwick wore very, very well. Particularly with the slight quirk to his lips that she’d come to recognize meant he was on the verge of saying something shocking.
    “As it happens,” he said with a slight incline to his head, “there’s nothing I love more than . . . exercising . . . with a beautiful woman.”
    Susan reminded herself to be offended, not intrigued. Or at least feign as much. And stop ogling the fine fit of his breeches and perfect cut of his cheekbones above the creases of his cravat.
    “Do you know how insufferable you are, Mr. Bothwick?”
    He smiled. “I cultivate it. Shall I carry you up the cliff ?”
    “You shall not.” Although, turned out in his present condition, the idea held a sinful allure. He looked so dashing, with the wind ruffling his chestnut hair and every other inch of him so perfectly put together. He was a gentleman on the outside, and on the inside . . . something darker. A mystery. A mirage. An enemy.
    He studied her as if reading her thoughts. “Shall we ‘exercise’ together, then?”
    Susan gasped indignantly. Well, somewhat indignantly. The gasping might have detracted a bit from the indignation and made her sound more . . . tempted. Knowing he was absolutely wrong for her just made him all the more intriguing.
    She raised her chin and tried to appear aloof. “We most certainly shall not.”
    “More’s the pity.”
    He prowled closer. Bits of grass and dirt broke free with each step and tumbled to the ground below. Suddenly they were toe to toe on the sandy path. He didn’t move. Neither did she. She couldn’t. His fresh-shaven cheeks looked sharp, dangerous, yet touchably soft. He wore no perfume. His recently bathed skin smelled of sea salt and citrus. Ambrosial. He was too close. Much too close. He lifted her chin with the curve of a bare knuckle and gazed into her eyes.
    “Anybody ever tell you it’s dangerous to be out on the cliffs alone?”
    She jerked her chin out of his grasp, ignoring the rippling shiver his touch had caused. Still caused. She should turn around, right now, and walk away. She should definitely not encourage him by responding. Or leaning closer. Or allowing the huskiness in her voice to give hint to her thoughts. “I wouldn’t be surprised to learn you’re the sort of man who makes it dangerous to be anywhere alone.”
    “Ahh. So you do get my meaning.” His smile returned, this time giving his eyes a predatory glint. “Not as innocent as I imagined.”
    “A caryatid would get your meaning.” Susan swayed, then steadied herself with a palm to his arm. Her over-tight stays must be making her breathless. It certainly had nothing to do with the