Too Wicked to Kiss: Gothic Love Stories #1 by Ridley Erica

Author:Ridley, Erica
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: WebMotion
Published: 2019-08-01T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

After dining alone in his chamber—for he had no wish to renew conversation about the likelihood of his guilt in the late earl’s death—Gavin began to feel restless. Typically at such times, he would spend the evening in the library with a book, or while away the hours outside strolling the land behind the manor or perhaps riding to the nearest pugilism club. But any one of his skittish, suspicious guests might be within the library, no stars lit the night sky, much less his fields, and he had no wish to explain why he’d left a “party” to go fighting in a neighboring town.

When his desire for motion at last outweighed his desire for solitude, Gavin exited his bedchamber via the primary door instead of his hinged mirror, and strode into the hall.

Shadows teemed along the deserted corridor, but enough candlelight flickered within the sconces for even the most casual of observers to note the content of the oil paintings framed along the passageway.

Miss Pemberton was right. Not a smiling face among them. No faces at all.

Landscape after landscape swirled across the many canvases. Here, a dark river, frothing with rage beneath leafless trees twisting in the wind. There, a lifeless chasm, filled with dirt and rock and ice, smothered with a layer of murky fog. And, ah, this one, a torrent of sleet slashing across a desolate highway, snapping the fragile stem of a single frost-tipped flower protruding from the muck.

He was not, it seemed, overfond of portraiture. And why would he be? Of whom would he commission portraits?

As if appearing before him merely to spite his thoughts, one of his nieces stood at the crossroads between his wing and the guest wing. With both pale hands gripping the banister, Nancy stared dully over the ledge to the marble vestibule below. She leaned forward. Closer. Lower. Her pink ribbons and blond ringlets dangled precariously before her.

Within seconds, Gavin reached her side.

“Please tell me you’ve no designs on jumping,” he said softly, placing a tentative hand across her white knuckles.

“I—no.” She straightened, swallowed, blushed. “Fantasy. That is to say, folly. I could never…Mother’s been through enough without me worsening things further.”

His breaths once again came easy now that he no longer feared she might tumble over the edge. And with the return of air to his lungs came the return of doubt. Gavin imagined himself the last person she’d hoped would discover her in such a position, and he had no inkling of how to proceed now that he had. Although Nancy had made no movement to remove her fingers from beneath his, Gavin shoved his hands in his pockets, leaned against the railing, and tried to guess at the thoughts of a seventeen-year-old miss.

He suspected whatever had Nancy contemplating the shortest path down the long spiral staircase had to do with something even greater than Heatherbrook’s death. He hoped like hell her distress had nothing to do with a romance between herself and Mr. Teasdale. He considered

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