Too Sinful to Deny Read Online Free

out of Bournemouth, even if she had to drive the horses herself.
    Susan strode to the bell pull. Her hand had already curled around the cord when a chilling thought wriggled into her brain. Barely dawn. Would a real servant answer the call? Or a ghost? Her fingers dropped the cord as if the twine had branded her palm.
    Perhaps—whilst she was having a steady series of firsts anyway—she should go ahead and dress herself.
    Although she managed to remove her nightgown and don her shift with little incident, lacing stays and a morning gown proved quite impossible to do by oneself. Heart thudding, Susan gave the cursed bell pull a reluctant tug and sat down at a small escritoire in the corner to wait. After staring at a dusty pen-and-ink set for several moments, unlaced gown gaping open at her back, she decided to take this opportunity to inform her family of her impending return.
    “Dear Mother,” she scratched across the top of a yellowed sheet of parchment.
    I was wrong. I do hate you more than you hate me.
    “Moonseed Manor has proven to be an unacceptable choice for accommodation.”
    Not that I expect you care.
    “While I have not spoken with Father’s cousin—”
    —because she’s most likely DEAD—
    “—I did meet the master of the house—”
    —who could snap my neck as easily as a bird’s—
    “—and will inform him of my intent to return to London.”
    Unless I can manage to escape without him noticing.
    “I have decided to leave at my earliest convenience, which happens to be within the hour. In fact, I shouldn’t be surprised if I arrive on the heels of this very letter. In order to depart as expeditiously as possible, I shall leave my luggage behind and hire the first available—”
    Bloody hell .
    Susan stared at the ink drying before her. Mother hadn’t exactly packed a purse full of money for her daughter’s one-way trip to the edge of the world.
    To be honest, the need for physical coin hadn’t occurred to Susan either (not that she’d been given a voice in the let’s-disown-our-daughter planning process), if only because credit was a given in London. Everyone knew her face and the Stanton name. If she wished for, say, an emerald necklace, she walked out of a store with an emerald necklace. Father would settle the accounts later. Well, he would’ve before the Incident that had gotten her locked in her bedchamber. Now what she needed was to marry a titled aristocrat with deep pockets and a generous soul. Not an easy feat, but at least possible. In London. Where her name meant something.
    In Bournemouth, however . . .
    Here, she had no limitless credit. Here she had nothing. She could ask her parents for money, of course. But if they were aware she planned to use their funds in order to defy their wishes by returning home, the likelihood was high that no money would be forthcoming.
    Bloody, bloody hell.
    She would have to avoid all mention of just how disagreeable she found her exile. Best to act as normal as possible. She crumpled up her missive and began a new one.
    “Dear Mother. Please send money. Yours, &c. Susan.”
    There. Her monthly allowance should arrive within the week. Assuming she chanced to survive that long in haunted Moonseed Manor.
    The sound of the heavy door scratching across the hardwood floor sent gooseflesh rippling up Susan’s arms. The figure that scampered inside made her gasp in horror. Was it terrible of her to hope this unfortunate creature wasn’t among the living?
    The—maid?—stood less than four feet tall. Her body was nothing more than a jumble of elbows and legs poking out from a shapeless brown sack of a dress. Her face (and neck and shoulders and chest) hid beneath a gravity-defying mass of tea-colored frizz. A cockeyed bonnet perched atop the whole.
    How the tiny servant could locate the guest quarters with her face buried behind a waterfall of thick hair was beyond Susan’s comprehension.
    “Janey, mum.” As if jerked by marionette strings,