Too Wanton to Wed: Gothic Love Stories #4 Read online

  Too Wanton to Wed

  Gothic Love Stories #4

  Erica Ridley

  Contents

  Too Wanton to Wed

  Also by Erica Ridley

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Epilogue

  Thank You For Reading

  Acknowledgments

  Lord of Chance

  Sneak Peek

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2012, 2019 Erica Ridley

  Original title: Dark Surrender

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Too Wanton to Wed

  TRAPPED IN DARKNESS

  * * *

  Violet Whitechapel committed an unspeakable crime to save a child. To escape the hangman’s noose, she takes refuge in a crumbling abbey with secrets darker than her own. When its master offers her a temporary post, Violet cannot say no. Just as she begins to see him in a new light, her past catches up to her and endangers them all…

  * * *

  THEIR PASSION BURNS BRIGHT

  * * *

  Alistair Waldegrave keeps his daughter imprisoned in the black heart of his Gothic abbey. As he searches for a cure to the disease the villagers call demonic, his new governess brings much needed light into their lives. But how can the passion between them survive the darkness encroaching from outside their sheltered walls?

  “A delicious, dark Gothic treat!”

  —Eloisa James, New York Times bestselling author, on Too Wicked to Kiss

  Love romance? Have a free book, on me!

  Sign up at http://ridley.vip for members-only exclusives, including advance notice of pre-orders, as well as contests, giveaways, freebies, and 99¢ deals!

  Also by Erica Ridley

  Gothic Love Stories:

  Too Wicked to Kiss

  Too Sinful to Deny

  Too Tempting to Resist

  Too Wanton to Wed

  * * *

  Rogues to Riches:

  Lord of Chance

  Lord of Pleasure

  Lord of Night

  Lord of Temptation

  Lord of Secrets

  Lord of Vice

  * * *

  Dukes of War:

  The Viscount's Tempting Minx

  The Earl’s Defiant Wallflower

  The Captain’s Bluestocking Mistress

  The Major’s Faux Fiancée

  The Brigadier’s Runaway Bride

  The Pirate's Tempting Stowaway

  The Duke's Accidental Wife

  * * *

  The 12 Dukes of Christmas:

  Once Upon a Duke

  Kiss of a Duke

  Wish Upon a Duke

  Never Say Duke

  Dukes, Actually

  The Duke’s Bride

  The Duke’s Embrace

  The Duke’s Desire

  Dawn With a Duke

  One Night With a Duke

  Ten Days With a Duke

  Forever Your Duke

  * * *

  Magic & Mayhem:

  Kissed by Magic

  Must Love Magic

  Smitten by Magic

  Chapter 1

  April 1835

  Livingstone School for Girls

  Lancashire

  “At the end of the week Mr. Percy Livingstone, our beloved founder’s heir, will evict us all in order to turn our philanthropic school into a profitable venture. Next Monday, he will begin converting the grounds into an exclusive sanitarium catering to the mentally unstable offspring of society’s wealthy elite.”

  Miss Violet Whitechapel stared uncomprehendingly at the misty words escaping from Headmistress Parker’s mouth into the early morning fog. The heir planned to do what? Desperation seared the breath from Violet’s lungs. She sent a frantic glance at her colleague, Miss Belham, who appeared as shocked and devastated as the other instructors. For the first time in Violet’s memory, even the headmistress struggled to maintain her hallmark serenity.

  In disbelief, Violet turned from her associates to face the long-standing campus she’d delightedly called home. Five and a half glorious years with clean water, honest work, a cot of her own in a room with a door she had no need to bar at night. She had found paradise, and she’d be damned if she lost her home to some spoiled toff more interested in lining his pockets than helping orphans.

  Old Man Livingstone had been a godsend—or at the very least, the only man of Violet’s acquaintance who had actually meant the words “benefactor to underprivileged girls” without dehumanizing strings attached. He’d started this school, given ladies like Miss Parker and Miss Belham positions of some power, and when Violet had blown onto the doorstep willing to do anything—yes, anything—for a crust of bread and a delousing, he’d rung her a bath and a hot meal and offered her a position. And not a position like “on yer back, now, there’s a gel,” either. A respectable position. And a home.

  “The new heir and his surveyor are currently perusing the property,” the headmistress continued relentlessly. “You’ll recognize them by their Town finery, I’m sure. They plan to have the sanitarium operational within a fortnight. Nonetheless, young Mr. Livingstone is providing each of us a month’s wages as a courtesy, in the hopes many will seek new environs immediately.” The headmistress began doling out tiny satchels to each instructor.

  Violet’s jaw fell open. “A courtesy? By sending us—and the children—back to the streets? We’re supposed to be saving these girls from such a fate, not consigning them to it. Without the school, they’ve nowhere else to go!”

  “We cannot fight the law.” A crack in Headmistress Parker’s firm voice betrayed her frustration. “Young Mr. Livingstone is the legal heir, and his changes are already in motion.”

  “Can’t we find a way to stop them?” Violet’s fists curled with rage. “For close on twenty years, I survived out there as best I could, and to speak plainly, there were many times survival wasn’t worth the sacrifices. Where is this so-called gentleman, whose only desire is to benefact his pockets?”

  “‘Benefact’ is incorrect in that context,” the deportment instructor murmured.

  “You quite take my meaning,” Violet snapped back, although she was more upset at her helple
ssness than with Miss Belham. Although Violet tried her hardest to be as stoic as the headmistress, strong emotion released the terrified street urchin she desperately tried to keep caged beneath the façade of a proper young lady.

  “You cannot save everyone, Violet, no matter how fervently you may wish to.” Headmistress Parker’s ever-ramrod spine seemed to grow even straighter. “There will be no petitioning Mr. Percy Livingstone. He has already finalized his contracts and accepted pensions from families who wish to conceal... unfortunate situations. We must all find new homes.”

  “How?” Violet fought the stinging in her eyes. Not only had she herself climbed out of the gutters, she was finally able to keep others from returning. When these girls found themselves tossed in the dirt, how was she supposed to live with herself?

  How was she supposed to live?

  “I have heard enough,” she said stiffly, trying and failing to think of words of encouragement to share with her pupils later. In that moment, she’d never hated a man more than she hated Mr. Percy Livingstone. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve a promising new student awaiting me for special instruction.”

  She barely paused for Headmistress Parker’s nod before turning on her heel and striding across the foggy green to the art studio. If they were all to be tossed out with the bathwater, she would make the most of every moment between now and then.

  Oh, God, what was she to tell her students?

  Children like Emma made the thought of losing the school utterly insupportable. The girl was almost fifteen, but a lifetime of malnourishment had given her the tiny frame of a twelve-year-old. When she’d arrived, Violet had gently washed off the layers of grime only to reveal a patchwork of bruises and scars. Furious at whoever had harmed a child, Violet had made Emma’s physical and mental recovery her personal mission. There’d been precious little progress these short two months, but although Emma still hadn’t spoken a single word—and refused to interact with the others—she’d been fascinated by the paintings in Violet’s studio, and was hopefully waiting there now for her first lesson in watercolor.

  Candlelight blurred the morning mist as Violet drew closer to the tiny cottage. Her heart warmed. Emma did keep their meeting! Violet’s relieved smile faltered when a painfully familiar sound escaped from the other side of the closed wooden door. The barely audible whimpers of a terrified young girl... and the impatient grunting of a grown man.

  Violet picked up her skirts and burst through the door.

  Two expensively groomed toffs loomed inside her studio. Young Mr. Livingstone and his surveyor! Violet couldn’t begin to guess which villain was which, but it hardly mattered. One perched on the edge of a work stool, cravat awry, looking for all the world like a scoundrel chomping at the bit to take his turn.

  The other had Emma—Emma!—by the wrist, his free hand poised to strike.

  “I don’t want to go with you,” she sobbed, her face streaked with tears.

  Good God, they intended to abduct a helpless fifteen-year-old girl?

  Violet rushed forward. “Stop!”

  The blackguard upon the stool leapt to his feet. He headed toward Violet with wicked intent carved into his smirking countenance. “Well, lookit here, Livingstone. There’s one for each of us.”

  “You’ll have neither,” Violet snapped, infusing her voice with every ounce of implacable sternness she possessed, in order to hide the fear coursing through her body. “We don’t belong to you.”

  “We don’t want to keep you,” the surveyor said with a laugh. “Just have ourselves an hour or two. What do you say, Livingstone?” He reached for Emma. “I’ll take this one to your chambers, while you teach the feisty little instructor a few important lessons.”

  Violet snatched up the closest weapons she could find and hurled them at his head, one after another. The bucket of turpentine did little more than drench the man in foul smelling liquid, but the full can of paint dropped him to the ground.

  Had she killed him or knocked him temporarily unconscious? Violet’s heart banged wildly. There was no time to check.

  The heir still had Emma by the wrist.

  “She’s coming with me,” he snarled, and curled his free hand into a fist. “And you’re going to be sorry you dared touch a man above your station. I’m going to enjoy putting you in your place.”

  Wrong. Violet wasn’t about to let him touch her—or hurt Emma.

  Years of surviving by her wits alone had taught Violet never to hesitate. Often, the element of surprise was the only hope a girl had against men twice her size. Right now, the heir believed he had the upper hand. She had one chance to prove otherwise.

  Violet leapt across the tiny space, arms outstretched to snatch Emma away.

  “Bitch!” Livingstone reared one arm back, clearly intending to slam his overlarge fist directly into Violet’s face.

  Emma was faster. Her tiny fingers grappled at the clutter scattered across the wooden desktop, knocking candles to the floor. In an instant, she swung backward, a tall paintbrush firmly in her grip. The handle found its home in the eye of the blackguard who had intended to abduct her.

  With a choking scream, the heir slumped across the desk, the slender paintbrush protruding from his eye socket. The flames from the fallen candles ignited the spilled turpentine, roaring across the oil-painted canvases and up over the motionless men. Within a half second, the fire had eaten the curtains and engulfed the rafters above. The ravenous orange flames sped toward the fallen surveyor.

  “Come,” Violet shouted, tugging at Emma’s icy hand. “We must go! Everything in here is violently flammable.”

  Already the air was thick with greasy smoke and the stench of burning flesh.

  Emma stumbled around the unnaturally still bodies, then promptly bent over and vomited. Violet’s stomach felt much the same, but there was no time for weakness, for conscience, for second-guessing.

  “Come,” she repeated. The oils popped and the blackening rafters spit ash and fire as Violet dragged Emma across the tiny room with one arm around the girl’s waist. “We can’t stay here.”

  No, Violet realized as a chill crept down her spine. It was much worse than that. She saved a child. But by leaving the men to die, she was also a murderess. There would be consequences.

  Emma might be able to rejoin the other students with no one being the wiser, but half the school had witnessed Violet stalking toward her studio with murder in her eyes. She had made no attempt to conceal her animosity toward Mr. Percy Livingstone. And now there would be no hiding what she had done.

  She’d lost her position, her dreams... and now her future.

  Smoke searing her lungs, she hobbled out of the burning cottage. Everything she owned, everything she cared about, had been in that studio. Well, not quite everything. Pulling Emma further away from the blaze, Violet touched shaking fingers to her pocket to touch her final wages. She wished she’d hidden her precious savings anywhere but the back of a drawer in her now-charred art desk... but this would have to be enough money to get out of Lancashire. Immediately.

  She had to flee. Find shelter, obviously, but more importantly: procure a barrister capable of saving her from criminal prosecution. She touched her neck and shuddered. She would not go to the gallows. Not for a blackguard like Percy Livingstone. She would find a way to clear her name and keep moving forward. She was a survivor.

  If she ran faster than she’d ever run before, she just might make the morning coach before anyone realized she was missing. It wasn’t much of an advantage, but she had learned to make the most of any scrap Fate chose to leave her.

  But first things first—Emma. The girl was young. Traumatized, but blameless. Violet would see to it. Not a soul would suspect Emma of anything. As for Violet... she could take care of herself.

  “Listen, sweetheart.” She held Emma’s trembling hands and wished the girl would make eye contact, even for a second. “You did nothing wrong. This is not your fault. I started the violence. I am to blame for the
ir deaths. Not you.” Violet felt sick with guilt. If only she hadn’t invited Emma for a private lesson today of all days! “No one knows you were in the studio today, and no one needs to know.” She brushed ash from the girl’s sleeve. With the heir up in flames, the plans to convert the school into a madhouse should come to a stop—at least, for now. “Go to Headmistress Parker. You can trust her.”

  Emma nodded miserably, shoulders shaking. Violet gathered her into her arms and held her for a long moment. She had to believe this was the right thing to do. It was the only choice. She could not stay, and she could not risk endangering Emma. Sending her to the headmistress was the best hope for keeping her safe.

  “This is not your fault,” she repeated, giving the girl a fierce hug.

  Emma pulled back and looked up, her eyes hollow. The girl suddenly looked far older than her fifteen years. Violet gave her another hug, viciously pleased that Mr. Percy Livingstone and his surveyor were dead. She wished she had killed them both herself. Closing down the school would have sent dozens of helpless young girls into the clutches of other evil men just like him.