The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray

by Anna Bradley

  Well, that had been a tidy bit of work, hadn’t it? Sophia dusted off her hands, flushed and still grinning at her success, but her smile faded a little as her gaze landed on an upper window of Tristan’s townhouse, and the memories she’d been holding at bay since she sneaked out of his bed this morning swept over her.

  As much as she might wish otherwise, it wasn’t the sort of night a lady could forget, any more than he was the sort of man she could easily set aside without a second thought.

  She shivered, remembering the hot press of his mouth on hers, his wicked tongue slipping between her lips, the rasp of his emerging beard scraping against the tender skin of her face and neck, her throat…

  No. Nothing good would come of daydreaming about Tristan—that is, Lord Gray. She must remember to think of him as Lord Gray from now on, or better yet, not to think of him at all. It was the reason she’d left him this morning, even as everything inside her had longed to stay, to brush his dark hair back from his forehead and wait for those remarkable gray eyes to open.

  Dash it. Sophia squeezed her eyes closed, clenching her hands into fists. She had to find a way to exorcize him, just as the Catholics priests had done centuries ago to rid themselves of their demons. Tristan might be a handsome, tempting demon, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be banished. That was why she’d left his bed this morning, never to return again—

  “No rooftops today, Miss Monmouth?” A hard arm snaked around Sophia’s waist, and she was pulled roughly against a warm, muscular chest. “I can’t say I think the mews your most inspired hiding place.”

  Sophia let out a squeak of surprise, and might have followed it with an elbow to her captor’s ribs and a foot to his shin if she hadn’t known at once who he was.

  “What are you doing, sneaking about Lord Everly’s mews, hmmm?” Tristan’s low chuckle stirred the hair at her temple. “Shame on you, pixie. But then you make a habit of sneaking about, don’t you? Sneaking from my bed, sneaking into my kitchen, sneaking about the mews in the dark.” He made a tsking noise, and his hot breath drifted over her ear. “You try my patience, Miss Monmouth.”

  Sophia opened her mouth to answer, but she never got the chance. His arms tightened around her waist, and the next thing she knew the ground vanished beneath her feet, and a hard shoulder appeared out of nowhere under her belly.

  It took her a moment to realize what had happened, but once she did, she began to kick and squirm to free herself. “Tristan! Have you gone mad? This isn’t necessary—”

  “You wouldn’t think so, would you? Yet here we are.” He tightened his arm around the backs of her thighs to still her. “Stop kicking.”

  “You’re going to drop me!” Sophia clutched handfuls of the back of his shirt in her fists to steady herself.

  “I won’t if you stop wriggling. It’s not as if you’re heavy. I’ve carried walking sticks that weigh more than you do.”

  Despite herself, Sophia laughed. “What nonsense. I’m much heavier than a walking stick, especially the hollow ones without the figured gold or silver nobs—”

  “The hollow sticks are more properly called canes, but I’m not interested in discussing either canes or walking sticks at the moment, Miss Monmouth.”

  It occurred to Sophia this might be one of those times when it was wiser to keep her mouth closed, but by then it was too late. “Well, what are you interested in, Lord Gray?”

  Tristan hitched her higher on his shoulder. “Milkmaids.”

  Sophia huffed out a breath. “Oh, for pity’s sake. This is absurd. I must insist you put me down this instant, my lord.”

  “No. I don’t think I will.” He was striding across the mews toward his townhouse. “Last time I let go of you I didn’t care for the result. I wasn’t pleased to find myself alone in my bed this morning.”

  His tone was grim. He was certainly angry with her, but there was an underlying thread of something else in his voice that made her hesitate.

  A hint of confusion and…dejection?

  Sophia stopped kicking, and her grip loosened on his shirt. Given she was upside down, the blood had already rushed to her head, but there was no denying the way her cheeks heated at his words. Not with guilt, exactly—she’d long since decided guilt was a waste of time—but perhaps she did feel a touch of regret.

  But under the circumstances, regret was unacceptable, and she wouldn’t indulge it. She opened her mouth to remind him she was under no obligation to please him, but what came out instead was, “I didn’t mean to…”

  What? Hurt his feelings? Well, it was the truth, wasn’t it? When she’d fled his bedchamber this morning, she’d assumed she was only hurting herself.

  “Didn’t mean to what, Miss Monmouth? Sneak off like a thief?”

  She swallowed. “I thought it best for both of us if I went.”

  “Why?” He bit out, his shoulder tensing underneath her.

  Without realizing she did it, she was running her hands soothingly over his back. He was wearing only the shirt and breeches he’d tossed aside last night, and she could feel his warm skin through the thin linen. “You can’t be saying you don’t agree it was for the best. Wasn’t there a part of you that was relieved to find me gone?”

  “No.” His growl was so low she almost didn’t hear it, but she felt the vibration of it against her palms. “What did I do to make you think I wanted you to go? For God’s sake, I begged you to stay last night, and I don’t beg for anything, Sophia.”

  Sophia stilled, her head spinning. In truth, he hadn’t said or done a single thing. Just the opposite, in fact. He’d given her more pleasure than she’d ever thought a man could offer, then he’d gathered her against him, wrapped his arms around her, and fallen asleep with his face buried in her hair.

  “It wasn’t what you said. I just thought…can we have this discussion with me on my feet, please? This is ridiculous, Tristan. Put me down.”

  “No. Not until I’m sure you can’t run away from me again.” He paused in front of a door on the other end of the mews and banged his fist on the wood.

  There was a shuffling on the other side of the door, and the next moment it flew open, and Sophia heard a scolding voice say, “Why, who do you think you are, pounding on Lord Gray’s door like some kind of savage—”

  The voice broke off in a shocked gasp, and Sophia felt Tristan chuckle. “I think I’m Lord Gray. I beg your pardon for the intrusion, Mrs. Beeson. I would have opened the door myself, but as you can see, I have my hands full.”

  Whoever Mrs. Beeson was, she recovered quickly. “Indeed, I can, my lord. Perhaps your…friend would care for a cup of tea, or chocolate?”

  The door creaked, and Tristan strode forward into a warm, bright kitchen. He tipped Sophia forward into his arms, then lowered her into a chair at a scrubbed kitchen table.

  Sophia took one look around, and her cheeks burst into flames. Half a dozen servants were seated around it, all of them staring at her with identical shocked expressions.

  “We were just finishing our breakfast, my lord.” Mrs. Beeson scurried around the table, snatching up dishes and teacups and nudging people out of their chairs.

  Tristan eyed his startled servants. “There’s no need to—”

  “Nonsense, my lord.” Mrs. Beeson clucked her tongue. “This lot has plenty to keep them busy today. David, you’re meant to be helping Tribble in the wine cellar this morning, and Anne and Matilda, you’d best get on with polishing the grand chandelier in the entrance hall. Go on then, get on with all of you.” Mrs. Beeson flapped the tea towel at the loiterers until she’d driven the last servant out of the kitchen.

  “Er…thank you, Mrs. Beeson.” Tristan watched the last straggler scurry out the door. “Miss Monmouth here has had a trying morning, and might like some refreshment to calm her nerves. Miss Monmouth, this is my cook, Mrs. Beeson.”

  Sophia, who t
hought Tristan’s cook had every right to throw the tea towel in her face, raised a wary gaze to Mrs. Beeson, half-afraid of what she’d find.

  Mrs. Beeson was not, thankfully, anything like Lord Everly’s cook. She was a plump, ruddy-cheeked lady of middle age, with brown hair pulled back in a tidy bun, and kind blue eyes with deep laugh lines in the crease. “How do you do, Miss Monmouth? Dear me, you do look as if you could use a restorative.”

  Sophia wouldn’t have thought it possible, but those kind blue eyes made her flush deepen. Mrs. Beeson put her in mind of Winnie Browning, the Clifford School’s housekeeper, and Sophia knew very well what Winnie would think of a young lady who arrived in her kitchen in the arms of an uppity lord. “Oh, no, please don’t go to any trouble on my account.”

  “No trouble at all, Miss Monmouth.” Mrs. Beeson bustled toward a tray resting on one end of the table. She poured Sophia a cup from a pretty white and blue china teapot, put it on the table in front of her, then set the tray with sugar, milk, and a half-dozen warm biscuits at Sophia’s elbow. “There we are. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Lord Gray, I’m off to the fish market.”

  Tristan waited until Mrs. Beeson had caught up her basket and left the kitchen before sitting down at the table across from Sophia. “Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? What the devil are you up to, wandering about the mews dressed as a milkmaid?”

  Sophia pressed her lips together. “What makes you think I’m up to anything? Did it occur to you I might simply be delivering the milk?” It was, after all, the most logical explanation.

  He leaned over the table, his gaze holding hers. “Not for one single, blessed second.”

  * * * *

  Tristan had never found it fascinating to watch a woman eat a biscuit before. He couldn’t have said whether watching Sophia Monmouth eat one was a truly fascinating event, or if he’d become so foolish over her, he was entranced with everything she did.

  Lyndon would say it was the latter.

  You’re besotted with her.

  Tristan shrugged the thought aside. Besotted was a strong word. He was intrigued by her, yes, and he admired her spirit and bravery, but that wasn’t the same as—

  “Mrs. Beeson’s quince preserves are delicious.” Sophia caught an errant drop of the sticky sweet on the tip of her thumb, then licked it off. “I’ve never tasted better, but if you repeat that to Mrs. Browning, I’ll deny I said it.”

  Tristan swallowed, his stomach tightening with want. But then he’d never denied he wanted her. It would be rather difficult to deny it when a bit of jam on her thumb made his cock press eagerly against his falls, but desiring a lady and being besotted with her were two different—

  “This cream is lovely, too. I daresay Mrs. Beeson doesn’t rely on Polly for her dairy. The milk sloshing about in that pail was filthy.” Sophia scooped up a spoonful of the cream, plopped it daintily on top of her biscuit, then bit into it. Her tongue darted out to lick a stray dollop of the cream from the corner of her lip.

  Tristan suppressed a groan. Damn it, it would be far better for both of them if she kept her tongue in her mouth. He breathed a sigh of relief when she raised her cup to her lips for a sip of tea. Ah, that was much better. There was nothing seductive about a lady drinking a cup of tea—

  “May I take another lump of sugar, Lord Gray? I have a shameful sweet tooth.” She grinned at him, her pink lips curving mischievously. “Cecilia scolds me for it, but as I’m sure you can imagine, it doesn’t do the least bit of good.”

  Tristan stared at her lips, mesmerized. Good Lord, he could feel her smile all the way down to his toes.

  “Is it wicked of me to be so stubborn in pursuit of my pleasures?” She sank her teeth into her plump bottom lip to stifle a laugh.

  Tristan’s gaze lingered on her mouth.

  “But then we’re all sad creatures when it comes to satisfying our cravings, and I daresay a bit of sugar is harmless enough.” Her eyes widened as she caught a glimpse of his face. “Tristan? Whatever is the matter? You look flushed.”

  Tristan had never launched himself over a table before. Earls didn’t scramble over tabletops, spilling the cream and sending teacups crashing to the floor. They didn’t lose control of themselves and behave like savages. It might be the only thing they had in common with Bow Street Runners. He wasn’t even fully aware he’d done it until he’d snatched Sophia into his arms, dragged her over his lap and taken her mouth with his.

  His head spun as he teased his tongue between her lips, a helpless groan rising from his chest. Good Lord, but she was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. Sugar and tea, quince preserves and her own unique honey flavor, sweet on his tongue. God, he wanted to dive into her and stay there forever, to drown in her.

  I am besotted with her.

  Lyndon was right. Lyndon was always right, it seemed.

  Tristan’s feelings for Sophia were tangled and confused still, but at the moment, he didn’t care. He cared only that he wanted her, and by the way she was sighing and trembling against him, he knew she wanted him, too.

  “Why did you leave me this morning?” Tristan groaned, his mouth moving desperately down her neck, tasting her and dropping passionate kisses over her soft skin. “I woke wrapped up in sheets that still carried your scent, but you were gone.”

  He couldn’t stop himself from taking her mouth again, stroking her cheekbones as he drew her toward him. He teased at the seam of her lips until she opened for him, and they both moaned at the first stoke of his tongue against hers. Tristan felt her hands sink into his hair, her fingers tugging at the strands to drag him closer.

  He told himself it was enough to kiss her—enough to hold her in his arms—but his control slipped further and further into the abyss the longer their lips clung together, until he stumbled to his feet with Sophia still in his arms and set her down on top of the table.

  She let out a breathless laugh. “Take care with the teacups.”

  He chuckled against her lips, but soon enough he was lost in the sensual glide of her tongue against his, her fingers in his hair, the soft sighs of pleasure on her lips. The next thing he knew her tunic was clenched in his fist, his knuckles grazing the smooth skin of her belly as he dragged it up, higher, then higher…

  Mrs. Beeson might have gotten the shock of her life when she returned from the market if, in Sophia’s frantic scrambling to help him remove the tunic, her hip hadn’t bumped against a saucer and toppled it over the edge of the table. Tristan tore his mouth from hers, and they both cast dazed looks at the smashed china on the floor before turning to each other.

  Her cheeks were pink, her lips swollen and damp from his kisses. Locks of her hair had fallen from her neat bun and were curling against her shoulders. Tristan took one look at her, and it was all he could do not to tumble her onto her back on Mrs. Beeson’s spotless kitchen table.

  Sophia buried her face against his shoulder, smothering a laugh. “Oh, dear. We’ve spoiled that lovely china set! I did warn you to take care, Tristan.”

  “Of the teacups, yes. You didn’t say a word about the saucers.” He tugged gently on a loose lock of her hair. “You haven’t told me what were you doing in the mews. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about that, Miss Monmouth.”

  She patted his chest. “No. I’ve never known you to forget anything, Lord Gray. Come, I have a story for you. I’ll tell you on the way.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Where are we going?”

  Sophia took his hand and hopped down from the kitchen table. “To the Turk’s Head Coffeehouse.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  This conversation wasn’t going at all as Sophia had planned.

  She’d launched into her explanation of the events of the morning as soon as they were in Tristan’s carriage and on their way to the Strand. It began amicably enough, but she’d hardly said a dozen words before Tristan was staring incredul
ously at her, his face becoming grimmer by the second.

  “Let me see if I understand you, Sophia. You sneaked out of my bedchamber before dawn this morning, strolled through my kitchen and out the back door to make a clean escape into the mews, and—”

  “Well, when you put it like that, it sounds far worse than it—”

  “To make a clean escape into the mews,” Tristan repeated, as if she hadn’t spoken. “You found Lord Everly’s carriage there, with Lord Everly and an unidentified man inside, but instead of remaining safely in the kitchens, or better yet, returning to my bedchamber as a sane person would have done, you—”

  “Oh, come now, Tristan. You can’t truly think I’d squander such an extraordinary opportunity to find out what—”

  “The other man in the carriage was the fourth man. You do realize that, don’t you? Did it occur to you if he’d seen you lurking behind the carriage, he would have finished the job he’d begun the night before?” Underneath the flush of anger on his cheeks, Tristan’s face had gone white. “For God’s sake, Sophia! How can you be so careless with your own safety?”

  Sophia cringed at the look in those narrowed gray eyes. His lips, usually so full and sensual, were now pressed into a tight, forbidding line. Oh, dear. He did look angry. This wasn’t going well at all. “I was extremely careful, I promise you.”

  “Not careful enough,” Tristan snapped.

  “Tristan.” Sophia’s soft voice caught Tristan’s attention. “Jeremy was nearly hung for another man’s crimes. Henry Gerrard was murdered, leaving his wife a widow and his son without a father. You want the men who committed the crimes punished, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course, but not at your expense!” Tristan dragged a hand down his face. “You nearly got your skull cracked open last night, Sophia. Do you think I want to see you suffer the same fate as Henry?”