The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray

by Anna Bradley

  “But that’s…you can’t…I’ve never heard of such a thing!”

  A low chuckle met this protest. “Are you asking me to stop?”

  Sophia squirmed at the sensation of his hot breath drifting over her damp flesh. “I didn’t say that, exactly.”

  She felt the vibration of another chuckle against her core, but then he was devouring her again, his mouth hot against the tender pink skin between her legs, his lips and tongue stroking into her throbbing center, ruthlessly wringing shudders from her writhing body and incoherent whimpers and pleas from her lips. Sophia clutched at the posts above her head, her knuckles white as Tristan teased and circled, sucked and licked.

  “Tristan, please. I need…I need you.” Sophia arched against him to urge him to move on top of her. He swirled his tongue over her tender bud once, and then again before he slid up her body with one quick move and settled his hips between her open thighs.

  Sophia gazed up into that handsome, harshly elegant face and braced herself for the first thrust of his body into hers, but instead of taking her at once, Tristan paused to brush the tangled hair from her face. “You look nervous, pixie.” He leaned over her to press a soft kiss to her lips. “I’d never hurt you, Sophia.”

  She cupped his cheek in her hand. “I know you won’t.”

  Sophia opened her legs wider, offering herself to him, and he pressed the head of his cock against her slick entrance. He gasped when he felt her heat, then gave one restrained thrust, just enough so the broad head slipped inside her.

  She let out a soft gasp, but it wasn’t a gasp of pain. She wrapped her legs around his hips and tilted her pelvis up to draw him in deeper. “I want all of you, Tristan.”

  Tristan groaned. His eyes were squeezed shut, and beads of sweat clung to his skin. “You’re so tight, sweetheart. I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.” He strummed his thumb over the sensitive nub hidden in her damp folds as he eased inside her, driving them both mad with every careful inch until at last he was seated deep. “Sophia, you feel so good.”

  “You feel so big.” Sophia gave an experimental nudge with her hips that made Tristan moan. “You feel huge inside me.”

  Panic flashed across his face. “Is it too much? Am I hurting you?”

  He began to draw back, but Sophia wrapped her legs around his hips to hold him in place. “No! Don’t move. I mean, do move, just not…out.”

  Tristan let out a quiet laugh, but he did move inside her then, each thrust so slow and careful Sophia felt her throat close with emotion at how gentle he was with her. He murmured into her ear as he coaxed her with his body, telling her how good she felt, how much he wanted her, how beautiful she was, and before long Sophia’s hips were moving in tandem with his. “Tristan, I…Tristan.” She opened her mouth against his shoulder and scraped her teeth over his damp skin.

  Tristan’s breath left his lungs in a hiss when he felt her tiny bite. He tangled his fist in her hair and drew her head back, staring down at her as his hips jerked against hers, all restraint at an end. “Come for me, pixie. Yes. Take your pleasure, Sophia.”

  His fingers moved feverishly between her legs, coaxing and teasing. Sophia’s head thrashed against the pillow, her fingernails scoring his back as her center drew tighter with his every wicked stroke until at last, she shattered beneath him with a cry.

  “Yes, Sophia. So good…” Tristan drove into her once, then again before he stilled, holding himself deep inside her as a low, guttural moan fell from his lips, his powerful body shaking with his release.

  Afterward, he collapsed onto the bed beside her and buried his face in her neck. As their ragged breathing began to calm, he lifted his head and looked down at her. His eyes were soft and sleepy as he traced his finger over her lips. “I already want you again.”

  He gave her a crooked grin that made Sophia’s heart lurch in her chest. She smiled and reached up to stroke his dark, damp hair back from his face. “Well, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “That’s right, you’re not. Because if you leave my bed, I’ll come after you, throw you over my shoulder, and bring you back here.” The arrogance of this statement was somewhat offset when he leaned down and dropped a kiss on the end of her nose.

  Sophia slid closer and draped herself over his chest, resting her chin on her folded arms. She stared at him, her nose wrinkled in thought, then reached out to tease a fingertip over his scar. “A highwayman shot at you, and the ball grazed your lip?”

  He toyed with a loose lock of her hair. “No.”

  “A criminal knocked you down, and your face hit the edge of a cobblestone, bloodying your lip and leaving the scar?”

  He rolled his eyes, but his grin was back, twitching at the corners of his mouth. “No. Do I look like the sort of man who’d let a criminal, or anyone else, knock me down?”

  “No,” Sophia admitted, still studying the scar. “A kick to the face, and the boot heel caught your lip? A thief attacked you with a broken bottle?”

  Tristan tugged gently at the lock of her hair between his fingers. “No.”

  “Did someone bite you? Someone with very sharp teeth?”

  He drew the coverlet over them, then cupped the back of her head and eased it onto his bare chest. “Go to sleep, Sophia.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t possibly sleep until I know how you got that scar.”

  His low laugh rumbled against her cheek. “Yes, you can.”

  Sophia made a doubtful noise, but then Tristan wrapped her in his arms, and his big hand moved in slow, rhythmic strokes over her hair, and he was so warm and solid, and her eyes so heavy…

  Within seconds she’d fallen into a sleep too deep for doubts, and too peaceful even for dreams.

  Chapter Twenty

  Sophia peeked over the edge of the coverlet and frowned at the pale sun struggling against the thick silk drapes of Tristan’s bedchamber. The coverlet on top of her was soft and warm, the bed like a fluffy cloud cradling her pleasantly sore body.

  This must be why aristocrats tended toward laziness—they hardly ever rose before noon because their beds were too enticing. Sleeping in such plush magnificence was certainly making her indolent.

  Or was it just sleeping in an earl’s bed, with an earl?

  That is, not any earl, but this earl.

  Then again, they hadn’t done much sleeping the night before—

  “You’ve only just opened your eyes, but you’ve already made me cross, Sophia.”

  Sophia rolled over and found Tristan wide awake. His head was propped in his hand and he wore such a delightfully teasing smile on his lips, she couldn’t stop her own lips from curving in response. Goodness, the morning suited him, didn’t it? He looked warm and tousled, his eyes still sleepy and his dark hair standing on end. “How in the world can I have made you cross? I haven’t said a single word yet.”

  “No, but you woke with a frown.” He brushed a lock of hair back from her face and smoothed the furrow from her brow with his thumb. “A lady who is satisfied the night before doesn’t wake with a frown on her lips.”

  Sophia blinked up at him, entranced by the mischievous sparkle in his gray eyes. She hadn’t often seen this playful side of him, and dear God, it was irresistible. He was irresistible. That cheeky little grin made her want to leap upon him and kiss him until her breath came short and her toes curled.

  But surely there wasn’t time for any toe-curling antics this morning. They had a church to guard, a man to protect, criminals to apprehend, and…and…

  “Of course, I wasn’t satisfied.” Sophia slid her foot up the long, lean line of his calf. “How can I be, when you won’t divulge a single detail about the origin of that intriguing scar on your lip? I could hardly sleep for wondering about it.”

  “Perhaps I can offer you something else in place of my secrets.” He nudged her legs apart and wedged a hard thigh be
tween them. “My fragile male vanity demands you be smiling when you wake in my bed.”

  It was on the tip of Sophia’s tongue to deliver a lecture about lounging in bed when there were villains roaming the streets of London, but as soon as she opened her mouth to deliver the scold his lips were there, and her thoughts scattered, lost in the delicious slide of his tongue against hers.

  It was some time before they emerged from the tangled sheets. By then the morning and part of the afternoon had slipped away. Sophia was a trifle amazed at her wanton behavior, but even so, she might not have noticed the time if she hadn’t heard Tristan’s stomach growl, and realized how hungry she was. She wriggled free of his arms and sat up in the bed, clutching the coverlet to her breasts. “What time is it?” She glanced at the window and groaned. “Dear God, it must be past one!”

  Tristan indulged in a long, lazy stretch, then dropped a hand on her bare hip. “It’s no wonder I’m famished. I’ll ring for a tray. That way we can remain in bed all—”

  “We most certainly will not remain in bed.” Sophia gave him a little shove toward the edge of the bed, then while he was distracted, she scrambled out the other side. If he kissed her again there was no telling when they’d rise—long after poor Francis Thelwall was dragged off to Newgate, most likely.

  “First a frown, and now a shove?” Tristan flopped back against his pillows, but his lips were twitching. “I’ll begin to think you don’t like me, pixie.”

  Sophia snatched up a dressing gown draped over the back of a chair—Tristan’s dressing gown, judging by the way it swallowed her—and paused while tying the belt to glance at him.

  He was sprawled on the bed, his long limbs thrown across every available inch of space. He was idly scratching his bare chest, and Sophia’s gaze caught on those long, sensitive fingers stroking his golden skin. His thick hair was curling in a wild tangle around his face, and his cheeks were shadowed with dark stubble.

  Sophia stared, her heart thundering as her gaze moved from his chest to his hands to the lazy grin quirking his lips. He was wrong. She did like him, and far more than she should. Far more than was wise for her peace of mind, or her future happiness.

  How had this happened? For a woman who was most resoundingly not the heroine of a romance, she was ridiculously besotted with a gentleman who would never be hers.

  If all went as planned, tonight would mark the end to Peter Sharpe and Lord Everly’s machinations. They’d identify the fourth man, this business would be done, and there’d be no reason for her ever to see Tristan again. She’d go back to her friends and Lady Clifford, and Tristan would leave London to go off and do…well, whatever it was earls did at their country seats, just as he’d planned before he got tangled up with her.

  He’d likely be relieved to be free of her, whereas she…

  Whereas she, what? It wasn’t as if she were in love with Tristan. It wasn’t as if he’d be leaving her behind with a broken heart. Her heart was made of sterner stuff than that.

  Of course, it was, and yet…

  Sophia hurried across the bedchamber, nearly tripping over the hem of the dressing gown in her haste to find her clothes. Ah, there they were, in a crumpled ball at the bottom of the bed. “I should have returned home hours ago. Lady Clifford will be wondering where I am.”

  “Running away, Sophia?”

  She hadn’t heard him move, but in an instant, he was there, his big hands on her shoulders, his body so warm and strong at her back it took everything she had not to lean into him, close her eyes, and let him wrap himself around her.

  When had this happened? When had she begun to need his arms around her to feel safe? The thought made her panic, and she tried to squirm away. “It’s not…I’m not running away.”

  “Yes, you are.” His hands and his voice were gentle—so gentle tears stung her eyes—but he didn’t release her. “You don’t need to run, Sophia. Not from me.”

  Yes, I do. Especially from you.

  But even as the words drifted through her consciousness, she was already sinking into him, absorbing his heat into her skin.

  Dear God. It’s already too late.

  It was too late to run. She might scale every column in London, flee from one rooftop to the next as if the devil were chasing her, and it wouldn’t do the least bit of good. She didn’t know when or how it had happened, but somehow, Tristan had become as much a part of her as her own flesh.

  Unnecessary risk, Sophia.

  As many times as Lady Clifford had uttered those words, Sophia had never really taken them to heart until now. Perhaps because this time it wasn’t Lady Clifford’s voice in her head, but her own.

  Yet her heart was already destined to shatter, wasn’t it? A few more hours, a few more kisses, a few more stolen moments with him…surely, it wouldn’t make any difference? Sophia swallowed the lump in her throat, and against her better judgment, she turned to face him and twined her arms around his neck. “I suppose I can send her a note.”

  Some powerful emotion flared in his gray eyes, but before she could decipher it, it was gone. “Yes, I suppose you can,” was all he said. Then he gathered his dressing gown more securely around her, and went to ring the bell for a servant.

  They dined in his bedchamber—another novelty for Sophia. Afterwards she wrote out a quick note to Lady Clifford, asking her ladyship to meet them at St. Clement Dane’s that night, and to bring Daniel, who was meant to return to London this afternoon.

  Peter Sharpe was a coward, but he was cunning, and then there was a fourth man to consider. There was no telling what such a brutal fiend would do once he was cornered. Sophia didn’t choose to leave anything up to chance. She scrawled a line at the bottom of the note for her friends, telling them she’d see them soon, then folded and sealed it and laid it on the table, ready for a servant to deliver it.

  Tristan was writing his own note to Sampson Willis, the magistrate at Bow Street, directing him to come to St. Clement Dane’s that night as well, promising it would all make sense once they apprehended Peter Sharpe and got him to confess his part in the crime.

  Afterwards they sat together in front of the fire, neither of them speaking, but each stealing glances at the other. The silence between them grew heavier the longer they sat, heavy with all the unsaid words between them.

  Sophia didn’t speak them, but instead sat quietly, her gaze moving over his face, memorizing every curve and angle. Tristan stared back at her, his own gaze tracing the bare skin of her neck, visible under the gaping neckline of his dressing gown.

  “You’re beautiful, Sophia,” he murmured at last, his gray eyes meeting hers. “Inside and out, from your face to the depths of your heart. All of you, so beautiful.”

  It was at once the last thing Sophia expected him to say, and the one thing she wanted to hear more than any other. She tried not to melt for him, tried to keep her heart from softening, but it was no use. She rose to her feet and went to him, her heart leaping in her chest when he opened his arms for her. She would have crawled into them, and they would inevitably have spent the rest of the afternoon in bed, if a knock on the door hadn’t interrupted them.

  “What is it?” Tristan barked, impatience in every syllable.

  Sophia bit her lip to smother a laugh, even as she pitied the servant who’d earned that irritable reply.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord.” Tribble peered cautiously around the edge of the door. “Mr. Willis is here. I told him you weren’t at home to visitors, but he says he has urgent business with you.” Tribble paused. “I’m afraid he was quite insistent.”

  “Sampson Willis has abominably bad timing,” Tristan snapped, his eyes never leaving Sophia’s face.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Tristan sighed. “Very well. I’ll be down in a moment, Tribble.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Tribble bowed himself out, closing the door behind h
im.

  Tristan rose to his feet, took Sophia’s hand, and pressed a lingering kiss on her palm. “It seems Willis doesn’t care to wait until tonight for his explanation.”

  “It seems not.” Sophia shrugged, but a smile tipped her lips as she looked up at Tristan. “Perhaps it’s just as well if you speak with him now.”

  “Yes, I suppose I’d better.” Despite his words, Tristan didn’t move. He stood staring down at her, letting moment after moment slip away until at last, he reached out to trace the heavy silk neckline of the dressing gown, his finger brushing her skin. “I’ll be quick.”

  “See that you are, my lord. I’ll be waiting.”

  Muttered curses fell from Tristan’s lips as he made his way out the door, leaving Sophia alone in the quiet bedchamber.

  But despite his promise, Tristan wasn’t quick. He was gone so long Sophia—who’d stretched out on the bed to wait for him—fell asleep. When she woke, it was near dusk. She crawled from the bed, still drowsy, and wandered to the window. Deepening purple shadows fell over Great Marlborough Street. Another half hour passed, dusk fading into evening, and still Tristan didn’t come.

  Finally, unable to stand the silence any longer, she threw off Tristan’s dressing gown, donned her breeches and tunic, and made her way downstairs. She turned toward the hallway that led to the library, intending to go into the music room beyond, which also had a clear view of Lord Everly’s front door, but as she passed the library, she stopped short, her brow furrowing.

  “…should know better than to trust Lady Clifford, Gray.”

  The library door was open a crack, and Sampson Willis’s voice carried clearly into the hallway. Instinctively Sophia drew closer to the wall, her heart lurching unpleasantly in her chest at the mention of Lady Clifford.

  It wasn’t at all unusual for powerful gentlemen in law enforcement to speak of Lady Clifford and the Clifford School in that contemptuous tone, but Sophia’s back still stiffened at Willis’s dismissive manner. She pressed closer to the door, curious to hear what Tristan would say in reply.