The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray

by Anna Bradley

  Tristan blinked. “In my defense it was dark and rainy that night, and you were dressed in breeches with your hair hidden under a cap.”

  “Of course, I was. I can’t be expected to climb or run in skirts and petticoats, can I?”

  Her tone was teasing, and he couldn’t help but drop another kiss onto her temple. “No, indeed, and I realized my mistake soon enough.” Pain arced across his chest as he reached for a lock of her hair, but he sighed with satisfaction as the silky strands slid between his fingers. “I’ll never forget that moment when I took your cap off.” His voice dropped lower. “All that thick, dark hair tumbling over your shoulders, and the greenest pair of eyes I’ve ever seen. So beautiful, I thought I’d imagined you.”

  Sophia raised her head again. Her gaze met his, and whatever she saw in his eyes made her breath catch.

  “I should have known right then what would happen,” Tristan murmured, still toying with her hair. “I should have known I’d fall in love with you. Perhaps I did know, even then, because I’ve been chasing you ever since.”

  Sophia let out a shaky laugh. “Perhaps I should have known as well, since you’re the only one who’s ever caught me. But Tristan, I…you’re an earl, and I’m just—”

  “You’re just the only woman I’ve ever loved, and the only woman I ever will love. The only woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.” He let the lock of her hair fall onto his shoulder and turned her face to his. “Do you love me at all, Sophia? Because nothing else matters.”

  She gazed up at him, the firelight catching the tears shimmering in the green eyes he loved so well. “I do love you, Tristan. You’re good and kind, and the best man I’ve ever known, for all that you are an aristocrat, and terribly proper.”

  He chuckled. “Perhaps I am, but I see a great many improprieties in our future, my lady.”

  She raised her hand, and her fingertips drifted over his lips. “Oh, dear. I’ve ruined a perfectly good earl, haven’t I?”

  “You didn’t ruin me, pixie.” He pressed a kiss to her fingertips, then buried his face in her hair with a sigh. “You’re the one who saved me.”

  Epilogue

  Three months later.

  Tristan woke to the sensation of something soft tickling his lips.

  It felt like…a butterfly? With every flutter of the butterfly’s wings the delicate scent of honeysuckle drifted like a cloud around him, and he inhaled deeply, losing himself in the sweetness.

  Ah, a dream, then. Tristan had left his nightmares behind weeks ago, but it was a bit jarring to leap from blood and gravestones to butterflies in fields of honeysuckle.

  He burrowed into his pillow, a smile curving his lips. Not that he was complaining. Who didn’t like butterflies? And the scent of honeysuckle always reminded him of…

  Sophia.

  Tristan opened his eyes to find her leaning over him, brushing soft, teasing kisses over his lips. Ah. Not butterflies or fields of honeysuckle, then, but his lovely wife. Tristan closed his eyes again as he reached for her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Are you waking me with kisses, Lady Gray?”

  Sophia laughed softly. “Certainly not, my lord. Go back to sleep. I’m conducting an investigation, and it doesn’t concern you.”

  “No? How curious. It feels as if it does concern me, and rather intimately.” Tristan’s smile widened as the tip of her tongue grazed the scar on his upper lip.

  “The tip of a riding crop might have made such a scar,” she murmured, drawing back to study his lips. “Did you accidentally strike yourself in the face with your crop?”

  Tristan did his best to look outraged. “How dare you, madam? I’ll have you know I’m an accomplished horseman.”

  Sophia’s brow furrowed. “An encounter with a sharp tree branch, perhaps?”

  “No. This may surprise you, Lady Gray, but I’m perfectly able to manage London’s trees.”

  “Hmmm.” Sophia brushed her fingertip over the scar. “I know! You were drinking tea from a cracked teacup. It fell to pieces in your hand, and one of the shards sliced your lip.”

  “That’s a shocking allegation, Lady Gray.” Tristan regarded her with mock horror, then added in virtuous tones, “I will do you the favor of not disclosing to Mrs. Beeson the viciousness with which you’ve maligned her teacups.”

  “Very well. Keep your secrets, then.” Sophia lifted her chin and glared down her nose at him. “But I don’t wish to hear another word from you, Lord Gray, unless it’s a confession.”

  With one final quelling glance she wriggled away from him and tried to scramble over to her side of the bed, but she didn’t get far before Tristan caught her by her waist and rolled her underneath him.

  “That’s a fetching pout, Lady Gray.” He brushed his thumb over her lower lip, his blood heating at the hint of damp warmth he found there. “How can I resist teasing you when you pout so prettily?”

  Sophia snorted. “You won’t find the edge of my teeth quite so pretty, I assure you. Your confession, my lord, or I may be tempted to give you a matching scar on your bottom lip.”

  “I warned you before it’s a dull story, but since you insist on knowing it…” Tristan paused to press a kiss to that pouting mouth. “I fell up a flight of stairs.”

  “Up a flight of stairs?” Sophia blinked at him. “Don’t you mean down a flight of stairs?”

  “No, I mean up. There’s nothing ridiculous about falling down the stairs. If I’d fallen down them, I would have confessed it at once.”

  “But how does one fall up a flight of stairs?” Sophia was trying to smother the grin tugging at the corners of her lips.

  Tristan’s own lips twitched. “When one is six years old, one stumbles while chasing their brother up a flight of stairs and smacks their face into the edge of a stair above them. It’s easier than you’d think.”

  “Oh, dear.” Sophia had lost the battle with her grin, which had chased the pout from her lips. “You’re right, my lord, that is a dull story. Did it bleed much?”

  Tristan fingered the scar. “Gushed everywhere, from my nose and mouth. I even lost a tooth. My mother was in fits over all that blood on her polished staircase.”

  “The staircase, and not your precious face?” Sophia reached up and stroked her finger tenderly over the scar, her smile fading. “I’m afraid that doesn’t surprise me.”

  After a hasty marriage ceremony in London, Tristan had dutifully brought his new bride to Oxfordshire to present her to his mother. The Dowager Countess of Gray, upon finding her one remaining son had married a commoner, had fallen into hysterics and taken immediately to her bed. She’d remained there in fits until it became clear Tristan was unmoved by her dramatics, whereupon she’d swept back down the stairs in great state, and announced her intention to retire to the dower house.

  Neither Sophia nor Tristan offered any objection to this plan, though in the end, it might have been just as well for the Dowager Countess to have remained where she was. Tristan and Sophia left Oxfordshire after only two weeks, and between themselves decided not to spend much time there in the future.

  Sophia couldn’t bear to be separated from her friends for long, and Tristan couldn’t bear for Sophia to be made unhappy, and so they’d returned to Great Marlborough Street, much to the delight of Lady Clifford and the young ladies at the Clifford School, particularly Cecilia, who haunted their townhouse like a cheerful, starry-eyed ghost.

  “Have I mentioned how fond I am of this scar?” Sophia asked, gently caressing his lip. “I imagined tasting it long before it was proper to do so.”

  “You did?” The thought of her gazing at his lips and wondering how they’d taste made his stomach tighten with desire. “How long before?”

  “Since the day we went to see Jeremy at Newgate.” The dreamy smile on Sophia’s lips faded a little, and a shadow crossed her face at mention of Jer
emy, who remained tucked away in some obscure part of England. Lady Clifford assured them he was recovering nicely, but Sophia missed him, and it would be some time yet before it would be safe for her to see him.

  Tristan stroked his fingertips over her cheek, anxious to distract her. “What else do you imagine? What do you dream of, Sophia?”

  “Oh, so many things. Sometimes I dream of Lord Everly and Sampson Willis being brought to justice.” She smiled, but there was a hint of sadness to it.

  There’d been no sign of Everly in recent weeks. He’d retired to his country estate, and hadn’t returned when Parliament resumed. No one in London seemed to know what precipitated this sudden change in Everly’s circumstances. As for Willis, he’d abruptly retired as Bow Street Magistrate, and disappeared from London without a trace. Tristan suspected Kit Benjamin had a hand in that, but that was pure speculation on his part. In the end, neither Everly nor Willis had gotten what he deserved, but neither had they gone unscathed.

  But Tristan didn’t want to talk of Everly, or Willis, or anything that brought shadows to Sophia’s eyes. He touched a finger to her lips. “No. Tell me only your sweetest dreams, pixie.”

  Sophia turned her face to kiss his fingertips. “Jeremy, safe and happy and frolicking in the ocean somewhere. Lady Clifford with Gussie on her lap, and Emma, Georgiana, and Cecilia giggling over Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. But mostly…” A pink flush rose in her cheeks as she gazed up at him. “Mostly, I dream of you, Tristan.”

  Tristan’s heart swelled in his chest, and he had to kiss her then, his mouth taking hers in a gentle, lingering kiss before he drew away to gaze down at her. “And what do you dream of, Lady Gray?”

  “Your eyes, soft on my face, and your beautiful, stern lips curved in a smile,” she whispered. “I dream of your arms wrapped around me, my head resting on your chest, your heartbeat echoing like music in my ear.”

  “Ah, pixie.” Tristan brushed soft kisses over her brow, her eyelids, and the tip of her chin before gathering her against him and burying his face in her hair. “Those aren’t dreams.”

  Author’s Notes

  James Scott, the first Duke of Monmouth, was the illegitimate son of Charles II. He was beheaded in 1685 for treason after leading the Monmouth Rebellion against his uncle, James II and VII (England and Scotland, respectively).

  St. Clement Dane’s Church is located on the Strand in the City of Westminster, London. The graveyard adjacent to the church is a product of the author’s imagination.

  Ann Radcliffe, The Romance of the Forest (London: T. Hookham & Carpenter, 1791).

  A gentleman by the name of Sampson Wright succeeded John Fielding as Chief Magistrate of Bow Street. Mr. Wright would have been Chief Magistrate during the year in which the novel is set. The author changed the character’s last name from Wright to Willis so as not to impugn Mr. Wright’s reputation as a man of honor.

  Jack Sheppard, an early eighteenth-century thief and petty criminal, was known for his numerous miraculous escapes from London’s prisons. The incident Georgiana is referring to is Sheppard’s infamous second escape from Newgate, which he achieved by climbing up a chimney, removing an iron bar that had been set into the brickwork, and using it to break through the ceiling. He made it onto the roof of Newgate Prison, and used a blanket to gain access to the roof of the house next door. He broke into the house, and walked through the front door to freedom.

  The Proceedings were published accounts of trials that took place at the Old Bailey, made available to the public after each session. The Proceedings grew from the seventeenth-century ballad, chapbook, and broadside accounts of the lives and exploits of London’s famous criminals, which were popular with London’s citizens. The Proceedings were generally between four to nine pages long, and though they did not contain comprehensive accounts of every case tried at the Old Bailey, by 1680 most trials appear to be contained in the Proceedings. Sophia may well have found an account of Patrick Dunn’s trial there, as well as accounts of previous thefts in which Peter Sharpe was a witness.

  Tim Hitchcock, Robert Shoemaker, Clive Emsley, Sharon Howard, and Jamie McLaughlin, et al., The Old Bailey Proceedings Online, 1674–1913 (www.oldbaileyonline.org, version 7.0, 24 March 2012).

  Arthur Griffiths makes references in his book The Chronicles of Newgate to an incident that took place in 1593, in which a prisoner was conveyed from the prison inside a coffin. The details regarding this curious incident are scarce, but it appears the scheme involved a corrupt guard swapping the rightful occupant of the coffin with a gentleman who was still very much alive, and who was thus conveyed from the prison. Arthur Griffiths, The Chronicles of Newgate (London: Chapman & Hall, 1884).

  The London Corresponding Society was formed in 1792, a year prior to the opening date of the novel. Society members believed in the principle of universal suffrage, in which every adult citizen was guaranteed the right to vote, regardless of gender, race or ethnicity, or income. William Pitt’s government strenuously opposed the Society’s calls for radical governmental change. In May of 1792 the Society submitted a petition signed by 6,000 citizens demanding political reform. Between the petition and the political upheaval caused by the French Revolution, Pitt became so fearful of the Society’s influence he risked putting its three principal leaders—Thomas Hardy, John Thelwall, and John Horne Tooke—on trial for the attempted assassination of King George III. The government charges were transparently false, and all three men were acquitted. Pitt’s effort to frame prominent members of the LCS for an attempted assassination of the king (a crime for which they certainly would have been executed) inspired the plot between Lord Everly, Peter Sharp, Sampson Willis, and Richard Poole to frame innocent members of the LCS for theft.

  William Pitt did eventually succeed in silencing the Society by suspending the Habeas Corpus Act, thereby making it legal for the government to detain without trial persons suspected of radical activities. Under pressure from the suspension of habeas corpus and the Unlawful Societies Act of 1799, which outlawed radical secret societies, the London Corresponding Society ultimately disbanded.

  For an enlightening discussion of Ellen Moers concept of “The Female Gothic,” please see “Female Gothic: The Monster’s Mother” (New York Review of Books, 1974).