A Study in Scoundrels Page 12

  “No.” Sophia ran her finger along the edge of her mug. “But you should ask your question. I want a drink.”

  He crossed his arms and asked in a low, resonant tone, “Why are you unmarried?”

  Irritation made her skin prickle. “Why aren’t you, Mr. Grey? Are you a proponent of wedlock?”

  “You’re cheating.” He tipped his chair forward and smiled. “That’s two more questions, and you’ve yet to give an answer.”

  Sophia lifted her mug to her lips. “No one’s ever asked for my hand in marriage.” She quaffed the cider, savoring the sweetness on her tongue, focusing on the pleasure of the liquor’s warmth rather than Grey’s wide-eyed expression.

  She knew she was an oddity because she hadn’t followed the path of other young women her age.

  “They’re idiots.” Grey signaled to the barmaid to refill their glasses.

  “Who?” Sophia forced her gaze to meet his.

  “The men who passed up the chance to make you their own,” he said gruffly before swigging back the last of his ale.

  “You assume I would accept anyone who asked?” The tease in her tone did wonders to cover the lump in her throat.

  “No, Sophia.” He clutched his spoon and scooped up a heaping mouthful of stew from his bowl. “I believe you’re the most discerning woman I’ve ever met. You’re clever enough to choose a man who deserves you.”

  Sophia dipped her head and focused on her food. For several minutes they ate in companionable silence, each tearing into the meal with the eagerness of famished travelers. She soon gave up on taking dainty bites and ladylike sips.

  When she finally laid her spoon down, belly full and head fuzzy with drink, passing thoughts came and went. She should check the time, dig in her satchel and find the train schedule back to London, compose a thank-you note to Mr. Ogilvy.

  Ogilvy. She heard his name as if her guilty conscience was reminding her how rude she’d been to the poor man before they’d even had a chance to meet.

  “Who is Ogilvy?” Grey’s voice. Not her conscience.

  “None of your concern.” Marriage was the last topic she wished to broach with him again. “He certainly can’t help us find your sister.” That was what mattered. That was her excuse for sharing supper with a scoundrel in a Cambridge public house.

  Grey took a swig of ale, set down his glass, and grinned. “I’m being impertinent.” Despite his easy smile and the charming dimples on each side of his mouth, his gaze was steady. Intense.

  “Yes, you are.” She didn’t wish to reveal herself to be a fool when he thought her discerning. Exchanging a few letters with Ogilvy offered no promises. The man might dismiss her or fail to spark her interest, as every other had. “I don’t know Mr. Ogilvy well.”

  “My sister doesn’t know Clive Holden well either. Certainly not well enough to trust her future to the bastard.”

  “What if she loves him?” Sophia toyed with the handle of her mug.

  Shock rippled through her when he began laughing. Not a gentle chuckle, but a deep, hearty ripple of sound that echoed in her ears and reverberated in her chest. It was an enticing sound. Naughty and raucous. Loud enough to draw the notice of a table of gentlemen nearby.

  “Whatever Liddy feels for Holden, it’s not love,” he insisted, his voice light and ringing with amusement. “The girl’s affections are as flimsy as candy floss.” He tossed back another swig of ale, emptying his second pint glass. “Love is a fantasy.”

  “Is it?” Her parents rowed at times, and no man had ever captured her heart, but Sophia never doubted love’s existence.

  “Not to mention dangerous.” Grey waved a hand at her in an up and down motion, as if to cite her as evidence of his claim.

  “Why?”

  “Love is a risk. A gamble.” He tapped the tabletop to emphasize his point.

  “How do you know?” Sophia bit her lip the moment the words were out. Now she was being impertinent, but curiosity kept her from taking back her question. Had he merely witnessed his parents’ unhappiness or experienced his own broken heart?

  “My parents taught me well.” His appealing voice turned bitter. “They betrayed each other. Destroyed each other, truth be told.” After sipping from a fresh glass deposited by the barmaid, he waved his hand toward her again. “And you? Did you find love during your London Season or back in your country village?”

  “I never had a Season.” At the time—not long after the incident in Lady Pembry’s garden—she’d been relieved to forego the ritual. “A countess in our village offered to sponsor me, but Father refused. He insisted my place was at home caring for my sister.” A sip of cider did nothing to loosen the tightness in her throat. “My mother was often ill when Clary was young.”

  Grey leaned in, flattening his palm on the table near her glass. “So you played housekeeper then as you do now? Nursemaid to your sister. Defender of your brother.”

  Sophia arched a brow.

  “Kit told me you were the one who kept to all the rules he happily broke.” He stroked his finger around the handle of her mug. “Did you never have any happiness? Any pleasure?”

  “Some say there’s more to life than the pursuit of pleasure.”

  “Fools, every one of them.” He smiled wide, dimples on full display. “What else is there?”

  “To be useful.” Sophia tipped forward until the table edge pressed against the buttons of her shirtwaist. “To have a purpose.”

  “And when you find your use and purpose, will it bring you happiness?”

  Sophia pushed her chair back and stood. Dizziness darkened the edges of her vision. The question was like a pin prick, sharp and pointed, deflating every answer she’d offer if she were conversing with anyone but Jasper Grey. His query made her sense the depths of her foolishness, perfectly underlining a truth she found hard to admit.

  After years of striving to be useful, she was miserable. Lonely. Frustrated. Aimless.

  She couldn’t chastise him for being a pleasure-seeker when, deep in her heart, it was what she longed for too. Pleasure and, yes, happiness.

  Looking across the table at him, with his one arm hitched over the back of his chair, one long leg slung over the other, she shook her head. Perhaps they were both foolish for seeking happiness when life never promised any such thing.

  “I should return to London, my lord.” In the city, she had a purpose. She’d done her bit and devoted all the time she could to helping Grey find his sister.

  “You won’t be returning this evening.” He tugged a chain across his waistcoat and lifted the face of his pocket watch for her inspection. The hour was much later than she realized.

  “Surely there’s a coach.” Though she wasn’t sure of any such thing. She cast a glance at the barmaid nearby for confirmation.

  “Not as such, miss. Might be able to hire a private coach, though it will cost you a pretty penny.” The girl started away and then turned back. “ ’Course, you could just take a bed here.”

  “I thought there were none to be had.” Grey stood and moved to stand behind Sophia. Too close, as was his way.

  “A lodger departed.” The pub keeper’s wife approached with a brimming bucket of coals to place near the pub’s fireplace. “Though unless you’ve a license and parson to marry the young lady tonight, there’s only one bed. Might have a camp bed we could rustle up too.”

  “We’re not sharing a room.” The cider might have thickened her tongue to cotton wool, but Sophia’s mind was clear about the impropriety of sharing a rented room with a notorious rogue.

  The pub owner’s wife let out a chuckle. “I meant we could set up a cot down here near the fire once we close our doors.”

  “Take the room.” Grey brushed his hand gently against Sophia’s arm. “I’ll be fine on the cot.” He still looked like a scoundrel, but his voice had taken on a tender note. Gentlemanly.

  The drink heightened her exhaustion and made her bones feel as solid as jelly. Grey’s eyes were as shadowed
as hers. They both needed rest, but he had a long journey to the Scottish border ahead.

  “Perhaps you should take the room.” She turned to face him and swayed unsteadily. She reached for him, and he gripped her upper arm, his gaze locked on hers.

  “I prefer thinking of you tucked up in bed.” The hint of grin at the corner of his mouth indicated his suggestive tone was not in the least unintentional.

  “Perhaps you two should marry,” the publican declared as he ambled up to stand beside his wife. “You’re already quite good at bickering.” When his wife elbowed him in the ribs, he added, “We’ve one other room, my lord. It’s quite small, just under the eaves, but dry and warm and next door to the young lady’s.”

  “Perfect,” Grey declared. His hand, a heated steady weight, moved from Sophia’s arm to the curve of her waist as he guided her toward the stairs.

  She enjoyed his touch too much, could get used to his nearness too easily. She sidestepped away from him. “How will we know which room is which?”

  “We’ll use our intellect,” he teased. “There can’t be many rooms, unless the upstairs is larger than the pub below.”

  “There are only four,” the barmaid said from the foot of the stairs. “Yours are that way.” She pointed to the left side of the building. “I’ll bring a pitcher of hot water up for each of you soon enough.”

  Sophia nodded to the girl and started up the stairs. The mesmerizing tilt of her hips kept Grey moving forward. His eyes had gone dry, drink had tempered his worries, and now he craved nothing so much as taking Sophia to bed.

  He couldn’t, of course. No matter how much three pints of ale had blunted his senses, he hadn’t forgotten that she was his best friend’s sister and the most rule-bound woman he’d ever known.

  Those arguments were easy to forget when she was near and her lavender scent sweetened the air.

  The moment she retreated from his touch, he wanted her back. He was used to women seeking his hands—pressing themselves into his palms, showing him where to touch and how. Never had he longed for a woman’s skin sliding against his own as he did Sophia’s. Each time she reached for him felt like a victory.

  She stopped on the threshold of a room with an open door, swaying enough to cause her to grip the frame.

  “You’re tipsy.” Instinct told him to reach for her, to carry her to the bed. But she’d never allow him to get through the door.

  “I’m not used to drink. My father believed in leading an abstemious life.”

  “And one absent of any kind of pleasure.” No wonder her brother had come to London starving for every enjoyment the city offered.

  “I’m not my father.” She whirled on him. Reaching out to steady herself, her palm landed flat against his chest, just above his waistcoat. Only the thin starched fabric of his shirt separated her flesh from his. “I am quite capable of enjoying myself, I assure you.”

  He wanted to see Sophia enjoying herself. Craved her soft feminine laughter, her rare smiles. How satisfying would it be to hear her moan with pleasure and squeal with delight? If only she’d allow him to be the cause of her enjoyment, he could think of a hundred ways to begin.

  A flash of fantasy colored his thoughts. Sophia’s palm pressed to his body but with no fabric between them. Those loose blonde curls of hers draped across his body, tangled between his fingers, fisted in his hand. Desire pooled in his groin, sharpening his hunger for her, and he fought the urge to dance her three steps back to the edge of the lumpy bed he glimpsed through the doorway.

  “When was the last time you enjoyed yourself?” His voice emerged hoarse and low. His fingers itched to follow the lead of the single unfastened button at the high collar of her gown and unhook another. And another. Until he could uncover all those curves hidden behind her pristine white shirtwaist.

  “I find pleasure in many endeavors,” she insisted in a distinctly dubious tone.

  “And the last time?” He couldn’t resist running his fingertip along the back of her hand, stroking her velvety skin.

  When she gazed up at him, her eyes fixed on his mouth.

  “Yes, goddess.” He grinned. “That was the last time I enjoyed myself too.”

  “Don’t call me that.” She curled her fingers around the placket of his shirt front and gave him a minuscule push.

  “It suits you.”

  “Because I’m cold?”

  Grey frowned and gripped her hand, pressing it more firmly against his chest. “There’s nothing cold about you, Sophia.” He could still remember the warmth of her mouth when he’d kissed her, the delicious heat of her body flush with his. “I call you goddess because you’re splendid, formidable”—he grinned again—“and perhaps a bit daunting.”

  She slipped her hand from his, spun away, and started into her room. “I have no wish to be daunting.”

  Grey followed, taking one step into the low-ceilinged space. “And I’ve no wish to offend you. Ever. Forgive me.” The urge to embrace her nearly overwhelmed him. She was no longer standing with that punishing posture of hers. Her narrow shoulders were hunched, her fingers just visible at the edges of her waist as she hugged her arms around herself.

  “Kiss me.”

  For a moment, Grey thought the command emerged from his lips. Perhaps he was more inebriated than he realized. But there was no telltale rumble in his chest, no vibration in his throat.

  She turned to face him, arms loose at her sides, fingers clenched. “Kiss me again, Grey.”

  Two steps and she was in his arms.

  He wrapped a hand around her waist, splayed his fingers against her back, but she pulled him closer. Gripping his necktie, she urged him down. Stretching onto her toes, just as she had to reach the book at Mrs. Greenlow’s, Sophia didn’t wait for his kiss. She touched her mouth to his. At first their lips brushed and collided softly. Grey wanted her so fiercely, he tensed, knowing how close he was to the edge. Kissing Sophia reminded him of the power of kisses. How they could stoke needs otherwise held at bay, get inside every vulnerable place. The taste of her was dangerous. Made him want impossibilities.

  She slid her tongue along the seam of his mouth. Grey opened to her, canted his head to the side to taste her more deeply. He was rewarded with one of those moans of pleasure he’d imagined. The sound was far more arousing than his fantasy.

  “I need to see,” Sophia said on a breathless shudder as she took his face into her palms, leaving a trail of heat on his skin as she stroked her left thumb across his cheek. She searched his eyes, her bee-stung lips slightly parted.

  “What do you see?” Despite his curiosity, he feared her answer. Something about Sophia tore through his defenses, shattered the actor’s facade he’d erected.

  “Desire.”

  Yes, from the moment he’d met her.

  “And something more?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Grey swallowed hard. He didn’t know what she saw, didn’t wish to examine what he felt. Acknowledging the need was too terrifying.

  “You like kissing me?”

  “Like isn’t the word I’d use.”

  “What word, then?”

  He didn’t want words. He wanted to show her in the only way he knew how. The way he knew best. But the moment he slid his hand from her narrow waist to the flare of her hip, footsteps sounded on the staircase, and Sophia slipped out of his hands.

  “Hot water for you, miss.” The barmaid who’d served them downstairs stopped in the doorway of Sophia’s room. “And for you too, my lord.”

  “I’ll bid you good night, Sophia.” Though nothing in him wanted to part from her. That was the most dangerous aspect of the woman. Whether he’d spent time bantering or kissing her, parting from Sophia never felt right. Never left him with the usual satisfaction of reclaiming his independence.

  He sketched a half bow and began backing out of the room. Sophia pressed her lips together, offered him a tiny nod, and then a softly spoken “good night.”

  The barmaid followed him to t
he tiny chamber next door. The room was so diminutive, Grey knocked his head on a beam as he approached the bed.

  “Watch your head,” the young woman warned several seconds too late. “No fire in this room, my lord, but I’ll stoke the lady’s before I go back down. You’ll feel some of her heat in here.”

  He would much rather be the one stoking Sophia’s fire, but he worked to tamp his sensual frustration and smiled appreciatively. “Thank you.”

  The girl set a pitcher of water in a ceramic bowl on a table near the door and started out, then she suddenly ducked back inside. After shutting the door, she flattened herself against the rough wood. “You’re looking for a young lady.”

  Oh Lord. Grey was used to being propositioned, so the girl’s eager gaze wasn’t a complete surprise. His body ached for release, but there was only one woman he wanted.

  “I’m flattered, miss. Truly, but—”

  “I met her once.” The serving girl twisted her apron in her hands. “There was something about her. No doubt she was a lady.”

  Liddy? Grey pressed his palms together, pointed his fingers toward the barmaid. “What did she say to you? Anything at all will be helpful.”

  “We mostly exchanged niceties. She thought Grantchester a very pretty little village. Everyone does who comes to visit.”

  With effort, Grey kept his tone calm. “Anything else?”

  The girl blinked at him, furrowing her brow. “I sensed sadness,” she said hesitantly. “The young lady seemed lonely underneath all of her politeness and smiles.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Hurts and slights of the past haunt the living like ghosts. Very often, they provide a motive for mischief too.”

  —CASEBOOK OF EUPHEMIA BREEDLOVE, LADY DETECTIVE

  Sophia woke with a start.

  Clenching her fingers, she found a rough blanket wrapped around her body. Sleepy confusion began to clear. She wasn’t in her bed at Ruthven House or in her guest room in Kit and Ophelia’s London townhouse.

  Cambridge. Grantchester. The creaky bed below her was situated above the Eagle and Stag public house. But what had woken her?

  She listened in the darkness and heard movement downstairs. Then another sound, much closer. A distinctly masculine rumble and moan.