Lady Sophias Lover bsr-2

by Lisa Kleypas

  He did not move or speak, his shoulders bunched tightly beneath his shirt.

  "Lady Sophia," Morgan interjected gently. "I should not speak, but I must point out what is at risk for Sir Ross. All eyes are on Bow Street. Keen attention is being paid to how we handle this matter. If it is discovered that Sir Ross has interfered in the process of law, his reputation and everything he has worked for will be ruined. Furthermore, questions will be asked, and when it comes to light that Gentry is Sir Ross's brother-in-law, the entire Cannon family will suffer the consequences."

  "I understand," Sophia said. Painful pressure built behind her eyes, and she dug her nails into her palms to keep from crying. She stared at her husband; he still refused to face her.

  There seemed to be nothing left to say. She departed the office silently, knowing that she had asked the impossible of him. Moreover, she had wounded him beyond his ability to forgive.

  The two men remained alone. A long time passed before Morgan spoke. "Ross..." In all the years they had known each other, he had never called him by his first name. "Do you think there is a chance she is telling the truth?"

  "Of course it's true," Ross replied bitterly. "It's so damned appalling that ithas to be the truth."

  After Sophia left Bow Street No. 3, she was not certain what to do. She was suddenly exhausted, as if she had gone for days without sleeping. Desolately she tried to think of what Ross would do with her. With his extensive political connections and influence, it would probably be fairly easy for him to obtain a divorce. Or perhaps he would simply install her somewhere in the country, out of sight and out of mind. Whatever he decided, Sophia would not blame him. And yet she could not conceive that he would reject her absolutely. Perhaps there was some remnant of his feelings that remained, some fragile foundation on which they could rebuild their relationship. Even if it turned out to be a flawed imitation of what they'd once had.

  Dazedly she went into the bedroom they shared and changed into a light robe. It was only midday, but her weariness was overwhelming. She lay down on the wide bed and closed her eyes, welcoming the dark oblivion that rolled over her.

  Much later she was awakened by the sound of someone entering the room. Groggily she realized that she had slept all afternoon. The room was much cooler, and beyond the partially drawn curtains she could see the sun yielding to the slow encroachment of evening. She sat up, watching as her husband crossed the threshold and closed the door in a decisive motion.

  They regarded each other like two gladiators who had been released into the ring but were reluctant to battle.

  She was the first to speak. "I'm certain that you...you must be furious with me."

  A long silence passed. Assuming that they were going to have a civilized discussion, Sophia was startled when he sprang at her in two swift strides and seized her in a rough grip. His hand tangled in her hair and he tugged her head back, crushing his mouth over hers. The bruising kiss was not meant to give pleasure but to punish. Gasping, Sophia yielded completely, opening her mouth to the aggressive thrust of his tongue, answering his angry passion with utter surrender. She told him with her lips and body that whatever he wanted of her, she would give without reserve. Eventually her lack of resistance seemed to soothe him, and he softened the kiss, still probing deeply, both of his hands cupping around her skull.

  However, the embrace was short-lived. Ross let go of her as abruptly as he had seized her and put a few yards of distance between them. He sent her a baffled glare, his eyes light and piercing in his flushed face.

  And then Sophia understood, as clearly as if his thoughts and feelings were her own. She had lied to him, kept secrets from him, abused his trust. Yet he still wanted her. He would forgive her anything, even murder. He loved her more than honor, even more than his pride. For a man who had always been so completely self-possessed, the realization was a unpleasant shock.

  Desperately she wished for a way to reassure him that from now on, she would be worthy of his trust.

  "Please let me explain," she said in a raw voice. "I wanted to tell you about Nick, but I couldn't. I was so afraid that once you knew--"

  "You thought I would turn you away."

  She nodded, her eyes stinging.

  "How many times do I have to prove myself to you?" His face twisted with fury. "Have I ever blamed you for your past mistakes? Have I ever been unfair to you?"

  "No."

  "Then when are you going to trust me?"

  "Ido trust you," she said hoarsely. "But the fear of losing you was more than I could bear."

  "The only way you could lose me is by lying to me again."

  She blinked, and her heart drummed furiously in her chest. Something in his words implied..."Is it too late?" she managed to ask. "Have I already lost you?"

  Ross looked grim, his mouth twisting. "I'm here," he pointed out sardonically.

  Her lips shook until she could hardly form words. "If you still want me, I-I promise never to lie to you again."

  "That would be a pleasant change," he told her Curtly.

  "And...I will keep no secrets from you."

  "Also a good idea."

  Wild hope flooded her as she realized that he was willing to give her another chance. Furious, but willing. And there could only be one reason that he would put himself at such risk.

  Carefully she approached her husband, the room darkening as the buildings and spires of London fractured the falling sunlight. She put her hands on his chest, gently covering the violent thud of his heart. He stiffened but did not pull away. "Thank you, Ross," she whispered.

  "For what?" he returned, stone-faced.

  "For loving me." She felt his heart lurch at the words, and she realized that until this moment, Ross had not acknowledged his feelings for her, even to himself. He had not wanted to put a name to the emotion. Holding his stare, she saw the blaze of resentment in his eyes...and the smoldering need he could not conceal.

  She could think of only one way to dispel his anger, to reassure him and soothe his aggravated pride.

  Sophia's sapphire eyes were grave as she reached up to Ross's neck, her fingers working at the knot of his cravat. She concentrated on the task as if it were of momentous importance. The knot loosened, and she drew the length of dark, warm silk from his throat. Ross's body was as rigid as carved marble, his thoughts in a welter. Surely she did not think that a romp in bed would solve anything. But the deliberateness of her actions indicated that she was trying to demonstrate something.

  She undressed him slowly, removing his coat, waistcoat, and shirt, then kneeling to unbuckle his shoes. "Sophia," he said tersely.

  "Let me," she whispered. Standing, she brushed her fingertips over the matted curls on his chest. Her fingers delved lightly into the black hair, sifted through it, stroked the hot skin beneath. Her thumbs found his nipples, circled delicately, bringing them to hard points. Leaning closer, she flicked her tongue over the dark circle until the nipple was slick and sensitive. He could not restrain a primitive grunt as her hand slid to the stiff bulge of his erection, tracing it slowly.

  She glanced at his face then. "Are you sorry for loving me?" she whispered.

  "No," he said gruffly. Somehow he managed to hold still as her slim fingers dipped inside the waist of his trousers.

  "I want you to know something," Sophia said. The first button popped free, revealing the swollen head of his sex. Her fingers stole to the next button. "I am more in your power, Ross, than you could ever be in mine. I love you." A quiver ran through him at the words. "I love you," she repeated deliberately, plucking at the fourth button.

  She continued down the row until his trousers were wide open and his erection was unhindered. Grasping him carefully in both hands, she stroked up and down the hard shaft. She wet her finger in her mouth, then stroked a moist circle around the taut purple crown. The muscles of his thighs stiffened, and he breathed in harsh pants as passion ignited and roared through his body. Sophia's head lowered until it hovered just
above the rearing length of him. "Enough," Ross choked. "Christ, I can't--"

  "Tell me what to do," she said, the words blowing against him.

  Whatever sanity Ross had left promptly burned to cinders. He gasped out instructions, his hands trembling as he clasped her head. "Use your tongue on the tip...yes ...now take as much as you can in your...oh, God..."

  Sophia's fervor more than made up for her lack of experience. She did things that Eleanor would never have tried, tugging at his aching flesh, her velvety tongue swirling and lapping. Ross sank to his knees and pulled at her clothes, tearing them, and she gave a breathless laugh at his roughness. His mouth caught greedily at hers, while she wriggled to help him strip the shredded gown down her legs.

  A primal sound of satisfaction escaped him when Sophia's naked body was finally revealed. He lifted her to the bed, pausing only to remove his trousers before he joined her. Eagerly she slid between his legs and took his sex into her mouth once more, resisting his efforts to bring her face up to his. Groaning repeatedly, he surrendered to her ministrations, his fingers tangling in the long locks of her hair. However, he was not satisfied for long--he wanted more, he craved the taste of her. Impatiently he seized her hips, maneuvering her until she was positioned at his mouth. He buried his face amid the intimate curls, his hands gripping her thighs as she jerked with surprise.

  He searched her with his tongue, licking deeply into the seam of moist folds. Avidly he hunted for the tiny engorged peak where her pleasure was concentrated. Finding it, he nibbled, stroked, darted his tongue at it, as he felt her stiffen in approaching climax. He backed off, gentling, while she moaned pleadingly around his cock. Twice more he brought her to the edge, making her suffer, tormenting until she responded with desperate tugs of her mouth.

  Each time Sophia drew on him, Ross sank his tongue deep inside her, matching his rhythm to hers, until she shuddered hard as her pleasure finally reached its zenith. She cried out against his groin, her mouth still clamped around him. His own culmination approached rapidly, and he moved his hands to her head. But she resisted his attempts to dislodge her, and the silky strokes of her tongue became too much to bear. The climax broke over him, and he arched and gasped as he was consumed in an explosion of pure white fire.

  Eventually Sophia turned and climbed over him, resting her head on the center of his chest. Ross held her tightly. His lips moved against her throbbing temple as he spoke. "I don't care who your brother is. He could be the devil incarnate, and I would still want you. I love everything about you. I never expected to find such happiness. I love you so much that I can't bear the thought of anything coming between us."

  Sophia's slim, damp body flexed against his. "There is nothing between us now," she said throatily.

  Ross parted his legs to allow her to settle between them, his cock stirring briefly against her stomach. Sighing in relaxation, he clasped his hands behind his head and contemplated her thoughtfully. "Sophia," he murmured, "I don't think there is any way I can save Gentry from the hangman. Nor am I particularly disposed to try. I can't overlook his crimes, even though he is your brother. The fact is, Gentry is beyond redemption. He has proved that on many occasions."

  She shook her head in disagreement. "My brother's life has been very difficult--"

  "I know," he interrupted as gently as possible. It was apparent that any arguments concerning Nick Gentry would result in nothing but frustration for both of them. Sophia would never stop hoping that her brother's ruined soul could be salvaged. He smiled slightly, stroking the fragile sweep of her jaw. "Only you would continue to love a brother who blackmailed you."

  "No one has ever given him an opportunity to change," she said. "If he had just one chance at a different life...think of the kind of man he could become."

  "I'm afraid my imagination fails me," came Ross's sardonic reply. Rolling over, he pinned her beneath him, his muscular thighs straddling hers. "Enough about Gentry. He has occupied my thoughts enough for one day." "All right," Sophia agreed, although it was obvious that she wanted to discuss him further. "How shall we pass the rest of the evening?"

  "I'm hungry," Ross murmured, bending over her naked breasts, "I want supper...and then more of you." His mouth covered one swollen nipple, his teeth catching at it gently. "Does that sound agreeable?"

  Thanks to Ross's preparations, there had so far been no violent demonstrations from agitators on behalf of Nick Gentry. The following day, however, he expected a few public skirmishes. Therefore Bow Street had been blocked off with troops and militia, and a party of three runners and a dozen constables was busy clearing away onlookers who tried to gather at Newgate. Families of magistrates had been given notice to barricade their homes, while employees at banks, distilleries, and other businesses were given guns to help defend against possible looting. Sophia had vehemently refused Ross's attempts to send her to the country until the situation was resolved. She did not want to be bustled off to Silverhill Park to sit helplessly with Catherine, Iona, and Ross's grandfather while her brother's fate was being determined.

  As the day progressed, Sophia sat in the private parlor in Bow Street No. 4, frantically considering what might be done for her brother. Her head ached and throbbed. Ross did not take luncheon, only sent repeatedly for jugs of coffee while a stream of visitors came to the magisterial office. Gradually evening approached, and the city swarmed with armed foot patrols that kept a lid on the simmering rookeries and flash-houses. On his way to deliver a message to a justice in Finsbury Square, Ernest stopped at No. 4 to give Sophia a brief report of the situation. "I 'eard Sir Ross and Sir Grant talk as 'ow they're surprised the public 'as taken Gentry's arrest so quiet-like. Sir Ross says it's a sign that many opinions 'as swung against Gentry." Ernest shook his head at the masses' disloyalty. "Poor Black Dog," he murmured. "Bloody ingrates, all o' 'em."

  Were Sophia not so miserable, she would have smiled at the lad's ready defense of his tarnished hero. "Thank you, Ernest," she said. "Be careful when you go out. I would not like for you to be hurt."

  He blushed and grinned at her concern. "Oh, no one'll lay a finger on me, milady!"

  He dashed off, and Sophia was left to brood alone once more. The sun set, leaving London covered in hot, black night. The air was pungent with coal and the stench of a foul east wind. Just as Sophia considered changing into her nightgown in preparation for bed, Ross strode into their private apartments. He stripped off his sweat-dampened shirt as he crossed the threshold.

  "Is there any news?" Sophia demanded, following him into the bedroom. "How is my brother? Are there any reports? Has there been agitation near the prison? I'm going mad from the lack of news'."

  "Everything is relatively calm," Ross said, pouring water into a washbasin. The long muscles of his back flexed as he sluiced water over his face, chest, and beneath his arms. "Fetch me a clean shirt, will you?"

  She hurried to comply. "Where are you going? You must eat something first. At least a sandwich--"

  "No time," Ross muttered, donning the fresh linen shirt and tucking it into his trousers. Deftly he positioned the collar and tied a cravat around his neck. "An idea occurred to me just a few minutes ago. I'm going to Newgate--I expect to return soon. Don't stay up on my account. If I have news of any significance, I'll wake you."

  "You're going to see my brother?" Quickly Sophia pulled a patterned gray waistcoat from the wardrobe and held it up for him to slide his arms through. "Why? What is this idea? I want to go with you!" "Not to Newgate."

  "I'll wait outside in the carriage," she insisted desperately. "You can give the footman a brace of pistols, and the driver as well. And there are patrols all around the prison, aren't there? I'll be as safe there as I am here. Oh, Ross, I'll go mad if I have to wait here any longer! You must take me with you. Please. He'smy brother, isn't he?"

  Pelted by the flurry of anxious words, Ross gave her a hard stare, a small muscle jumping in his cheek. Sophia knew that he wanted to refuse her. However, he also understood
her anguished concern for her brother. ? "You swear that you will stay in the carriage," he demanded.

  "Yes!"

  His gaze held hers, and he muttered a curse. "Get your cloak."

  Afraid that he might change his mind, she obeyed with alacrity. "What is your idea?" she asked.

  Ross shook his head, unwilling to explain. "I am still considering it. And I don't want to raise your hopes, for it will probably come to naught."

  As a temporary lodging for those awaiting trial or execution, Newgate was often called the stone jug. Anyone who had ever visited or been incarcerated in the place swore that hell itself could not be more wretched. The ancient walls echoed with the constant howls and jeers of prisoners chained like animals in their cells. No furniture or comforts of any kind were allowed in the open wards or solitary cells. The gaolers, who were supposed to maintain order, were often corrupt, cruel, mentally unbalanced, or some combination of the three. Once, after depositing a condemned man in Newgate, Eddie Sayer had returned to Bow Street with the comment that the gaolers alarmed him more than the prisoners.

  Although the prisoners suffered mightily in the bitter cold of winter, it was nothing compared to the unholy stench that accumulated in the hot summer days. Armies of cockroaches scurried across the floor as Ross bade the head gaoler to take him to Nick Gentry's cell. It was located in the heart of the prison and nicknamed the "devil's closet," from which there was no escape.

  As they proceeded through one of the twisted mazes, lice crackled underfoot and squeaking rats fled from the approach of heavy boots. Distant cries of misery rose from the cells on the lower floors. It unnerved Ross to think that he had allowed his wife to wait in a carriage just outside, and he sorely regretted his decision to bring her here. He comforted himself with the knowledge that she was in the company of an armed footman, a driver, and two runners bearing cutlasses and pistols.

  "That Gentry, 'e's a quiet one," Eldridge, the head gaoler, commented. An enormous, stocky individual with bulbous features, he reeked almost as badly as those who were incarcerated. The top of his head was bald, but long, greasy strands trailed from the sides of his scalp and fluttered down his back. Eldridge was one of the rare prison-keepers who appeared to enjoy his job. Perhaps that was because he made a nice profit each week by selling his accounts of prisoners' experiences within Newgate, including the final confessions of the condemned, to London newspapers. No doubt he would make a pretty penny with his tales of the infamous Nick Gentry.