A struggle ensued, grunts and movement, then the thud of a body hitting a solid piece of furniture. The desk?
“Where is she, Westby?”
“I have . . . no”—the earl’s voice emerged on a breathless choke, as if something, or someone, was cutting off his air—“idea.”
“In that case, letting you live seems far too generous.”
Sophia fumbled with the drapery, trying to disentangle herself. Westby deserved a walloping, but Mr. Grey would suffer far more if he assaulted a powerful aristocrat.
“Mr. Grey!” she shouted and finally found an opening in the thick fall of velvet fabric.
Both men froze when she emerged. Westby lay atop his desk, face pink with exertion, as Jasper Grey leaned over him, a muscled forearm braced across the earl’s throat.
Mr. Grey was just as she recalled him, tall and lean, with tumbling chestnut hair and striking gray eyes, as cool as a January breeze.
“Miss Ruthven?” The infamous actor squinted at her. “What the hell are you doing in this bastard’s study?” He scowled down at the earl, then straightened and faced her. “I had no idea you possessed such wretched judgement, Sophia.”
“And I had no idea murder came so easily to you, Mr. Grey.”
They both cast a glance at the Earl of Westby, who’d sat up and begun clawing at his necktie to loosen its folds.
“There, you see. He’s alive. I’m not quite a murderer yet.”
“What in heaven’s name is going on?” The earl’s sister skidded to a halt in the study doorway. “The housemaid nearly fainted.”
Sophia scooted into the recess of the bay window, hoping to escape notice.
After an assessing glance at her brother, Lady Vivian turned her gaze on Mr. Grey, a grin curving her lips. “Winship,” she purred as she approached, “why are you in such a state? Come and have tea with us to soothe your nerves. We’ve missed your company at Westby House.”
This Sophia remembered about Jasper Grey too. The man had a way with women. Not only did they buzz about him, but he seemed to exude a calming affect too. On the day she’d met him, he’d turned an angry woman into a fawning, cooing fool with a few sweet words. The second time she’d seen him, as lead actor in one of her brother’s plays, his effect had been even more potent. Ladies in the audience swooned and the clamor to visit him backstage ended with one young woman crying over her trampled hat.
Now Lady Vivian wore the same look other ladies did around him—a sort of blissful, awestruck hunger.
“Leave us, Viv,” the earl commanded in a rusty bark. “Close the door behind you.”
She shot her brother a look of concern and offered their visitor another simpering grin before doing as Westby instructed.
When Sophia emerged from the window nook, Mr. Grey lifted his arm, and Westby shrunk back as if to avoid a blow.
“Let me take you out of here.” Mr. Grey crooked his fingers, bidding her to come toward him.
“You,” the earl began, scooting a safe distance away before shoving a finger in the air toward Mr. Grey, “get out of my house. Immediately.” He turned his attention toward Sophia, skimming her face before gaping at her breasts. “Do return another time for your kiss.”
“I—” Offense and protest perched on the tip of her tongue, but Grey spoke over her.
“Don’t speak to her, Westby.” He extended his hand as if he expected her to take it. As if he expected her to allow him to make her decisions.
“I will choose when to depart, Mr. Grey.” She’d had enough of high-handed men for one day. Never mind that she shouldn’t have been snooping in the earl’s study in the first place.
“The man is a wretch.” He flicked his gaze toward Westby. “An utter scoundrel. A certifiable scalawag.”
“I”—the aristocrat cleared his throat—“am standing right here.”
“And you cannot deny a single claim.”
The earl frowned but offered no rebuttal. “What’s become of you, man? A few years on the stage, and you lose all sense? If you were anyone else, you’d be clapped in irons for assaulting me.” He rubbed a hand across his jaw where an abrasion bloomed in shades of red and blue. “We were friends once.”
“We were never friends, Westby. You’re an arrogant sod and have no respect for the fairer sex.”
The earl chortled. “Says the man who’s bedded half of London’s fairer sex.”
Sophia thought she spied a patch of pink on the high cut of Mr. Grey’s cheek, but the look he cast her was tinted with more pride than humility. Lifting his hand again, he petitioned her. “Come with me, Sophia. Please.”
“I can’t simply leave.” Sophia owed Westby nothing, but she couldn’t say the same for his sister. “Lady Vivian invited me. What shall I tell her?”
“Nothing,” Grey said quietly. “Returning to the drawing room will raise questions you won’t wish to answer.” He tipped his head toward the earl. “Westby will direct the housekeeper to say you fell ill and called a cab to take you home.”
“Will I?” Westby asked with arch haughtiness.
Mr. Grey cast him a hard stare, and the earl stomped across the rug. With a dramatic sigh, he yanked his study door open. “Anything to get you out of my house, Winship.”
Sophia didn’t take Mr. Grey’s offered hand, but she moved past him toward the door. For however long she remained in London before returning to the countryside, she suspected her days of receiving invitations from the aristocracy had just come to a crashing end.
“This isn’t the time for worrying about etiquette,” Grey said, close behind her, a hand heavy at her lower back as he guided her through the door. Once she was across the threshold, he turned back. “Not a word about Liddy to anyone, Westby. If you hear word of her whereabouts, wire me immediately.”
“You truly have no idea where your sister is?”
Sophia couldn’t detect any concern in the earl’s tone for the sister of a man he claimed had once been a friend.
“No.” Grey’s jaw tensed, his hands tightened to fists against his thighs. “But I will find her.” He spun away from Westby and started past Sophia.
For a moment she thought he’d storm out of Westby House without her. Then she felt his fingers, warm and insistent, tangling with hers as he reached for her. He paused in the hallway, waiting for her to respond.
She felt a tremor across his skin. His hands were shaking.
Sophia clasped her fingers around his and let him lead her quickly toward the front door.
CHAPTER THREE
God preserve him from fellow reprobates and gullible women.
Grey wasn’t sure which was worse—Westby’s cluelessness about his sister’s whereabouts or Sophia Ruthven’s susceptibility to the man’s dubious charms.
A faint blush stained her cheeks, and he suspected the color had more to do with embarrassment than how quickly he’d hustled her from the aristocrat’s townhouse.
That was the trouble with principled women. No matter how much they craved passion, peeling back their layers of starch inevitably led to guilt and regret. He preferred women who indulged their desires openly, freely. They were much less trouble and left him blissfully unfettered.
“I shouldn’t have departed without a proper leave-taking.” Sophia twisted a pair of kid leather gloves between her fingers. “Without even thanking Lady Vivian for the invitation.”
“Worry less about propriety and think of facing Viv’s circle of lady friends. What would they make of your interlude with Westby in his study?”
“You assume the worst, Mr. Grey.” When she turned to face him, the flush in her cheeks deepened to scarlet. “There’s no scandal here, I assure you.”
He wanted to believe her. In fact, he preferred to think he’d arrived too soon for Westby to do his worst. After all, Sophia Ruthven wasn’t the earl’s usual sort.
She was too prim, too proper, too watchful with her striking blue-green eyes. He couldn’t imagine her falling for Westby’s bru
tish style of seduction.
But Grey had imagined the lady. And in ways that would spread that fetching blush on her cheeks to the tips of her toes and the tips of her—No, best not to contemplate those. Needless to say, he’d thought of Sophia far too often since their first and only encounter months before. The same day her brother, playwright and now publishing magnate Kit Ruthven, warned Grey not to look at his sister, speak to her, or consider any sort of pursuit.
Unfortunately, the lady’s unique brand of beauty wasn’t easy to forget.
“Where may I deliver you?” Finding Phyllida had to be his priority. He wasn’t sure of his next steps, but a pretty distraction like Sophia Ruthven was one he couldn’t afford.
“You’re not delivering me anywhere, Mr. Grey. I can see to my own transport.” She scanned the far end of the street and offered him a curt “good day” when a hansom cab came into view.
As she began striding away, he fixed his gaze on her slim waist and shapely hips a moment before a faint inner voice scolded him for being a blighter. He’d insisted she leave Westby’s home out of a rogue sense of chivalry. The least he could do was see his friend’s sister off safely.
“My carriage is here,” he called to her. “At least let me take you wherever you wish to go.”
“Your carriage?” She turned and took in his family’s rarely used London conveyance, arching a brow as if urging him to confess that he’d stolen the polished brougham.
“My father’s carriage.”
A battle raged across her features. She glanced regretfully at the Westby townhouse and then, with a longing moue, toward the end of the street where the hansom cab had moved along. Finally, she relented and started toward Grey.
“Why did the earl and his sister call you Winship?”
“Because it’s one of my names.” A title he never wanted. A life he’d left behind.
She stopped in front of him and narrowed her gaze. “A role you’ve played?”
“A role I’d prefer not to play.” He waved off the groom, eager to assist Sophia into the carriage himself.
She rebuffed him, of course, climbing in on her own and wafting fetching scents in her wake. She smelled of innocence. Citrus and lavender and starch, everything clean and fresh. Scents that reminded him of Longcross.
“Shall I take you to the train station? I assume you’re returning to the countryside.” The notion of sending her away from cads like Westby and himself held enormous appeal. He already suspected Liddy had fallen under some seducer’s sway. Sophia Ruthven’s ruination was not a prospect he wished to ponder.
Well, he did. But certainly not with a bounder like Westby.
“Wrong again, Mr. Grey. Number six Bloomsbury Square, please. My brother and Ophelia decided they should have a London residence to be nearer the office and theater,” she explained as Grey settled himself across from her.
The recently wedded couple were a busy pair, juggling both the publishing enterprise Kit and his sisters had inherited from their father and Kit’s success as a playwright. Grey had been honored to be invited to their nuptials, even if it signaled the end of Kit’s accompanying him on rambles to pursue the city’s less savory entertainments.
“And have you come to reside in London too?”
Apparently, he revealed too much interest in his tone. One of her pale brows winged up.
“For the time being. My sister has departed for a ladies’ college in Leicestershire, Kit and Phee will soon embark on a honeymoon journey to France, and Mr. Adamson runs our family’s publishing office with remarkable efficiency. I hoped to make myself useful by arranging the new house while they’re away.” While she spoke of duty and usefulness, there wasn’t much enthusiasm in her tone. Grey allowed himself to imagine all the London distractions he could show her. If he had the time. If she was a different sort of woman, and he a better kind of man.
Grey liked the sound of her voice—strong and resonant. He liked her transparency best of all. Despite Sophia’s flawless façade, he could detect emotion in her voice, flushed cheeks, and striking eyes. The lady might think herself a paragon of propriety, but she was no good at hiding her feelings as others did.
As he’d been doing for years.
“Here.” She pulled a folded handkerchief from her coat.
“What’s that for?”
“You’re bleeding.” She nodded toward his scraped knuckles. He’d caught the sharp edge of the earl’s jaw, and one of the abrasions had begun to bleed.
“Nothing more than a scratch.” He stretched his fingers, then clenched them into a fist, trying not to wince at the sting. “But I do appreciate your concern, Sophia.” After offering her a genuine grin, he dropped his gaze to her lips, willing them to curve in reply.
“Not concern for you, Mr. Grey.” Her mouth did twitch up at the edge, but only for a fleeting moment. “I just didn’t wish to see you stain this fine upholstery.”
“My father’s coachman will be most grateful to you.”
He’d never met a woman like her. She worked so damn hard at being proper, though not as an affectation. Nothing about her indicated she was playing a role. The lady behaved as if flawless deportment mattered to her.
She sat as straight as he suspected anyone ever had atop the squabs of his father’s carriage. Not even the sway of the vehicle as the horses took a clattering turn across cobblestones dislodged her. With her slim gloved hands folded neatly in her lap, she pointed her perfectly squared chin out the window and avoided his gaze.
After being cloistered in the countryside all her life and raised on her father’s oppressive etiquette books, he suspected the lady was almost entirely composed of rules and propriety. And lush curves, berry-stained lips, and the prettiest eyes he’d ever seen.
Helen of Troy’s face might have launched a thousand ships, but Sophia possessed the poise of a woman who could lead the fleet herself and rout every enemy. Upon first meeting her less than a year before in her brother’s home, he’d dubbed her a “goddess,” and the appellation still suited.
Pert nose, pink Cupid’s-bow lips, thick sable lashes, honey-blonde hair that made him itch to run his fingers through every silken strand. He told himself he could find dozens of ladies in London sporting those charms. But none would have Sophia’s eyes. Clear blue, like a cloudless winter sky, but with green fire simmering beneath.
Beyond her face, there was only more to make a man’s mouth water—a long, slim figure softened by the flare of full hips and a gloriously plump bosom.
She flicked her gaze toward him, bristling at his scrutiny.
He didn’t understand why, but her extreme self-possession sparked an oddly protective urge.
“You needn’t worry, Sophia. No one will ever know I found you in Westby’s study.”
“I did nothing for which I am ashamed, Mr. Grey.” Tiny lines furrowed her brow.
“May I expect the same discretion regarding my sister?”
“Of course.” She let out a long breath. “Now that you know she isn’t at Westby House, what will you do?”
Grey scrubbed a hand across his face but resisted closing his eyes, even for a moment. He feared sleep, losing hours that could be spent searching for Phyllida. Exhaustion bore down, all the gnawing worry of the last few hours piling like bricks on his shoulders. “I will find her.” It was his only certainty.
“Where was she last seen?” Sophia leaned toward him, lush lips parted in curiosity, eyes wide. He couldn’t help but wonder if it was how she’d looked when offering herself to the earl.
Of all the men to pursue, why on earth had she chosen Westby?
“None of your concern.” His words emerged on a gruff volley, reverberating in the carriage’s confines. “It’s a family matter.”
“Of course.”
“Why the hell were you in Westby’s study?” He watched her porcelain skin for a telltale blush.
“I’ve done nothing shameful.” She met his gaze squarely, without a hint of guile, as i
f daring him to doubt her.
“So you’ve said. Twice.” Grey couldn’t hold back a grin. He liked dares from beautiful women. Unfortunately, long experience taught him exactly what it meant when a person protested too much.
“I was merely curious.” She captured the edge of her lower lip between her teeth, causing Grey to ache in places to which he had no time to attend.
“Curious?” he managed on a low rasp, desperate to know the nature of Sophia Ruthven’s curiosity. Wishing he had the time to satisfy the lady’s every inquisitive urge.
“The earl’s townhouse is beautifully appointed,” she insisted. “I wished to see some of the other rooms.”
Grey’s grin deepened until his cheeks ached. She was a terrible actress. Her eyelashes batted too much and her mouth trembled around the edges.
She narrowed her eyes into catlike slits. “If you must know, I passed the study door and was drawn by the scent of books.”
“Books?” Westby would be devastated to know his library was more of an enticement than his renowned carnal talents. “I didn’t know you liked reading anything other than your father’s endless volumes of etiquette.”
“How could you know anything about me, Mr. Grey? We’re barely acquainted.” Finally, a bit of that green fire. The color sparked in her eyes like emerald chips catching the light.
“And yet you jumped out from behind Westby’s curtain to keep me from throttling the man.” He frowned. “Wait. Was that for my benefit or his?”
“Excellent question. I like that you’re not sure of the answer.” She finally offered him a smile. An actual, genuine curve of her lips that matched a saucy glint in her sea-mist eyes. “Uncertainty will do you good.”
Unless he was very much mistaken, the lady had just flirted with him. He ought to know. Women flirted with him every day. Lots of women—each beautiful, talented, and wanton.
Oddly, none of them intrigued him like Sophia Ruthven.
A surge of victory shot through his veins, but it was short-lived. Just as his time with Sophia must be. The carriage began to slow as it turned into a grass-edged lane near Bloomsbury Square.
A Study in Scoundrels Page 3