That kiss between them had irked him too. Not that they’d shared a kiss, but that he hadn’t taken the time to do so properly. He’d pressed her against a grimy brick wall when she was a woman who deserved to be pleasured on velvet cushions.
Good Lord, what drivel. Perhaps it was best to keep his distance from Sophia Ruthven if she inspired such nonsense.
He was here for one reason. Liddy. Recalling that Sophia had found his sister’s journal under a mattress, he crossed to the bed and lifted the sheets to gaze underneath.
“I’ve already searched under there,” Sophia informed him in a quieter voice, “but I believe there’s something atop this wardrobe.”
Grey stepped over to the tall furniture piece and spotted what looked like a book. The volume was far back, almost against the wall. He reached up, grazing his fingertips along the edge of the spine. “Is there something to nudge it forward?” He scanned the room, but there wasn’t even a poker near the grate.
“A hanger?” Sophia approached and opened the wardrobe door, pushing him out of the way. “There are only hooks and shelves.”
“Then you’ll have to do.” Considering the distance from her waist to her toes, the lady had deliciously long legs. One small heave and she’d be more than able to grasp the book. He bent his knees, threaded his fingers together, and offered her his joined palms.
“What exactly do you have in mind?” She hitched her hands up her hips.
Plenty. But now was no time to regale Sophia with the sorts of thoughts she inspired.
“Have you never been given a leg up onto a horse?”
“I don’t like horses,” she insisted, crossing her arms. “Or, rather, they don’t like me.”
“Then you have that in common with Liddy. Now, if you would, put your foot in my hands.”
She eyed him skeptically, as if she didn’t trust that he’d merely heave her up and not try to chuck her out the window.
“I’m too heavy.”
“Let me be the judge of that.” Grey liked all women, every shape and shade and disposition. Sophia was long and curvaceous in every place a man could desire, a woman of substance, but he had no doubt she’d fit perfectly in his hands.
Tentatively, she placed the flat of her boot onto his palms, braced her hands on the wardrobe and gazed into his eyes. When she offered him a tiny nod, he crouched deeper and lifted her.
“I’ve got it.” The moment she uttered the words of victory, she tipped left, one hand braced on his shoulder, her hip plastered against the side of his face.
Grey gripped her lower legs to keep her from dropping too quickly, and she slid down, her lavender-scented curves soft and warm against the hard edges of his body. When her backside rested against his forearm and her feet touched the ground, she braced her hands on his shoulders.
“You should let go of me now.”
“Yes.” But letting her go was the last thing on his mind. The press of her body felt good. Right. In all his heated, hungry encounters with women, he’d lost this. The tantalizing thrill of simply holding a woman near. Especially one he wanted, yet who was so far out of his reach.
Reluctantly, he released her, but he kept one hand at her waist. She allowed the contact awhile, let the heat of her body seep into his palm, then she pressed a hand to his chest and pushed.
“I’ll make you untidy.” She lifted the dusty book between them, and Grey’s nose began to tickle. “This volume has been up there awhile.”
“Not Liddy’s, then.” He’d suspected it wouldn’t be. Why leave clues behind if her objective was to elope with Holden to Scotland? That, he’d decided on the long train ride to Cambridge, was the likeliest explanation for their journey north. “What is it?” he asked Sophia, who’d opened the book to the title page and frowned as she skimmed her finger across the words printed there.
“An autobiography of some sort. The title says it’s about a flea. A child’s book, perhaps.” The moment she began turning pages to read the book’s content, Grey lunged for the volume and plucked it from her hands.
“Not a child’s book.” Grey drew back and tossed the book on top of the wardrobe, returning it to its dusty hiding place. “And not a book you’d find appropriate.”
Sophia balled her hands into fists and let out a little growl of frustration. “For a man who revels in doing precisely as he pleases, you seem very determined to manage me, Lord Winship.” She stomped toward the wardrobe and reached for the book. Apparently, the woman was too stubborn to realize she hadn’t sprouted any inches in the last few minutes.
In fact, all she managed to do was arouse him as she stretched and grunted and wiggled her backside, trying to get higher on the toes of her boots.
He planted himself behind her and drew on his meager supply of self-restraint to keep his hands to himself. Softly, he told her, “You can’t reach the book, and it is not the sort a proper lady would read.” At least, not when anyone was looking.
She guffawed derisively and glanced at him over her shoulder. “What would you know about proper ladies?”
“Fair point.” Grey grinned. “But knowing you as I do—”
“You don’t know me at all, my lord.”
“I allowed you that claim a few days ago. Not anymore.” He dropped his gaze to her mouth. Sinfully soft, achingly sweet. He knew those lips now, just as surely as he’d sensed all of Sophia’s hidden passion in their kiss. “You wouldn’t approve of the book’s content.”
Whirling on him, she pushed at his chest to create distance between them. “I assure you my prudery does not extend to shying from a flea’s biography.” She swiped a finger across her cheek to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear and unwittingly deposited a smudge of dust.
Seeing her mussed made him imagine her completely unbound, unfettered by laces and stays. What a glorious sight she’d be—Sophia Ruthven, free of all her starch and propriety. Glowing, as she was now, setting free all the fire he’d tasted in her kiss.
He’d never wanted to provoke a woman more, never wanted to devote his days and nights to mining one woman’s passion.
“It’s pornography, Sophia.” When her mouth opened in shock, he reached for her. Just the lightest touch of his fingertips at the edge of her jaw. “A very naughty series of stories, seen through the eyes of an extremely hard-to-shock flea.” Lifting his thumb, he swiped at the smudge of dirt on her cheek. But having done his bit of chivalry for the day, he wanted more.
And none of what he wanted was chivalrous.
“You’ve read it?” she queried in a breathy whisper.
“No,” he whispered back. “I don’t require erotic stories to fuel my imagination. It’s quite vivid enough on its own.” He lowered his hand as he spoke the words, more instinct than intent, straying from her jaw. He drew his hand down her body, dipping in at her narrow waist to find the generous camber of her backside. Despite the flint in her gaze, Sophia’s body possessed no hard edges, and he craved the time to explore every curve.
Her breath hitched as her hands came up to rest on his chest. Warm, soft, they eased the weight of worry that had been pressing down on him for days. When her body swayed toward his, Grey’s blood heated, rioting through his veins.
A bed stood inches away, and the woman in his arms was clever and luscious. A lady who upended every expectation he had of her. But he held back. He didn’t want to rush with Sophia.
The bedroom door creaked open, and they sprang away from each other.
“I knew there was something amiss about you, Miss Breedlove. And you, sir. Be off with the both of you.” She pointed toward the stairwell. “Now, if you please. Whatever sin you wish to get up to, it won’t be under my roof.”
Grey bit back a chuckle, dipped his head in agreement, and headed downstairs. Midway down, he turned back. Sophia stopped on the top and cast a gaze back at Mrs. Greenlow.
“The young lady who stayed in this room. Do you know where she was going?”
The older lady crosse
d her arms and glared at Sophia, then spared a glower for Grey. “Said she was engaged to marry. That and nothing more while she stopped here. The young miss claimed to be waiting on her wedding day.”
“Thank you,” Sophia said earnestly.
Mrs. Greenlow was having none of it. “Be gone with you. I never wish to lay eyes on the pair of you again.”
Sophia followed Grey outside. A moment later, the front door slammed shut behind them. Dusk had fallen over the fields adjacent to Mrs. Greenlow’s cottage, and a few lights twinkled from the direction of the university.
“I’m sorry,” Sophia said from the edge of the carriageway, head tipped down in defeat.
“We’ve nothing to be sorry for, despite what Mrs. Greenlow thinks.” Grey tried for a smile, but his face felt as tense as the rest of his body. “We both came to Cambridge and have nothing to show for it but a scolding from a lodging house owner.”
“Not nothing.” Sophia approached, her lower lip caught between her teeth. She wrapped her arms around her body and scuffed the toe of her boot against the ground. “I believe I saw your sister.”
“When? Where?” He reached for her, gripped her upper arms too hard and instantly loosened his hold.
“There was a young lady departing when I arrived, standing out here. A carriage appeared with a man inside, but I’m not certain it was Holden.” Her mouth trembled, and she lowered her head as if she didn’t wish him to see the tremor. “And then she was gone. I couldn’t stop her. I’m sorry.”
He wrapped an arm around her, then the other, drawing her into an embrace.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” he reassured, speaking softly near her ear. “I was too late to catch a glimpse of her. How did she look?” He told himself that if he could just see Liddy, know she was all right, he’d wish her and Holden well. In fact, he’d convince the rotter to marry his sister properly, to ask for her hand and marry her in a church. All the trappings of wedlock Grey could never imagine for himself. His father fostered elevated notions of Phyllida’s marital prospects, hoping to see her become a duchess or countess. The Holdens, upper-class gentry at best, would not go over well with Lord Stanhope, but Grey would convince him.
“Well.” Tipping back her head, Sophia gazed up at him. “She looked well. Not unhappy or even fretful, but I can’t be sure it was Lady Phyllida. If it was, where do you think she’s gone now?”
“I don’t know. Headed to Scotland, I expect. My father would never give his consent for Holden to marry her. They’re a family with no titles and little wealth.” Grey stroked his hand up and down Sophia’s back. The motion, meant to soothe her, settled his nerves too. Holding her, attempting to give comfort, held his own demons at bay. “She told Mrs. Greenlow she planned to marry. I should wire Longcross and let my cousin know that much at least.”
“Longcross?” Sophia wriggled out of his embrace but clutched excitedly at the lapel of his coat. “That’s the name the young lady used in the lodging house register.”
“Then it was Liddy.” A tickle started in the middle of his belly and worked its way up until laughter bubbled in his throat. “And she looked well? She’s all right.”
Sophia grinned too. Her eyes danced with the shared giddiness of relief, but there were signs of the same exhaustion he felt too.
“Come with me.” Grey reached for her hand and gently pulled her along as he started up the village’s main road.
“Where?”
“I owe you a pint, Sophia Ruthven.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Our conversation skimmed the surface—civility and niceties. Thus, I dove deeper. Below the surface, where one most often finds the truth.”
—CASEBOOK OF EUPHEMIA BREEDLOVE, LADY DETECTIVE
Accompanying a scoundrel to a public house was highly improper.
The worst part of knowing etiquette was that Sophia couldn’t claim ignorance when she broke the rules. Between her father’s books and her mama’s lessons, she knew the guidelines of propriety so well they might as well have been tattooed on her skin.
Though, of course, tattoos were improper too.
With Grey, she’d gone beyond breaking a few rules, and he seemed to enjoy every minute.
Sophia knew as much the moment Grey escorted her into the Eagle and Stag, strutting into the Grantchester establishment as if he owned every square inch. The proprietor even seemed to know him, waving eagerly. Then an older woman sweetened the publican’s grin by urging them to take a table near the freshly stoked fire to stave off the evening’s chill.
Never having been to a public house, including the modest one in her Hertfordshire village, Sophia took in the room with a wide-eyed gape, memorizing details so that she could use them in her stories. Effie Breedlove did much of her best musing over clues while sitting in her local pub.
“Ale?” a barmaid asked, and Sophia nodded. She wasn’t sure what else might be on offer at the Eagle and Stag.
“They promised a beef stew if I returned. Shall we have some?” Grey stood too near as he bent to see Sophia into her chair. His breath warmed the back of her neck, the shell of her ear. He had a habit of nearness, of touching her too freely and longer than she should have allowed.
She had a terrible habit of letting him get away with such liberties.
“Sounds excellent.” Her stomach concurred, judging by the low growl rumbling up from her belly.
The ale came first, a pale hazy brew served more generously than any beverage Sophia had ever considered sipping in her life. Grey lifted his pint glass immediately for a chug, clearly savoring the flavor and sating a hearty thirst. The tall vessel was half empty by the time he sat it on the scarred wood again.
Sophia took a deep breath and lifted her glass to her lips, tentatively sipping the first dram. And winced. The liquid was warm and unbearably bitter. She covered her mouth to keep from choking, setting the beer away from her with such haste an amber wave sloshed over the edge.
“I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely, reaching down to search her reticule for a handkerchief. The bitterness coated her tongue, soured in her throat.
“Not a fan of ale, I see.” He removed a pristine square of cloth from his waistcoat pocket and began sopping up the ale. “And stop apologizing.” Lifting his gaze, he pinned her with a steel-gray stare. “You’ve been nothing but helpful to me, and I’ve yet to repay you.”
“I was taught to apologize when I made a mess.” Sophia swallowed, wishing she could taste anything but beer.
“You only call this a mess because you’ve never visited my townhouse on a Friday evening.” Grey chuckled. “So apologizing has become a habit, has it? Drilled in by a tyrannical governess or your parents?”
“By my father.” Sophia couldn’t recall a moment of her childhood that hadn’t been intended to please the great Leopold Ruthven.
“I’ll bet I could break you of the habit,” Grey teased. He settled back until he tipped his chair. Crossing his arms, he revealed the bulky curve of muscle in his upper bicep. So bulky that the seams of his dark coat looked as though they might give up. He tipped his head as he assessed her, studying her so intently she could feel his gaze like a wisp of stray hair she itched to swipe from her skin. Slamming his front two chair legs onto the floor, he dropped forward, elbows braced on the table. “Perhaps I should kiss you every time you apologize.”
“You think kissing would cure me?” She hadn’t meant the words as tease, or to infuse her tone with a husky timbre. But now that the question was out, she wanted his answer.
He held her gaze, his mouth tipping into a heart-stopping grin. “Kissing you, Sophia, might just cure me.”
The eagerness in his eyes warmed the gray to molten silver. Sophia’s breath caught in her throat.
“Ale not to your liking, miss?” The barmaid placed two heaping bowls of stew on the table, then a cutting board with still-warm bread. “How about a cider? The missus makes it herself.”
“Yes, thank you.” Anything to
wash away the taste of the beer and distract her from the steady pull of his gaze. A moment later the girl returned with a tall mug containing a beverage that smelled of apples and tasted just as sweet.
“Better?” Grey queried as he tore off a piece of bread and placed it near her bowl.
“Delicious.” She took another gulp, and another.
“Slow down,” Grey warned. “The cider’s sweetness covers its potency. A bit like you.”
Sophia quirked a brow, unsure whether he meant to compliment or tease.
He was right about the cider. The brew was already having an effect—a pleasant fizz in her chest, warmth in her bones, as if the liquor was heating her from the inside out.
Grey took his own pint in hand and lifted the glass to his lips. His eyes had shuttered. He’d returned to being a cocksure rogue, winking at her across the table when he caught her staring.
She longed for the bravado to fall away again, to get a glimpse of the man behind the actor’s practiced mien.
“How about a question per sip?” Sophia asked before he could take a swig. She had nothing but questions, and the cider, the setting, the look in Grey’s eyes all made them feel urgent.
“Go on.” He narrowed his gaze before tipping a grin at her over the rim. “Ask your question. I’m thirsty.”
“Why don’t you want to be Lord Winship?”
He set his glass down with a thunk. “Because the title was never meant for me. My older brother was the heir.” Swiping up his glass again, he swallowed a long dram. “He would have been better at fulfilling the duties of the title.” He grinned before drawing a finger across his lips. “I will fail, as I often do. As I failed him.”
Sophia’s breath whooshed out on a sharp exhale. “I’m sorry, Grey.”
“You’re apologizing again,” he said in a playful tone that belied his confessions about his brother’s death and his own fears. Leaning back in his chair, he stretched out his legs until his boots slid next to hers. “Shall we attempt the kissing cure?”
A Study in Scoundrels Page 11