A Study in Scoundrels

by Christy Carlyle

  “She’s determined to challenge him at the Westby masquerade ball,” Becca added. “If we can’t dissuade her, Alistair must be told.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. Grey didn’t look forward to informing his cousin of the debacle either. The man was always more eager to condemn than sympathize. “If Liddy plans to make a scene, he must be forewarned.”

  “She says Lord Fennston will send her away to a nunnery,” Clive protested. “I won’t allow that.”

  “And will your father allow you to marry a young lady who’s carrying another man’s child?” Becca shot back. “Being an earl’s daughter won’t atone for that sort of scandal.”

  “If we marry soon, no one need ever know.”

  A drumbeat began pounding behind Grey’s eyes. The quest to find Liddy had derailed his own life, but the pursuit had been a simple and singular one. A narrow tunnel, with his sister safe and well and home at Longcross at the end of his efforts. Now it seemed that finding her unraveled a single knot only to reveal a dozen more.

  He glanced at Sophia.

  She tugged at the edge of her lip with her teeth. Light flickered behind her eyes, as if that cunning mind of hers was churning.

  “What do you think we should do?” His question drew everyone’s gaze to Sophia.

  “I favor honesty in all undertakings.” She set her teacup aside and stood, facing Grey. “But surely your family should decide these matters.”

  “I want your opinion.”

  “Very well.” She nodded at Becca, who returned a tight grin. “Persuading Lady Phyllida to return home seems a fine idea. But most of all, I hope she’ll be convinced to cease her pursuit of Lord Westby. Despite his title, he’s no gentleman. The man is”—she gazed guiltily into Grey’s eyes—“a scoundrel.”

  She spoke of Westby, but the sentiments struck with the precision of a prize fighter’s blows. A fist to the gut, all accomplished with five softly spoken words.

  He knew what he was. He’d spent years celebrating his dissipation. But he’d been different with Sophia. Held back when he wanted to take her, refrained when she looked at him with fire in her eyes.

  Her words were a reminder of who he was. Of how she’d always see him. Dishonorable. Not a gentleman. Just a scoundrel.

  The room had fallen silent as the others watched him, waiting for him to scoff or crumble.

  His father’s voice played in his head. “Love is a snare, boy. A tempting trap. Take my advice, and never allow yourself to be caught in its web.”

  But this wasn’t love. This was lust. Sophia’s compelling beauty and repressed sensuality presented an enticing challenge. Nothing more. The woman had an odd calming effect on his overwrought nature, but so did liquor, if he drank enough of it.

  He did not love Sophia Ruthven. She represented everything he wished to avoid. Prudery. Propriety. Virginal innocence.

  Half the times he’d touched her, she’d retreated. Perhaps whatever glimpses he’d seen of her passion would always be constrained by her father’s rules.

  She looked at him and saw a bounder. No better than Westby. Perhaps she was right. His and Westby’s piles of sins would stack up to the sky. But on one certainty he would never waver. He was not and never would be an honorable man. Honorable men lost their lives for fools like him.

  Twisting on his heel, he turned his back on all of them. Strode from the drawing room as they shouted his name. Kept going until he’d passed through the front door, crossed the carriage drive, and felt his boot heels sink into the cushion of lawn on the west side of the house.

  He needed to think. To escape the scents of lavender and Longcross and that disappointed shadow in Sophia’s eyes.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sophia sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes, uncertain if a sound had woken her or the racing thoughts she’d sifted for hours before falling asleep.

  A few embers still burned in the fireplace across the room, giving off an intermittent glow, but the spacious suite had grown cold. She waited, listening for any repetition of whatever noise might have broken through her fitful sleep. Only the normal creaks and groans of the enormous house replied.

  Edging back against the headboard, she pulled the counterpane up to her chin and surveyed the bedroom suite a Stanhope maid had led her to once it became clear Grey wouldn’t return after storming from the drawing room.

  The jade silk wallpaper shimmered in the faint firelight, not to be undone by the excessive application of gilt on furniture edges, drawer knobs, and the mermaids carved into the fireplace mantle. Everything about Longcross announced the family’s wealth and love of comfort. She’d encountered no unpolished or cushionless surfaces.

  For all the apprehension Grey expressed about coming to this place, the house reminded Sophia of him. There was a sultry sort of unapologetic beauty about every inch of the estate. Not that she’d explored very far. After being installed in her room and hanging her single change of clothes in the suite’s connecting dressing room, she’d taken up the pages of her novel. Effie had discovered another clue, the one that would eventually lead her to solve the mystery. Sophia had reviewed old words, made a few changes, but had been unable to write anything new.

  Concentrating on writing proved impossible when Grey’s wounded expression haunted her.

  She hadn’t meant to injure him. Only to speak the truth about Westby. Too late, she realized the words cut both ways.

  Hours ago they’d been kissing in a carriage. Now she suspected he wanted nothing so much as to find her gone from his home whenever he decided to return. She planned to leave on the first morning train if she could find a coachman willing to transport her to the station.

  A voice sounded in the silence, and Sophia snapped her gaze toward the door.

  “Please.” The single word rang clear. A man’s voice, deep but faint, as if echoing from many rooms away. Then louder. “Someone, please.”

  Slipping from bed, Sophia grabbed the heavy brocade dressing gown a maid had provided after fetching buckets of warm water for her bath. She eased the bedroom door latch gently, trying not to make a sound.

  Gaslight sconces lined the dark wood-paneled hall. They’d been turned low but seemed bright after the darkness of her room.

  “Please,” the man repeated. A mournful, needy cry.

  Sophia moved toward the sound, tiptoeing past room after room until she reached a set of double doors at the end of the hall. She pressed her ear to the wood and heard movement, the creak of bedsprings and heavy breathing interspersed with the distinct sound of a man moaning, quietly, miserably, muttering to himself.

  If there were a bell pull nearby, she would have given it a tug. As it was, she detected no other movement in the rooms nearby.

  “May I help?” she asked quietly as she slid the door open and stepped into the room.

  The sharp tang of antiseptic stung her nose. Mama. Her mother’s room had smelled of carbolic and roses, and she’d tiptoed tentatively toward her bed as a child much as she now approached the enormous canopied bedstead of Grey’s father. The cut of the man’s face, the shape of his jaw, left no doubt he was the Earl of Stanhope. The man Grey had been avoiding for years. He lay twisting his head back and forth on his pillows, continuing to groan. Beside him, an overturned glass lay on its side, and a bell had fallen to the floor below.

  “Lord Stanhope?”

  He opened his eyes and stared at her. “Jocelyn? Is that you?”

  “No, my lord. My name is Sophia.”

  “Another? Haven’t I sufficient nursemaids already?” He waved a gnarled hand toward the table near his bed. “Well, make yourself useful. Fetch me a drink, girl.”

  She was beginning to get a subtle inkling about why coming home hadn’t appealed to Grey. But she complied with the earl’s command, tipping his glass aright and pouring water from a pitcher nearby.

  When she lifted the glass to his lips, he clasped her wrist in a painful squeeze. “Jocelyn? It is you, isn’t it?”

  Sop
hia shook her head, but he gripped her more tightly.

  “Oh, Jossie.” Despite the frailty writ in every line of the earl’s aged face, the man still possessed surprising strength. He yanked Sophia closer. “I’ve missed you almost enough to forget how much I hate you.”

  “Sophia, my lord.” She pushed at him with her elbow, sloshing water on him from the glass in her hand.

  He wailed as if he’d been doused with acid, releasing her wrist and flailing his arms. Fists striking out blindly, he landed a blow on her cheek, and Sophia reeled back. After stumbling to catch her balance, she dropped the water glass, reaching out uselessly as it slammed onto an uncarpeted patch of marble tile and shattered in a watery mess.

  Behind her, the room’s doors burst open, cracking against the walls like gunshots.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Grey loomed between the open doors, wearing a half-buttoned shirt, black trousers, and a ferocious scowl.

  “There he is, son of mine.” Oddly, Grey’s shout settled his father, who immediately stopped striking the air and reclined quietly against his pillows.

  “Yes, Father,” Grey said, tempering his tone. “I’ll see you again tomorrow. Rest now.”

  “I . . . ” Sophia tried to speak and found her throat burning, her voice raspy and raw. The burning spread to the corners of her eyes, but she fought the tears. She never allowed herself to cry. “I heard a noise and thought I could help him.”

  “You’re not here to help him.”

  A maid appeared in the doorway behind Grey, an oil lamp in her hand.

  “I’ll get his nurse and a brush to clear away the glass, my lord,” the girl said before bolting down the hall.

  “I’m sorry.” The words tumbled out unbidden. Grey said nothing in reply, and she couldn’t blame him. Her apology was insufficient.

  Sophia cast a final glance at the earl, who gazed at her as if he’d never seen her before that moment. Two heavy footsteps sounded from the doorway, and she turned as Grey approached, his boot heels crunching over shattered glass. He kept toward her, eyes grim, mouth a slashed line, until his chest brushed hers.

  Without a word, he reached down and lifted her in his arms.

  Squirming against him, Sophia insisted, “I can walk on my own, thank you very much.”

  “In bare feet? Over glass? You’re not nearly as sensible as you think you are, Sophia.” He wouldn’t look at her, not into her eyes. But he skimmed his gaze down her body, where the dressing gown gaped, exposing her bare legs. “Save your outrage and propriety until I’ve gotten you out of this room.”

  With a little tsk of frustration, she hooked an arm around his neck and allowed him the chivalrous gesture.

  But, like a true scoundrel, Grey didn’t put her down when they reached the hallway. He continued on, forcing her attention to the friction between their bodies, the clean pine scent of his skin, the warm, insistent gust of his breath against her cheek. His hair was wet where it curled at his shirt collar. He’d recently bathed and that thought—water sluicing down his naked body—quickened her pulse.

  “Where are you taking me?” Her voice was smaller, breathier than she intended.

  “Where would you like me to take you, goddess?” His husky tone infused the words with another meaning. More scandalous offer than innocent query.

  “Back to the train station so that I can return to London.” Licking her lips, she stared at the patch of skin above his gaping shirt. Which did nothing to assist her with any logical thought.

  He smirked, a flash of white in the darkened hall. “So you intend to leave me?” All the while he kept on, striding toward a room past hers on the opposite side of the long hall. When he reached the threshold, he kicked the unlatched door open with his boot, stepped inside, kicked the door shut, and deposited her on a plush armless chair in front of a stoked fire.

  “This isn’t my room,” she protested. It was the single fact she could muster. All else was feeling—the humming in her veins, the pulse and throb in her body, ratcheting each moment she’d moved and shifted against Grey’s. She’d never anticipated this need that built to a fierce hunger. For one man’s nearness. For one man’s touch. For the taste of him on her tongue.

  “No,” he said, as he crossed the room to a low table. After filling a tumbler with amber liquid, he tipped back the whole in a single swallow. “This is my room.” He lifted a finger in the air. “That’s a lie. This is a guest room. I haven’t set foot in my old room in years.” Refilling his glass and another, he caught both vessels between his fingers and approached, offering her one. “Shall we start, from this moment, vowing to tell each other the truth?”

  “I always tell the truth.” Sophia took the glass, hoping a swig of whatever was inside might steady her nerves. Just one sip. Not enough to melt her bones and turn her into a wanton fool, as she’d been at the Eagle and Stag. The first sip seared her tongue but curled with a comforting warmth into her belly.

  “Yes, of course you do.” He smirked before tipping back his liquor. “Why are you here?” Hooking a wingback with his boot, he slid the chair near hers and settled against the velvet.

  “You carried me.” And the entire side of her body that had been pressed to his was still warm.

  “At Longcross, Sophia. Tell me why you came to Derbyshire.” He leaned forward in his chair, elbows balanced on his knees. There was no mockery in his expression. If anything, he cast her the most earnest gaze she’d ever seen in his stormy gray eyes.

  “I received your telegram.” A simple truth to stall while she sorted and sifted. There had to be a series of rational decisions that led her from her from meeting with Ogilvy to Leicestershire to visit Clary, and now here, to this fraught moment, sitting across from a man who had the irritating power to make her blood sizzle in her veins. Whose scent and smile made her struggle to think at all.

  “So you’ve said.” His voice had lowered to a gentle purr. Not a hint of his usual teasing tone. None of his flirtatious arrogance. He sounded raw. “But why come all the way from London?”

  Swallowing, she opened her mouth to explain that she’d come north to see Clary.

  “Truth, Sophia. Only truth between us tonight.”

  “I wanted to see you again.” The admission caused her heart to lurch in her chest as if the organ was breaking free of its moorings. Casting a gaze toward his bed, she considered lunging for a blanket to cover herself. She felt bare, stripped naked before him.

  When his beautiful lips tipped in a soft grin, she realized her moment of blurted frankness was precisely what he wanted.

  “Yes,” he said on an exhale. “I missed you too, sweetheart.”

  Sophia bristled. “We were apart for a day. I never said I missed you.” Scooting to the edge of her chair, she prepared to bolt from the room if he demanded more. She’d already admitted too much. Pulling the edges of her dressing gown together, she wrapped the brocade around her like a shield.

  “But you did miss me.” Grey reached between the slit in the fabric and laid his palm on her knee. “Maybe it’s not an honorable man you need at all.”

  Ridiculous. All she’d ever wanted in life was honor and honesty and a simple happily ever after. Sophia twisted her head to deny his brazen claim, and the single ribbon tying her hair back came loose. She reached up to gather the mess of haphazard waves, and Grey touched her arm.

  “Please don’t.” He stroked his fingers along her skin, sifting through the pile of fallen tresses. “Let me see you.”

  What if she gave him what he asked? Not simply let down her hair, but pulled down her walls, allowing him to see every inch of her, inside and out. Every worry and wayward thought. Every fear.

  The prospect terrified her. She’d never considered exposing herself to any man.

  For a fleeting moment, Derringham had tempted her, and that had ended in bruises and shame.

  Grey would offer her nothing. She’d be a conquest to add to his pile.

  Why didn’
t that knowledge stop her from wanting him? Why didn’t reason stem the longing to know all his secrets, the yearning to see every inch of his body? Perhaps she wasn’t the proper faultless woman she’d always believed herself to be. Maybe she no longer wished to abide by every rule.

  “You first,” she said softly.

  He didn’t react, and a part of her hoped he hadn’t heard. That they could part from each other without risking anything more.

  But then his mouth curved. He’d heard, and he reached up with both hands to grip the collar of his open shirt. He pulled the whole over his head, leaving his unruly waves of cinnamon hair even more disheveled.

  Firelight lit his bare chest, highlighting every hard and smooth place she wished to touch.

  “Your turn, sweetheart.” He reached for the edge of her dressing gown and tugged lightly. Eager glints sparked in his slate gaze.

  Underneath, she wore only a sheer chemise. But she’d been the one to start this shedding of clothing and guises. Standing to untangle herself from the heavy fabric, she unbuttoned two fastenings over her breasts and peeled the edges back, letting the gown pool at her feet.

  “Bloody hell, Sophia.” Grey murmured the curse, and she immediately dipped to retrieve the garment and cover herself. He stopped her, kicking the pile away. Reaching out, he curled his hand around her hip, stroking across her belly with his other hand. “It wasn’t a complaint, sweet. You took me by surprise.” His fingertips brushed the underside of her breasts. “You’re exquisite.”

  Despite their agreement to speak only truth, she didn’t trust his effusive praise. But she sensed the eagerness in his touch and leaned forward to urge his hand higher.

  “You take my breath away.” He did sound breathless as he husked out each word.

  His long, elegant fingers closed over her breast, and she moaned from the sudden pleasure of his heat against her body. Her response emboldened him. He wrapped an arm around her hips and drew her close. Gazing up at her, he allowed his hands to roam, stroking the backs of her calves, dipping into the dent at the back of her knees, skimming up her thighs, dragging her chemise higher and higher.