Grey desired her. He’d never hidden that fact. But stomping into the water to retrieve waterlogged sheaves of her story wasn’t an act of lust.
He cared about her. But did he love her?
Pushing those distracting thoughts away, she returned to the bedroom portion of her suite. Kneeling before the fire, she examined the manuscript pages laid out on the rug nearby. Still damp but decidedly drier. All had begun to curl ’round the edges, but the ink had proven tenacious, despite a thorough wash in lake water and rain. She could read most of every page. The challenge would be putting them back in order, along with the few Grey had rescued.
Retrieving them was a perfect excuse to visit his room.
Sophia started toward the door and jumped when someone knocked on the other side. She held her breath and twisted the knob, expecting Grey to step through. Instead, the maid who’d helped Sophia remove her wet clothes peeked in.
“Some more clothing for you, miss. From Lady Fennston.” The young woman stepped inside, carrying a pile of folded fabric in one arm and several gowns draped over the other.
“Oh, I don’t think I’ll need all of those.” Judging by the multiple colors and styles, Lady Fennston expected her to stay at Longcross for some time. Sophia planned to leave on the next day’s train.
“No matter. Better to plan ahead than come up short.”
Sophia grinned and nodded as the girl continued sorting the dresses into the tall wardrobe. She was the efficient sort of servant Cate would appreciate.
“Shall I take you down to the dining room, miss?” the girl asked when she’d finished in the dressing room. “They’ll be ringing the gong soon, but you can wait in the red drawing room in the meantime.”
Since she didn’t know where either the dining or red room was, Sophia agreed and followed the young woman down the stairs. “How many drawing rooms are there at Longcross?”
“Three, though one is used as the countess’s private parlor.”
“And where is the countess?” Grey had never mentioned his mother. Even after the incident in his father’s bedroom, no one spoke openly of the earl or his wife. The house seemed full of secrets and mysteries to solve.
“I’ve never seen her, miss,” the maid whispered back. “She hasn’t lived at Longcross for all the while I’ve been in service.”
Sophia began to ask more, but the deep reverberating chime of the dinner gong echoed through the house, and the maid picked up her pace.
“Good luck, miss,” she said, depositing Sophia outside the door of a room wafting scents of roasted meat and Grey’s crisp woodsy cologne.
Sophia drew in a bolstering breath and started across the threshold.
“Mercy.” Grey murmured the single word of praise and froze as he stared at her, a small aperitif glass halfway to his lips. His gray eyes sparked with glints of silver as he drew his gaze down her body and back up again.
Sophia fought the urge to yank up her bodice.
Grey looked devastating in a spotless white vest and tie and ebony black suit. His eyes were those of a rogue, but he wore his suit like the most fashionable of aristocratic gentlemen.
At the end of the table, Lord Fennston stood and pointed to a chair across from his wife. “Miss Ruthven, if you please.”
Sophia started toward the chair he indicated, but Grey stepped close. His clean pine scent made her mouth water. “Sit next to me,” he said quietly as he offered his arm and led her toward the end of the table opposite Lord Fennston.
The two men had each claimed their sides, the baron at the head of the table, Grey at the other end. Liddy sat in the middle catty-corner from Lady Fennston, and Sophia took a chair across from hers, closest to Grey.
Lord Fennston grumbled something inaudible, then happily tucked in to his soup the moment a servant placed a steaming bowl in front of him.
Grey sipped his wine, flicking his gaze across Sophia’s face, her neck, her cleavage. She tasted her soup and licked a dribble off her lip. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Grey lick his lips too. Their gazes clashed and heat swept up her body.
“I never imagined I’d see either of you dry again after that downpour,” Becca said over the clink of silver spoons and crystal. “And I’m glad to see my dress suits you so . . . well, Miss Ruthven.”
Lady Phyllida stifled a chuckle, covering her mouth with a gloved hand as she cast a nervous glance toward Lord Fennston.
Sophia willed her cheeks not to flush.
“Your father is pleased to have you at Longcross, Winship.” The baron spoke the words without any ire or judgement, but Grey seemed to bristle at the sound of the man’s voice.
“Is he?” he said before swigging down more wine. “When I visited him this morning, Father barely recognized me.”
“He’s very forgetful,” Liddy put in quietly.
“Indeed,” Lord Fennston said with what sounded like genuine regret in his tone. “When do you plan to return to live at Longcross permanently?”
Grey chuckled and leaned back in his chair, bracing his hands on the table’s edge. “You know that’s never been my plan, Alistair.”
“But surely when Lord Stanhope . . . ” Lady Fennston’s voice trailed off, and she cast a regretful glance at Phyllida.
“What, Becca?” Grey drained his wine and gestured for a footman to refill his glass. “You thought I would go from reprobate to responsible earl over night? Dishonorable men don’t wake up honorable one day.” He caught Sophia’s gaze and watched her intently, waiting for her reaction. “Do they, Miss Ruthven?”
Sophia’s throat burned. A ringing, like an echo of the dinner gong, began thrumming in her head. She wanted to give him the answer he needed, find the words that would ease the misery in his eyes. Most of all, she wanted to touch him. He was tantalizingly close, yet everything she knew of propriety dictated she keep her hands to herself.
“Perhaps a man can change.” Lady Phyllida’s voice was soft and hesitant. Hopeful. Sophia suspected she was thinking of Lord Westby.
“Not in my experience,” Fennston said decidedly, welcoming the arrival of the second course by tucking his napkin behind his neck cloth. “A man’s nature is set from an early age, and his character often worsens with age.”
“That’s worrying,” Lady Fennston teased. “What character flaws shall you begin exhibiting in your dotage, Alistair?”
“Lucky for you, there is no chance of my character worsening.” The man tipped his head and cast his wife a mock-stern gaze over his spectacles. “I had the very good fortune of marrying a wife who inspires me to be a better man each day.” He lifted his glass and Lady Fennston raised her own for an impromptu toast.
Sophia couldn’t help but grin at the display of marital bliss. Not as effusive as her brother and his new wife, but one could live happily on the sort of contentment she glimpsed in the baron’s and baroness’s gazes as they beamed at each other.
“Well said.” Lady Phyllida lifted her glass and broke into a toothy smile.
Beside Sophia, Grey pressed two fingers to his temple as if his head had begun to thud as fiercely as hers.
“Speaking of marriage, Winship.” Fennston cast his gaze down the table. “You should consider pursuing that happy state for yourself.”
Grey grasped his wine glass at the same moment Sophia reached for her fork. Their hands collided and, for a scandalous moment, he clasped her fingers in his, stroking his thumb across her skin. His touch sent sparks of heat radiating up her arm, tingling in her veins. She wished they were anywhere but at a table in view of his sister and family.
Too quickly, he let her go, and no one else seemed to notice the exchange that left her quivering.
“Perhaps I should consider marriage,” Grey said, his voice taut.
Lady Fennston and Phyllida snapped their heads toward him. Sophia held her breath.
“It won’t be Miss Cathright; I promise you that, Alistair.”
Lord Fennston frowned and pushed his spectacles up
his nose. “Who?”
“Lady Stanhope chose her for Jasper, just before—” Midsentence, Lady Fennston fell silent.
“Ah,” the baron said, as if understanding had suddenly dawned. “Aunt Jocelyn was keen on arranging marriages for her children, wasn’t she? But you needn’t worry, Winship. None of them were ever legally binding. You have no contractual obligation to marry Miss Cathright.”
“Even if you wished to do so,” Lady Fennston added, “you’d have to find the lady first. Last I heard, she’d set off for America.”
“What a relief,” Grey said, raising his glass in a mock salute. “I wish her well.”
“So you should feel free to marry whomever you wish.” Lady Fennston cast a knowing glance in Sophia’s direction.
“Within reason, of course,” her husband added.
“I think everyone should be able to marry whomever they wish,” Liddy proclaimed. Leaning forward to meet the gaze of each of them at table one by one, she added earnestly. “And only ever for love.”
“There are other considerations, Phyllida.” Lady Fennston cast a wary glance at her husband before continuing. “Duty, responsibility, there are often practical reasons for making a match that will bloom into love with time.”
“Miss Ruthven, what do you think?” Liddy turned in her chair so that she was no longer facing Lady Fennston. “I should like to hear from a writer on this matter.”
The girl seemed to have a very high opinion of writers or at least an abiding belief that they’d always champion romantic love.
Queasiness began to brew in Sophia’s belly, and she slid a hand to her stomach. Everyone’s gaze was on her, pressing, waiting for a brilliant answer that would settle the impossible dispute. She was most aware of Grey, his nearness, his scent, his steady perusal as he waited for her to speak on the topic they’d once broached with each other over ale and cider.
“I think,” she started, gently patting at her stomach, hoping the soup she’d consumed would stay down, “if one is lucky enough to marry for love, one should. My brother did, and I’ve never seen him so happy.”
Grey smiled at that. Sophia caught the flash and looked into his eyes. Before their unexpected encounter in Lord Westby’s study, Kit had been the one thing they had in common. She knew their friendship mattered a great deal to both men.
“There. You see,” Liddy said triumphantly.
“But . . . ” Sophia wasn’t finished yet, and she wanted to finish before she did something unforgivable, like lose her supper at the dinner table. “There are other considerations too.” She thought of Ogilvy and her own practical reasons for responding to his ad. Perhaps no one understood the sensible reasons for marriage better than Timothy Ogilvy, with his list of requisite qualities for a bride.
“Such as?” Grey prompted. He waited, body tense, his gaze fixed on her face.
He wanted her list, her logical, practical reasons for choosing a husband. They’d seemed so unwavering when she’d clipped Ogilvy’s ad from the newspaper. Then Grey had come bursting into Westby’s study and into her life. He’d thrown pebbles at Kit and Ophelia’s new windows. Given her the most exquisite first kiss. Made love to her with such tenderness and passion, she couldn’t ever imagine another man’s hands on her body.
Now nothing was clear, except that her heart was in her throat, her belly was roiling, and she wanted to be in Grey’s arms.
He looked bereft, as if he needed her there too.
“Grey,” she managed, sliding her hand closer to his on the table.
He clasped her fingers, and his eyes widened. “You’re burning up.”
“I’m not feeling well.”
Lady Fennston dropped her napkin and rose from her chair. “We should get her upstairs. Have Blessing send for Dr. Keene.”
“I’ll take her up.” Grey’s voice carried just enough steel that no one questioned the appropriateness of his helping her from her chair.
“Be careful with her,” Liddy called, as if she thought Sophia a piece of delicate porcelain.
At the moment she felt more like a wrung-out rag.
Grey held her close as he led her toward the main hall. She swayed as they neared the stairs, and he turned as if he might sweep her into his arms.
“Don’t you dare pick me up again. I am quite capable of walking on my own.”
He braced his hand on her back as she started up the first step. “Perhaps I pick you up for my benefit as much as your own.” Leaning in, he added, “I’ll take any excuse to have you in my arms.”
“You should keep your distance in case I’m contagious.”
He hugged her closer. “I’ll take the risk.”
By the time they reached her room, Sophia wouldn’t have minded being in his arms. Her nausea was waning, but the pounding in her head had built to a dizzying crescendo. As soon as he opened the door, she beelined for the bed, crumpling onto the coverlet. Shivers wracked her body, and she tried to curl up, drawing her knees in close.
Grey pressed a warm broad palm to her back, curling the other around her shoulder. “Come, sweetheart, let me get the cover over you.” Turning her onto her back, Grey reached down, slipped off her shoes, and pulled the coverlet up. When he began to step away, Sophia stuck her hand out to stop him.
“Don’t go.”
“I’m not leaving you. Just going to stoke the fire.” He kept his word, returning as soon he’d agitated the coals into blazing heat.
Sophia couldn’t stop shivering. She stared into the flames, but her body shook as if the bed was filled with ice.
Grey shucked his jacket and settled the fine dark fabric over her chest and shoulders. He laid a blessedly warm hand on her forehead. “Definitely feverish.”
“I-I’ll be all right.” Sophia swept a finger over the frown burrowing lines between his brows.
He chuckled and captured her arm, lifting her hand to his lips and placing a tender kiss on each knuckle. “I’m no expert at caring for the ailing, but shouldn’t I be the one comforting you?” Flattening a palm against her cheek, he added, “Give someone a chance to take care of you for a change.”
She studied Grey as he bent to kiss the center of her palm. Firelight limned his bronze waves, outlined all the chiseled edges of his face. When he gazed back at her, his brow was still knitted with worry.
She loved him. No protest, no reasoning. The truth was there in her heart, as if it had slipped in without her noticing.
“Grey,” she whispered. Her throat ached as if she’d swallowed a wire brush, but she had to get the words out.
“Shh, sweet.” He stroked her hair away from her brow, then leaned up to press a kiss to her forehead.
Her skin was so warm, his lips felt cool.
From the doorway, a man cleared his throat. Sophia was too tired to lift her head, but Grey stood and faced the intruder, keeping her hand clasped in his.
“Dr. Keene, thank God you’re here. She’s shaking and feverish. What can you do?”
“A good deal more without you hovering like a nervous hen.” The man’s booming voice made Sophia wince. “Leave the lady in my care, Lord Winship, and ask a maid to send up some ice and cold compresses.”
Grey leaned over her, one hand sunk in the pillow next to her head. “I’m coming back. Keene will take care of you in the meantime.”
As his footsteps retreated, a bearded old man came into view, frowning down at her with grim concentration. His cold wrinkled hand came up to rest on her forehead. “You’ve quite captured the boy, haven’t you, my dear?”
Sophia frowned, unable to make sense of his words beyond the clatter in her head.
“The Stanhopes have been in my care since the earl was a child,” he said in his low baritone as he lifted an instrument from his bag. “Delivered all three of the countess’s children myself.” The doctor pressed the metal disk of a stethoscope to her chest and listened intently for a moment. “I’ve only seen that look of terror on the boy’s face once before. On the day h
is brother died.” After drawing the gas lamp on the bedside table nearer, Dr. Keene lifted her wrist and pressed two fingers firmly against her pulse. “Fear is good for a man once in a while. Reminds him what matters most.”
“I love him,” Sophia confessed.
“Of course you do, my dear.” Dr. Keene patted her arm in a fatherly manner. “I diagnosed that condition the moment I walked through the door.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“I’ve encountered many during my investigations who crave knowledge and will pay anything to discover facts, only to find the truth very hard to face.”
—CASEBOOK OF EUPHEMIA BREEDLOVE, LADY DETECTIVE
Someone kicked Grey’s foot, and he sat up with a start, orienting himself quickly. He’d been keeping sentry in Sophia’s room for two days, crumpled in a chair, watching over her.
Dr. Keene loomed near, lifting a finger to his lips before casting his gaze toward where Sophia slumbered in bed. “Fever’s down,” the old man said quietly. “Just a cold to contend with now.”
Lurching out of his chair, Grey clasped the doctor’s hand. “Thank you, Keene.”
“Might want to spruce up a bit, Lord Winship, if you plan to woo the lady properly.” The doctor arched a brow as he took in the rumpled clothes Grey had been wearing for two days.
“Good advice.” Now that he knew she was out of danger, he could justify leaving her side for an hour to bathe and pull a razor across his scruff.
“Shall I offer more?”
“Go on, then.” Grey suspected a lecture was coming. Keene was prone to them, or at least he had been when Grey or Richard had gotten into scrapes as boys.
“Spend more time at Longcross, my lord.” He patted Grey’s shoulder. “What are a dozen city diversions when you can have one lovely woman by your side?” He glanced again at Sophia, then lifted his bag and strode for the door. “Keep her in bed for a few days, my lord.”
A Study in Scoundrels Page 22