The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,100

far more than she should. Far more than was wise for her peace of mind, or her future happiness.

How had this happened? For a woman who was most resoundingly not the heroine of a romance, she was ridiculously besotted with a gentleman who would never be hers.

If all went as planned, tonight would mark the end to Peter Sharpe and Lord Everly’s machinations. They’d identify the fourth man, this business would be done, and there’d be no reason for her ever to see Tristan again. She’d go back to her friends and Lady Clifford, and Tristan would leave London to go off and do…well, whatever it was earls did at their country seats, just as he’d planned before he got tangled up with her.

He’d likely be relieved to be free of her, whereas she…

Whereas she, what? It wasn’t as if she were in love with Tristan. It wasn’t as if he’d be leaving her behind with a broken heart. Her heart was made of sterner stuff than that.

Of course, it was, and yet…

Sophia hurried across the bedchamber, nearly tripping over the hem of the dressing gown in her haste to find her clothes. Ah, there they were, in a crumpled ball at the bottom of the bed. “I should have returned home hours ago. Lady Clifford will be wondering where I am.”

“Running away, Sophia?”

She hadn’t heard him move, but in an instant, he was there, his big hands on her shoulders, his body so warm and strong at her back it took everything she had not to lean into him, close her eyes, and let him wrap himself around her.

When had this happened? When had she begun to need his arms around her to feel safe? The thought made her panic, and she tried to squirm away. “It’s not…I’m not running away.”

“Yes, you are.” His hands and his voice were gentle—so gentle tears stung her eyes—but he didn’t release her. “You don’t need to run, Sophia. Not from me.”

Yes, I do. Especially from you.

But even as the words drifted through her consciousness, she was already sinking into him, absorbing his heat into her skin.

Dear God. It’s already too late.

It was too late to run. She might scale every column in London, flee from one rooftop to the next as if the devil were chasing her, and it wouldn’t do the least bit of good. She didn’t know when or how it had happened, but somehow, Tristan had become as much a part of her as her own flesh.

Unnecessary risk, Sophia.

As many times as Lady Clifford had uttered those words, Sophia had never really taken them to heart until now. Perhaps because this time it wasn’t Lady Clifford’s voice in her head, but her own.

Yet her heart was already destined to shatter, wasn’t it? A few more hours, a few more kisses, a few more stolen moments with him…surely, it wouldn’t make any difference? Sophia swallowed the lump in her throat, and against her better judgment, she turned to face him and twined her arms around his neck. “I suppose I can send her a note.”

Some powerful emotion flared in his gray eyes, but before she could decipher it, it was gone. “Yes, I suppose you can,” was all he said. Then he gathered his dressing gown more securely around her, and went to ring the bell for a servant.

They dined in his bedchamber—another novelty for Sophia. Afterwards she wrote out a quick note to Lady Clifford, asking her ladyship to meet them at St. Clement Dane’s that night, and to bring Daniel, who was meant to return to London this afternoon.

Peter Sharpe was a coward, but he was cunning, and then there was a fourth man to consider. There was no telling what such a brutal fiend would do once he was cornered. Sophia didn’t choose to leave anything up to chance. She scrawled a line at the bottom of the note for her friends, telling them she’d see them soon, then folded and sealed it and laid it on the table, ready for a servant to deliver it.

Tristan was writing his own note to Sampson Willis, the magistrate at Bow Street, directing him to come to St. Clement Dane’s that night as well, promising it would all make sense once they apprehended Peter Sharpe and got him to confess his part in the crime.

Afterwards they sat together in front of the fire, neither of them speaking, but each stealing glances at the other. The silence between them grew heavier