The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,30

her.

But how to avoid it? She bit her lip as she tried to think of what Georgiana might do in a similar situation. Georgiana was an expert at argument, unmatched at wriggling her way free of a verbal attack, like that time she’d left the Society’s copy of Mrs. Radcliffe’s The Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne outdoors, and it had been destroyed by the rain. Every time Sophia had demanded an explanation as to its whereabouts, Georgiana had outmaneuvered her by…

By answering every question with another question.

Yes, of course! Why, it was just the thing.

“Miss Monmouth? You haven’t answered my question.” Lord Gray’s hard gaze flicked to her mouth, and all at once Sophia realized her lips had curved in a delighted smile.

Well, that wouldn’t do. Smirking would only make her look guilty.

She did her best to rearrange her lips into a frown. “What makes you think it isn’t a lover’s spat, just as you said? That would explain everything, wouldn’t it?” It would, and rather neatly, too. She might have thought of it herself, but for the fact Peter Sharpe made her flesh crawl.

The judgmental eyebrow shot up again. Lord Gray almost looked as if he were disappointed in her. “Come now, Miss Monmouth. Is that truly the best you can do? A besotted lady doesn’t attempt to frame the gentleman she loves for a crime.”

“Certainly, she does. Have you forgotten your William Congreve, my lord? ‘Hell hath no fury,’ and all that. I’m a woman scorned who’s seeking revenge, nothing more, and a lover’s spat isn’t really a matter for the law, is it? Well, now that’s settled, I’ll just be on my way—”

“I don’t think so, Miss Monmouth.” Sophia had reached for the door, but Lord Gray wrapped his fingers around her wrist, stopping her. “Mr. Sharpe gaped at you today as if he’d never set eyes on you before.”

He had gaped, hadn’t he? Yes, he’d gotten a good, long look at her. Another blunder, and she had no one but herself to blame for it. “Yes, well, gentlemen have short memories when it comes to their lovers, my lord.”

To Sophia’s surprise he laughed at that, the deep, rich timbre of it filling the carriage. “Some gentlemen perhaps, but I’m afraid your demeanor toward him isn’t very lover-like. You looked at him as if you’d happily see him swinging at the end of a noose.”

“Well, of course, I would. Really, Lord Gray. You don’t seem to know much about love affairs, or about revenge. Do you expect anything else from a lady whose lover has forsaken her?” Sophia sniffed. “I may be disappointed in love, but I do have my pride.”

“I don’t doubt it. That may be the only true statement you’ve uttered since you got into my carriage, Miss Monmouth.” He studied her, as if not quite sure what to do with her next, then he reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled out her locket. “Tell me about this. Rather a nice piece. How do you happen to have it?”

“Did I steal it, you mean?” Of course, he would think so. How else would she—a woman of no family, no name, and no means—have such a fine piece of jewelry if she hadn’t lifted it off some unsuspecting aristocrat?

“I’ll have an answer from you, Miss Monmouth.”

Sophia huffed. “Fine. It belonged to my mother.”

Lord Gray turned the locket over. “It’s inscribed. ‘To my beloved Arabella. Forever yours, Lawrence, 1774.’”

“Lovely sentiment, isn’t it?” Sophia’s laugh was bitter. “Forever, alas, turned out to be a great deal shorter than my mother expected.”

Lord Gray had been studying the locket, but now his gaze shifted to her face. “What does that mean?”

“What it always means.” Within three years of giving her mother the locket, Viscount Clifton, her mother’s protector at the time, had pledged his undying devotion to another mistress. Arabella Clifton, as she styled herself, had drifted from one lover to the next after that, with lessening degrees of success, until eventually she’d been driven into the streets to earn her living.

Less than a year later, she was dead.

It wasn’t a pleasant story, but neither was it an unusual one. Sophia didn’t intend to confide any of this to Lord Gray, however. “I told you already. Gentlemen have short memories when it comes to their lovers.”

“So you did.” Lord Gray held up the locket, letting it dangle between his fingers. “You must bear Peter Sharpe quite a grudge, Miss Monmouth, to risk such a treasure. What