The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,35
you are, I don’t answer to you.”
Tristan’s fingers tightened around the locket still clutched in his fist. “You answer to the law, just as every other citizen in London does. As for Peter Sharpe, he hasn’t been accused of any crime, despite your account of his perfidy. You, on the other hand, were caught in the act of accusing a man of a crime you knew full well he didn’t commit.”
He blinked at her as a smile curled her lips. “At least you didn’t refer to him as an innocent man this time. I do believe we’re making progress, my lord.”
Tristan’s gaze caught on her lips—surprisingly sweet, pink, bow-shaped lips, utterly incongruous with such a pert mouth. For one wild moment, he imagined leaning forward and brushing his thumb over her plump lower lip.
His thumb, or his mouth. Would she taste sweet, or—
Damn it. She was a miscreant, a threat to the public.
He tore his gaze away from her mouth and cleared his throat. “I won’t catch you harassing Peter Sharpe again, Miss Monmouth.”
It wasn’t a question. She heard the hint of command in his voice, and her smile widened. “You won’t catch me, no.”
Pert mouth, indeed. “Let me make myself clear. If I catch you going after him again—and make no mistake, Miss Monmouth, I will catch you—I’ll have you brought up on charges.”
The pert mouth remained stubbornly closed.
“Well? Come now, Miss Monmouth. Convince me you’ll stay away from Peter Sharpe, or I’ll take you to the magistrate this instant, and save myself a great deal of trouble.”
She shot him a resentful look, her pretty pink lips turned down at the corners.
“Nothing to say?” Tristan waited, his face impassive.
At last, she gave in to the inevitable with an irritated sigh. “Very well, Lord Gray. I give you my word I’ll stay away from Peter Sharpe.”
“Your word? Is that all you have to offer? Why, Miss Monmouth, should I accept your word when I have every reason to believe you’ll fail to keep it?”
She huffed out a breath. “Well, what would you have in its place? A blood oath? A virgin sacrifice? Shall we summon a priest? Would you be satisfied if I swore on the Bible, or should I place my hand over my heart and vow on my eternal soul I—”
To Tristan’s horror a laugh threatened, and he cut her off with a wave of his hand. “That’s enough, Miss Monmouth.”
“I don’t go back on my word, Lord Gray. If I give it, I’ll keep it.”
He studied her for signs of deception, but she held his gaze, her green eyes clear and unflinching. Despite all evidence to the contrary, he sensed there was honor in her. He felt it in the same way he felt the utter lack of it in others he’d come across in his years as a Bow Street Runner. Oh, it was a twisted, jaded, backward sort of honor, to be sure, but she answered to some sort of internal code, flawed though it may be.
“I suppose your word will have to do.” He wasn’t entirely satisfied, but it was either her word, or a visit to the magistrate. A wiser man would choose the latter. As recently as a week ago, he’d been a wiser man.
Not anymore, it seemed.
He’d continue to follow her, of course. Not only because he’d told Sampson Willis he would, but because somebody had to keep an eye on her. It didn’t sit well with him Peter Sharpe had gotten such a good look at her face today, and God knew she didn’t bother to protect herself.
“Here. This belongs to you.” Tristan held out the silver locket.
Her eyes widened. “Thank you, my lord.” She reached out and took it from him, then sagged back against the seat.
Were her hands shaking?
Until he saw that tremor, Tristan hadn’t realized she’d thought he wasn’t going to give the locket back to her. His gaze darted to her face, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was staring down at her hands.
She’d closed the locket in her fist, and she was stroking it in the same manner one would a beloved child, or a favored pet. Her thumb moved back and forth across the smooth silver face, but she didn’t seem to be aware she was doing it. Her eyes were closed, and the pink flush that temper had brought to her cheeks had faded, leaving her pale.
All at once she looked painfully weary, and painfully young. She couldn’t be more than twenty