The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,39
has chosen her pupils well. Miss Monmouth is a perfect, pocket-sized pixie in boy’s breeches.” Except she hadn’t been wearing breeches yesterday, had she? It was no wonder he’d acted such a fool. That gray gown with its plunging bodice had addled his wits.
Tristan plucked his defeated king from the board. He set it aside and rose to his feet, abandoning any further attempts at concentration. “I tell you, Lyndon. She’s the most exasperating woman I’ve ever encountered.”
“Vexing. That was the word you used. Vexing, and tenacious.” Lyndon gave a delicate shudder. “Dreadful combination, especially in an attractive woman.”
Tristan abruptly ceased his pacing in front of the fireplace and turned to give his friend a wary look. “I never said she was attractive.”
Not aloud, that is.
Lyndon abandoned his study of the game and blinked up at Tristan. “Didn’t you? I thought I just heard you say she’s perfect.”
“I said she was a perfect pixie, Lyndon. It’s not a compliment.”
“No?” Lyndon frowned. “Well, what the devil is a pixie?”
“They’re…aren’t they demons, or elves, or some other sort of devious, manipulative mythical creature?”
“Are they, indeed? I thought they were meant to be like fairies. I’ve always thought fairies sounded rather nice.” Lyndon thought about it, then turned his attention back to the chessboard with a shrug. “You didn’t need to say she was attractive, in any case. I already know she is.”
“You don’t know any such thing.” Lyndon’s only answer was a knowing smirk, and Tristan muttered a curse. “How do you know?”
The smirk widened, and Lyndon waved a hand at the chessboard. “I know because I’m beating you at chess. I never beat you at chess unless you’re agitated, and you’re never agitated over a woman unless you find her attractive.” He swept a critical gaze over Tristan’s mussed hair and crooked cravat. “I’ve never seen you quite this agitated, though. Miss Monmouth must be lovely, indeed.”
Tristan turned his back on Lyndon and stalked over to the window.
Lovely? Certainly, if one found Machiavellian tendencies lovely. That is, she was clever—he couldn’t deny that—but she had a barbed tongue.
A barbed tongue and soft, full pink lips.
Damn it. Her lips were of no consequence. She was an outrage, chaos in boy’s breeches and a black cap, roaming London’s rooftops and stalking innocent citizens in the streets.
Silky dark hair, bewitching green eyes…
An irritated growl rose in Tristan’s throat. Very well, Miss Monmouth was lovely, but she was also sly, and with the way she scaled townhouses and wriggled through fences, distressingly agile.
Delicate but strong, lissome, with perfectly proportioned curves—
“Well? Is she, then?”
Lyndon’s amused voice broke into his musings, and Tristan turned from the window. “Is she what?”
Lyndon raised an eyebrow at him. “Lovely?”
A denial rose to Tristan’s lips, but all that emerged was a resigned sigh. “She is, damn her. Exceedingly.”
“Ah. I thought so.” Lyndon shot him a satisfied grin, then slid his queen across the chessboard. “Checkmate.”
Tristan turned back to the window, and his gaze fell on the roof of Lord Everly’s pediment. Cursed Everly and his cursed pediment. This was all his fault.
“Come away from that window, will you? She’s not there now, for God’s sake, and your incessant hovering is irritating me.” Lyndon was tidying the chess set away in its wooden box, his lips tight with annoyance. “Why are you in such fits over this woman, Gray? So, she’s attractive. London is teeming with attractive ladies, and you’ve never gotten into a dither over any of them.”
“They aren’t liars or felons.” It wasn’t a convincing reply, but what could he say? That he found Sophia Monmouth, with her pert mouth and barbed tongue far more tempting than any of the noted beauties in London?
Lyndon’s face darkened. “I beg to differ. Lady Clarissa Warrington is a thief. By the time I broke with her she’d squeezed a fortune in jewels out of me.”
“That’s not the same thing, Lyndon.” Tristan crossed the room and threw himself into one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. “I wouldn’t hold Lady Clarissa up as a model of virtue, but I never saw her commit an actual crime. I saw Miss Monmouth slide her locket into Sharpe’s coat, as stealthy as any thief.”
Lyndon sank into the chair opposite Tristan. “Perhaps he deserved it. He may be every bit the liar Miss Monmouth claims he is, and as guilty as any other criminal locked up in Newgate.”
“He may be, but he hasn’t been convicted of any crime, and it’s just as likely Miss Monmouth is