The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,68

without another word.

Tribble was hovering in the entryway. The butler had been standing at the door when Tristan rushed out earlier after Sophia, and like the meticulously trained servant he was, Tribble had wisely deduced his master might require his assistance when he returned.

If he was shocked to see Tristan return with a bleeding lady in his arms, one would never know it by the perfectly impassive expression on his face. “Have you brought a guest, my lord?”

Under any other circumstances Tristan might have laughed, but he couldn’t quite find the humor in the situation while Sophia was slumped against his chest, the blood from her cut lip now trickling down her chin. “You could say that. Bring a basin of water, some bandages, and whatever else you deem necessary to tend to the lady’s injuries to the library, Tribble.”

A generous measure of brandy was certainly necessary, but he had a vague idea he’d need other supplies.

Tristan had never doctored anyone before, but he was strangely reluctant to turn Sophia over to anyone else. So he carried her down the hallway to his library and approached an overstuffed leather sofa near the fireplace.

Sophia winced when he put her down. “Was it you, Lord Gray, who knocked me to the ground?”

Tristan winced. “I didn’t knock you down, no, but I…ah, well, once you were there, I fell on top of you. I beg your pardon, Miss Monmouth.”

I beg your pardon?

Tristan grimaced at this absurdly inadequate reply. He hadn’t stepped on her foot during the quadrille or spilled tea on her gown, for God’s sake.

Sophia was once again prodding gingerly at the lump on her head. “You’re a rather large man, Lord Gray. Really, I can’t think why it’s necessary for you to be so large. I feel as if I’ve been trampled by a horse.”

Tristan stood awkwardly beside the sofa, not sure what to say. He’d never fallen on top of a lady before—at least, not under these circumstances. He cast about for something sophisticated and gallant to say, but what came out instead was, “Seventeen stone.”

She blinked up at him. “Seventeen stone? What, you mean you weigh seventeen stone?”

Heat rushed up Tristan’s neck. Why the devil had he blurted that out? “I, um…well, yes.”

“That’s all?” Sophia studied her palms, which were scraped raw. “It felt like more than that.”

Tristan didn’t answer. He was staring down at her, appalled. Her hands were bleeding, her lip was swelling, and the knees of her breeches were ripped to shreds. He might have gone breathless at the glimpse he got of those smooth, bare legs if her flesh hadn’t been torn to pieces.

“Tribble!” Tristan rushed to the library door and stuck his head into the hallway, ready to shout the entire house down. “For God’s sakes, man, what’s taking so…oh, here you are.”

Tristan stepped back from the doorway and Tribble, who was bearing a large silver tray loaded with doctoring supplies, entered the library and laid his burden down on a table near the sofa where Sophia was stretched out. “May I help you, my lord?” he asked, taking in Sophia’s injuries with a shake of his head. “Perhaps one of the maids could be of service?”

“No, thank you, Tribble. That won’t be necessary.” Tristan, who hadn’t any intention of letting anyone other than himself touch Sophia, had to resist the urge to shove poor Tribble out the door. “I’ll tend to Miss Monmouth.”

“Very well, my lord.” Once again, if Tribble was shocked, he did an admirable job of hiding it. “I wish you a pleasant evening, my lord.” He offered each of them a solemn bow, then made his way out the door.

“A pleasant evening,” Tristan muttered as he sat down on the large table in front of the sofa. “Not much chance of that.” He pulled the tray closer and held out his hand to her. “Give me your hand, Miss Monmouth.”

She held out her hand, palm up. She was quiet for some minutes, watching as he gently cleaned the blood and loose rocks away before reaching silently for her other hand. She gave it to him, but this time as he worked, Tristan could feel her curious gaze on his face.

“I don’t wish to be presumptuous, Lord Gray.” She winced a little as he swabbed at her palm with the wet cloth. “But why did you leap on me?”

Tristan froze, his hand still wrapped around hers. “You don’t remember the attack?” He’d have to have a careful look at the injury