The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,76

honeysuckle remained.

She’d taken that with her, too.

He struggled upright and reached for the coverlet she’d been wrapped in when she fell asleep beside him last night. It was cold, much as his bedchamber was. The servant hadn’t yet been in to build up the fire. A thin slice of moon was still visible in the sky, but the sun’s first rays were driving it back as they crept over the edge of the horizon.

She’d left when it was still dark, then. Given he’d been wrapped around her when she fell asleep, she must have been stealthy indeed to slip from his bed without waking him. But then he already knew she was stealthy. If she could climb to the roof of Lord Everly’s pediment, then she could certainly leave Tristan’s bed without his knowing it.

Perhaps it was just as well she’d left. He was…well, not quite betrothed yet, but only because he’d remained in London. If he’d gone to Oxfordshire as his mother demanded, Lady Emilia—that is, Lady Esther—would be well on her way to becoming the Countess of Gray.

If he’d been another kind of man, he might have tried to coax Sophia into a passionate affair regardless of a betrothal, but Tristan didn’t trifle with young ladies, or indulge in scandalous liaisons. He was no rake, and he wouldn’t become one now, no matter how much he desired Sophia Monmouth.

She’d done the right thing, leaving him alone in his bed this morning. It was better for them both this way. He lay back down and dragged the coverlet up his chest. The only reasonable thing to do was go back to sleep. The sun hadn’t even fully risen, and he’d gotten precious little rest the night before.

He squeezed his eyes closed and waited, but sleep had fled his bed, much as Sophia had. He rolled over onto his back, then shifted onto his side, then his other side, squirming and kicking at the coverlet until it was tangled so tightly around him his legs began to tingle from lack of blood flow.

Only his legs, though. His cock seemed lively enough. It was wide awake and throbbing maddeningly. He slid his hand under the coverlet and gave it a comforting squeeze, but it refused to be pacified.

It wanted Sophia. He wanted Sophia, a lady he had no right to want, and no claim on. It occurred to him with a jolt of panic he might never want anyone else, ever again. Certainly not Lady Emil—Lady Esther. Perhaps if Lady Esther did become the Countess of Gray, he’d be able to remember her name.

As for Sophia…

Tristan couldn’t understand how things had come to such a pass so quickly. He wasn’t the sort of man who lost his head over a woman. He’d had liaisons before, but they’d always been discreet, tidy affairs with discreet, tidy widows. He’d never lost control with any of them—it had been rather like scratching an itch. Satisfying in the moment, but forgettable.

Nothing like the wild, messy, desperate passion of last night.

A few short weeks ago he’d been on his way back to Oxfordshire, reconciled to his fate, but now here he was flopping about uselessly in his bed with a throbbing cock, worrying over a wild, dark-haired pixie of a woman who bent the law to suit her whims.

And he didn’t care. He, the Ghost of Bow Street, a man who’d spent years of his life dedicated to eradicating crime in London, didn’t care if the lady he’d taken to his bed climbed columns, dressed in breeches, and bribed a prison guard to free a convicted murderer from the dungeons at Newgate. An innocent convicted murderer, to be fair, but a bribe was a bribe, and breeches were breeches.

How could he have become so besotted with a headstrong, willful chit like Sophia Monmouth? Worst of all, she was reckless. Not five hours after she’d been threatened by a club-wielding villain, she’d gone wandering off into the dark again, as if it were inconceivable the blackguard who’d attacked her once already might decide to have another go at her.

Sophia Monmouth was going to be the death of him. Of him, or herself.

Tristan tossed the covers back and threw his legs over the side of the bed. What had he done with his breeches? He rose and stumbled about in the dark until he found them tangled in the bed hangings. He pulled them over his hips and yanked the bell to summon a servant, then strode over