The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,77
to his desk. He snatched up paper and a quill, scrawled a quick note, then paced from one end of the bedchamber to the other as he waited for a servant to appear.
A few moments later, Tribble himself came in. “Good morning, Lord—”
“Never mind the pleasantries, Tribble.” Tristan handed the paper to him and waved a hand toward the door. “Have one of the footmen take that to Lyndon, and hurry, man. Tell him it’s urgent, and to come at once.” Lyndon wasn’t going to be pleased to be rousted from his bed in the wee hours of the morning, but it couldn’t be helped.
As it happened, Lyndon wasn’t pleased, particularly when he discovered the reason he’d been summoned. He stood in the middle of Tristan’s bedchamber, his clothing askew and his hair standing on end, frowning as he listened to Tristan explain his dilemma.
At last, he held up a hand for silence. “A moment, if you would, Gray. Do you mean to tell me you spent the night with Miss Monmouth, then woke to find she’d left you alone in your bed? That’s why you dragged me out here in the middle of the night?”
Tristan blinked. “Well, not just that.”
“Good Lord, Gray. You said it was urgent. I thought your bloody townhouse was on fire!” Lyndon threw himself into a chair and thumped a booted foot down on the ottoman. “I left Lady Cerise in such a pout I feared a bird would fly through the window and land on her lower lip. Nothing less than sapphires and diamonds will sooth her hurt feelings. I’ll make certain Rundell & Bridge send the bill to you.”
Tristan had resumed pacing, but now he turned to Lyndon with a frown. “Lady Cerise? When did that start? I’m not sure she’s a wise choice as mistresses go, Lyndon.”
Lyndon dragged a weary hand down his face. “It’s…we were…oh, for God’s sake, Gray! What difference does it make when it started? Let’s concentrate on the matter at hand, shall we? The way I see it, you’ve taken a thief into your bed, yet you’re quibbling with me over whether Lady Cerise is a suitable mistress.”
“She isn’t a thief!” Tristan burst out, then snapped his mouth closed, surprised at his own vehemence.
“Ah. Changed your mind about that, have you? Well, I won’t say I didn’t see that coming.” Lyndon studied him with narrowed eyes. “Very well, then. She’s not a thief, but she’s not an innocent, either.”
Tristan pressed his lips together to stop himself from leaping to Sophia’s defense again. The truth was, she wasn’t innocent. She’d already confessed to helping Jeremy Ives escape from Newgate. Then again, questions of guilt, innocence, and justice had become considerably murkier since he’d met Sophia. “In any case, Miss Monmouth’s not my mistress.”
Lyndon snorted. “Not if you have your way about it. Anyone can see you’re besotted with her.”
“I’m not besotted, just…” Tristan trailed off. Once again, Lyndon was right. If wanting Sophia more than any other woman he’d ever known—if finding her fascinating and worrying about her safety meant he was besotted—then he was certainly besotted with her. Since he’d met her, he’d hardly spared a thought for anything else.
That was rather a problem, wasn’t it? Tristan dropped into the chair across from Lyndon with a sigh. He’d spent one night with Sophia. They hadn’t made love, yet he already found it intolerable to wake without her in his bed.
“Let me ask you this, Gray. Do you trust Miss Monmouth?”
Ah, that was the crux of the issue. Given the business with Ives and Sophia’s association with Lady Clifford, he shouldn’t trust her, yet…
“I do. I’ve never known anyone like her before, Lyndon. She doesn’t think as we do, but I don’t question her honor. My every instinct tells me she’s a lady of conscience.”
“I see.” Lyndon studied the tip of his boot. “Do these instincts originate in your brain, Gray, or between your legs?”
Tristan’s eyebrows shot up. Well, that was plain enough, but then Lyndon had never been one to mince words. He glanced at the bed, a pang of longing piercing his chest as he took in the rumpled sheets. Only mere hours ago, Sophia had been tucked into a blanket beside him, her legs pressed against his, her hair scattered in a wild tumble across his chest.
He met Lyndon’s gaze. “I don’t know, Lyndon. I can’t deny I want her. That’s the problem. I haven’t the faintest bloody idea about anything anymore.”