The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,80
The cook shoved a heaping spoonful of what appeared to be porridge into her mouth with one hand, and waved a meaty hand at the door with the other.
“Er…yes, ma’am.”
A timid scullery maid approached and offered her a milk jug. Sophia took it and upended the contents of her pail into it, one eye on her work, the other darting around the kitchens. The doorway on the opposite side of the room might lead into a stillroom with access to the small back garden, but it was difficult to tell from her position in front of the long wooden table. She craned her neck to the side, but all she could make out was a row of cabinets lining one wall, and—
“Ye’ve spilled the milk, ye clumsy chit! I told ye those pails were too heavy for ye! Ye got no meat on yer bones, girl.”
The scullery maid let out a terrified squeak, and Sophia looked down to see a single drop of milk had spilled from the pail onto the table. “I beg your—”
“Give it here.” The cook snatched the pail from Sophia’s hand, dumped the rest of the milk into the jug, then shoved the pail back into her arms. “Ye tell yer master to send Polly next time, or don’t bother coming to ’is lordship’s door. Now git!”
The cook turned a menacing look on the poor scullery maid, who darted across the kitchen as if the devil himself were after her and opened the door leading into the mews. “This way, miss.”
Sophia trudged across the room after her, muttering a prayer the gap beneath the door was wider than it looked. She didn’t necessarily expect her prayers to be answered—heaven didn’t look kindly on sinners like herself—but as she was being thrust out the door, she slid the buckle free from her pocket, hiding it in her palm.
“Beg pardon, miss.” The scullery maid gave her an apologetic look and stepped back from the door. She pushed it closed behind her, but before it could latch Sophia pressed her fingertips against the wood, stopping it.
She sucked in a breath, half-expecting the cook to descend on her with a rolling pin, but the woman didn’t come.
No one did.
Sophia crouched down, slid the yoke carefully from her shoulders, set it down as quietly as she could on the cobbles, and tried to slide the buckle under the door.
It didn’t fit.
She gave it a little shove, but it didn’t budge.
“Dash it.” She sat back on her heels, biting her lip with vexation. It was maddening to come so close only to give it up now, but the blasted buckle was too thick—
Sophia went still as she studied the space, then she got down on her knees to get a closer look, one hand still on the door. It sat crookedly in its frame, as if it hadn’t been hung properly. She pressed her fingertips against the bottom edge of the door and slid them from one side to the other. The slit was just a touch wider at the end closest to the hinge, just wide enough to…
Yes!
She jammed the end of the buckle into the space beneath the door, then gave it a shove with the heel of her hand. The buckle slid forward a tiny bit more, just enough so it was securely wedged beneath the door.
Sophia scrambled to her feet, a wide grin on her lips. She took up her yoke, balanced it on her shoulders, and made her way to the other end of the mews, where she handed it back over to Polly, who’d been waiting in a shadowy corner of the stables, out of sight of Lord Everly’s door. The girl swung the yoke onto her own shoulders as if it were no heavier than a silk shawl, and disappeared down the street.
Well, that had been a tidy bit of work, hadn’t it? Sophia dusted off her hands, flushed and still grinning at her success, but her smile faded a little as her gaze landed on an upper window of Tristan’s townhouse, and the memories she’d been holding at bay since she sneaked out of his bed this morning swept over her.
As much as she might wish otherwise, it wasn’t the sort of night a lady could forget, any more than he was the sort of man she could easily set aside without a second thought.
She shivered, remembering the hot press of his mouth on hers, his wicked tongue slipping between her lips, the rasp