land the Earl of Whitcombe on his back with only one hand after he pawed her. The real truth was that St. Ives hit him, but unless Whitcombe wanted to be hit again, he would leave the truth alone and let the lies do their work. Her career was based on lies, her friends having put it out that she had more experience than most practiced courtesans. It was a large gamble and her first protector, Noah, had seen through the fabrication at their first “meeting.” But after she risked all and poured her story out to him, he took her in and showed her what it was like to truly be touched, to feel passion, to try to let go of some of the scars and move on.
It didn’t happen often to women like her, but she had been cared for. After Noah, she’d had her pick of fine but lonely gentlemen. If she treated them right, they treated her to houses to live in, money and gifts of jewels and trinkets. She couldn’t say it was an ideal life but she had lived. Survived to fight another day.
No thanks to Blake’s ancient horses and a road not fit to walk on, let alone drive a carriage or cart. She could have broken her neck in the accident. They both could have.
The man’s insults did nothing to blunt the desire she felt when close to him, when watching the dance of his muscles, the mischievousness in his grin, the tilt of his jaw.
But Blake had more erratic mood swings than a fishwife.
Sophia shook her head and bit down on the end of the tongue. Why did her mind always come back to him? Why couldn’t she see him for the bitter man he was, take his insults for what they were and flee back to London?
Because Matthew needs you.
She barely contained a snort. No one needed her. Violet certainly didn’t need her help. Matthew wanted her there, but he didn’t need her. Daemon didn’t need her. Blake didn’t want her. That much was blatantly obvious in the way he looked at her, as if disgusted by her even sleeping in his inn. She was yet another problem to be dealt with. She wasn’t sure if it was a man thing or a Blake thing.
There she went again. Thinking of Blake.
She knew all his faculties weren’t straight this morning when they’d woken. The startled look in his eyes and his jerky movements showed he hadn’t meant his actions even though they’d caused him pain. She really hadn’t even been angry with him, she’d been furious with herself for reacting to his touch. A touch that made her burn. But it had felt so good. He had felt so good.
Even the roughness of his hands provoked sensations she hadn’t experienced. Each and every callus on his fingers and palm had scratched at her skin, sending pleasure shooting right to her sex.
Damn him! Damn him for making her enjoy his touch, for making her want him to touch her again. For if the truth were told, she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted to feel the texture of his unshaven face against her cheek, across her stomach, the inside of her thigh.
“You’re looking a little flushed, m’dear.” Blakiston’s voice startled her out of her reverie.
“I’m afraid I’m not feeling quite the thing right now, Your Grace.”
“Not surprising. It must have been rather cold and lonely out there last night.”
The implication in his tone sent a shiver up her spine. “Indeed, Your Grace.”
She was saved from any further conversation when the driver slowed the horses and announced they had arrived at the inn. Sophia looked out at the mud-covered ground and sighed. Her gown and shoes were already ruined. But Blakiston had his own agenda.
“Allow me, Sophia.” He climbed down from the carriage with surprising speed, bowed and then held his arms out for her and all before his driver had even jumped down.
“Your Grace, I can’t... You can’t. I’m filthy.”
“Nonsense.” He stepped closer. “And I asked you to call me Blakiston.”
Had his voice risen a notch? Perhaps it was her imagination or simply fatigue that made her see more in his gallant action than was actually there.
“Thank you.” She let the man pick her up as though she weighed no more than a picnic hamper. Each slow step he took through the drying mud made his arms tighten around her until she was positively crushed to his chest.
The door to the