The Lady Hellion (18 page)

The ire in her voice had him smirking. “Jealous, Lady Sophia?”

She said nothing.

He disliked her silences. She was rarely quiet, which was one of the things he appreciated most about her. It was as if she brought life wherever she went. “To be clear,” he said, pushing for a reaction, “I paid for services twice, once at the age of eighteen and again at the age of twenty. The first was a brunette named Beth, who had a trick she did with her tongue where—”

“Quint!”

Though his eyes remained firmly shut, he pictured Sophie’s indignant embarrassment. He grinned. “I did pull both Colton and Winchester out of there a time or two over the years as well. But tonight I think I’ll stay in the carriage.”

“Are you certain? I do not know how long you’ll be waiting. You should return home—”

“No, it’s not safe for you to be here on your own.”

“You forget that I’ve been doing this for a year. I can take care of myself.”

“And you forget that I have recently sewn a rather large gash in your leg. I’d rather not repeat that exercise any time soon. If you need me, have Mulrooney fetch me.”

“You are just worried I’ll ask MacLean for help again,” she said, amusement in her voice, as the carriage slowed. “We’re nearly there. I’ll return when I can. Then we’ll follow Tolbert and see where he goes.”

Chapter Eighteen

“That’s another two shillings, Sir Stephen.”

Sophie grimaced. She’d been playing whist for over an hour, her partner an older viscount who had trouble keeping track of the cards. As a result, Sir Stephen had already lost five pounds to their opponents. Good thing she had a sizable amount of pin money saved up. Sir Stephen’s habits were deuced expensive.

She’d chatted briefly with Madame for a few moments when she’d first arrived. Madame was deeply concerned over Pamela’s death. The idea that one of her girls had been killed so brutally did not sit well with the proprietress. Sophie assured her the man responsible would be held accountable.

Just as soon as she could prove it.

Sophie was studying the cards in her hand when she heard a voice say, “Can we get in a game?”

No, it couldn’t be.
Her head snapped up. Robert and another man were standing by her table, expectant expressions on their faces. Her hands clenched in her lap, her body frozen. Before she could move or decide what to do, two of the men at her table agreed to get up, including her partner.
Hellfire.

Robert sat across from her, his friend to her left. “The Earl of Reddington,” Robert said by way of introduction. “I do not believe we’ve met before.”

“Sir Stephen Radcliff,” she mumbled, trying to keep her face averted. The spectacles would fool most people, but Robert knew her intimately. Very intimately. It would be unwise to let him get a good, close look at her.

The cards were dealt and the bidding began. Sophie kept her cards in front of her face. Robert seemed more interested in drinking than the play, which suited Sophie just fine. His friend was not unknown to her, but only as a casual acquaintance, and the two newcomers chatted as the play progressed.

The years had been kinder to Robert than she’d hoped. He was still fairly attractive, with his smoky blue eyes and dimpled chin. A lock of his short, dark hair fell over his forehead as if by accident, though she knew it had been deliberately styled to appear that way.

When the talk turned to women, Sophie ground her teeth.

“Reddington, who’ve you got in mind for tonight? That pretty blonde last week was a right handful. You should try her.”

“I haven’t decided.” He finished his brandy and waved his empty glass at a footman for more. “Perhaps I ought to take two tonight.”

“In the mood for something a bit spirited, eh?”

“Always.” Sophie saw Robert grin out of the corner of her eye. “I have to make the most of London while I’m here. God knows there’s no fun to be had in Wales.” The two men droned on, both clearly soused, and Sophie tuned them out. She did not care to hear Robert bemoan the realities of the life he’d specifically chosen.

A perverse satisfaction coursed through her at learning Robert’s marriage was not a happy one. Not to mention a healthy dose of relief that she hadn’t ended up tethered to him for life. They were clearly mismatched in every way.

The right man would get down on his knees and thank the heavens you were in his bed.
A lump of emotion formed in her throat. Quint preferred her enthusiasm. He encouraged her not to hold back, not to try and pretend.

And he’d been as desperate for her as she for him. She liked knowing she could make him lose control. By the look in his eyes earlier when she’d arrived dressed as Sir Stephen, no doubt this evening would be a spirited one as well.

“. . . a virgin’s hardly worth the time,” she heard Robert’s friend say, catching her attention.

“Not true,” Robert said, his voice a trifle too loud. “You just have to know how to handle them.”

“You make the girl sound like a horse.”

“Precisely.”

Sophie’s blood began to boil, her ears turning hot. Trying to stay calm, she played her card and then took a sip of her watered-down whisky.

“All women,” Robert went on, “need a man’s firm hand to guide them. To show them how to express their passion. One must slip the bridle on carefully in order to ride her.”

“And what bridle would that be, your pump handle?” Both of them snickered, and Sophie curled her fingernails into her thighs. She’d heard bawdy talk before, but this was different. This was hateful. And it made her want to smack the drunken smirk off Robert’s face.

“If need be,” Robert answered. “Women leave my bed wearing grins, that’s for sure.”

“If that’s the case, then why did I see the fair Lady Sophia give your foot a good stomping the other night?”

Sophie’s ears started ringing, her body vibrating with fear and anger. If he so much as dared . . .

“She’ll take a bit more coaxing, is all. But I know how to handle that one. She’ll be begging for it before too long. After all, I’ve had her—”

With a cry, Sophie launched herself across the table at Robert, knocking him and his chair to the floor. There had been no plan or forethought, merely blinding, maddening rage. Drinks and cards spilled onto the floor. She’d never attacked anyone in her life, would’ve never even contemplated it, if he hadn’t said anything. But now, bursting with fury, she pulled back her fist—and punched him directly in the eye.

Strong hands lifted her off Robert, who wore an expression of absolute bewilderment. Sophie struggled for a moment, then stilled as Mulrooney, Madame’s doorman, dragged her across the room. “Come on. Anyone who starts a fight gets tossed.”

Robert’s face twisted into surprised, ugly fury. “You’ll be hearing from my seconds!” he yelled.

“Perfect!” she shouted back. “I look forward to putting a bullet into your heart, you maggot-eating swine!”

The carriage door suddenly opened. “Is this one yours, my lord?”

Quint opened his eyes to blink at Mulrooney, who held a sullen Sir Stephen up by the collar. “Yes, he is.”

Mulrooney hefted Sir Stephen inside. Sophie, disheveled and flushed, scrambled onto the seat. She avoided Quint’s eye, her chin lifted defiantly.

“What happened?” he asked Mulrooney.

The doorman looked to be fighting a smile. “Started a fight, your lordship. Launched himself across the card table and corked the Earl of Reddington right in the eye.” He winked at Sophie. “That be a right fine hook you have, sir.”

Sophie nodded tersely, saying nothing. “Thank you, Mulrooney,” Quint said, pressing a coin into Mulrooney’s palm. “I’ll see the lad home.”

“Very good, your lordship.” Mulrooney shut the door and strode through the lamplight back toward the brothel.

Quint turned to Sophie, who was sitting with her arms crossed. Her leg bounced impatiently. “You started a fight with Reddington? Why?”

“It doesn’t matter. Shall we go?” She pounded her fist on the roof.

Jenkins opened the small partition. “Where to, sir?”

“My house,” Quint answered and the carriage started off.

Her gaze fixed on the darkness outside, Sophie seemed in no mood for explanations. He gave her a minute to calm down. Finally, when her breathing returned to normal, he asked, “Tell me why you hit Reddington, Sophie.”

“He’s a pig.”

“So is Colton, yet you’ve never planted a facer on him. Tell me what Reddington said or did to upset you.”

She shook her head vehemently, lips pressed firmly together.

“It will take me less than an hour to learn it for myself, you know. You might as well tell me,
kotyonok,
” he said softly.

“He’s a disgusting, dung-headed horse’s arse.”

He blinked a few times, surprised, and guesses as to what had happened began floating through his head. What had he been thinking, letting her go in alone? Tamping down the anger directed at himself, he reached out and pulled her over to his lap. She resisted at first, but he was stronger. He wrapped his arms around her, removed her spectacles, and cradled her against his chest. He hated that he hadn’t been inside to protect her from whatever had happened.

Eventually she relaxed and dropped her head into the curve of his neck. He kissed her forehead. “Did he touch you?”

She gasped. “No. Quint, no. Not that. He—” She exhaled a shuddering breath. “He said naught but lies.”

“About Lady Sophia?”

Her silence was his answer. So who was Reddington to her? Because Sophie would not attack a stranger in a public setting—especially while dressed in disguise. Then it hit him. The Earl of Reddington had taken the title four or so years ago when his older brother unexpectedly died. Before that, he’d been known in Society as Lord Robert Langley.

The pieces fell into place.

The man who had taken Sophie’s maidenhead. The man she’d loved, whom she’d wanted to marry. Reddington was the man who’d rejected her, shamed her, during her debut.
Hurt
her.

A tempest gathered in Quint’s chest, a storm of fury and protectiveness he’d never experienced before. Sophie had not deserved Reddington’s cruelty. She was honest and passionate, and much too good for the likes of Reddington. The man had broken her heart, and now he was speaking ill of her in public.

Unacceptable. Infuriating.

He soothed her—and himself—by stroking her back. “I am proud of you,
psihi mou.
You are the strongest, bravest woman I know. Reddington is a fool.”

She surprised him by bursting into tears.

He held her tighter, hating her tears, hating Reddington, and hating himself for not being a man worthy of marrying her. He should’ve been inside, handing Reddington a beating the likes of which he’d never seen. Instead, he’d been cowering in a carriage like a doddering old man.

Sophie cried great, gulping, unladylike sobs that tore at Quint’s insides. She obviously still had feelings for Reddington. That’s why she’d never married; she’d spent years pining away for the man who’d stolen her heart. And now that Reddington had returned, he’d hurt her again.

Quint knew what he would do. Reddington’s fate was sealed.

When she quieted, she whispered, “I’ve ruined your shirt.”

“Ruin them all you like, if it makes you feel better. I never pay attention to my clothing anyway.”

“I cannot believe I cried. I never cry.”

“Everyone cries, Sophie. Lacrimation is a perfectly normal, necessary function. And I know you’re not a woman prone to weeping and falling apart.”

She drew in an unsteady breath. “Thank you.”

“Me? I’ve done nothing.” Less than nothing, if such a thing were possible outside of mathematics.

“Just sitting here,” she said, laying her palm on his jaw. “Hearing your voice utter words such as
lacrimation
. . . it calms me.”

“Shall I detail the lacrimal apparatus for you, explain how tears work?”

“Yes,” she sighed, relaxing against him. “I love listening to you talk.”

Quint was more than happy to oblige her.

 

 

When they arrived at Quint’s house, he insisted on carrying her inside. She tried to walk, but he would not be dissuaded—and after the tender way he’d indulged her on the ride home she was loath to argue. So she pressed her face into his throat and held on, the familiar smell of him stealing into her lungs to calm her.

He’d made so much progress in the last two weeks. From being terrified to step foot outside his house, to now taking carriage rides and walking through the gardens. Before long he’d be riding his horse down Rotten Row at the fashionable hour.

“We never found Tolbert,” she said as he easily climbed the terrace steps.

“Forget Tolbert. He is not the man you’re after.”

How was Quint so certain? Something about Tolbert bothered her. Was it merely because she did not like him, or was it more?

“Quint, I owe it to the women—”

“And you will. But not tonight.” He strode inside, kicked the door shut with his boot. “Tonight you’re mine.”

His staff abed, the house was utterly still as he took the stairs. Seconds later they were in his chambers, where he laid her on top of the bed linens. He sat to remove his boots, then went to the dresser for a condom, which he placed on the small table by the bed. She was content to watch him, on her side with her hands folded beneath her cheek, as he removed his waistcoat and cravat. He pulled his shirt over his head, then peeled down his trousers. He was strong and big, his half-hard arousal bobbing between muscled thighs, and the sight of him took her breath away.

He started with her boots, then set to work on the rest of her clothing, saying nothing, his expression serious and determined. When she was completely naked, he stretched out on top of her, bare skin to bare skin. He felt delicious.

His mouth found hers, and he kissed her, softly, with reassurance. She wished she knew what he was thinking—not that she planned to stop what he was doing in order to ask. They both seemed to realize this was not a time for words, that actions were more important at the moment. His lips coaxed hers for what seemed like hours, and he soon nibbled and teased all the hurt and anger right out of her.