How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(82)

“Get behind the drape.” The earl shoved her toward the window. “Don’t look at me like that. You were quite content there a moment ago.”

Sophia loathed his dictatorial tone and rough handling. She rubbed at the spot where he’d left a bruising sting around her arm.

“Look, you little fool,” he growled, “a forced marriage will never be my fate. And I trust you don’t wish to ruin your reputation entirely. Get behind the damned curtain.”

Sophia scowled at him as she sheltered behind the velvet drapery. The moment she drew the fabric across her body, the study door swung open.

“Winship?” the earl called out. “Good God, man, it’s been an age. I wasn’t sure you were still among the living.”

“That must be why your housekeeper was so reluctant to admit me.” The visitor’s voice was as rich and smooth as warm honey. But there was more underneath, a note of barely leashed ire.

“Well, you’re here now. Care for a scotch?” Westby seemed oblivious to the thread of fury in the man’s tone.

The clink of crystal indicated the earl had turned his attention to the liquor trolley. Sophia sensed the other man moving, the rustle of clothing and thud of his footsteps as he circled the room.

“Did you rip this ribbon off a lady, or did she offer it as a token?” The visitor’s voice was humming with anger.

Westby let out an ugly bark of laughter. “Let the fripperies fall where they may, I always say.”

Sophia held her breath. She needed to hear the stranger speak again. Something about his voice was oddly familiar.

“You bloody knave, where is she?” He no longer attempted to hide his anger, and Sophia no longer doubted his identity. Westby might call him Winship, but the man’s appealing voice gave him away as Jasper Grey, her brother’s theater friend.

“What the blasted hell. I don’t—” The earl began to sputter before his words cut off, followed by a sickening wallop of flesh colliding with bone.

“Phyllida is besotted with you, as you well know. Tell me where she is, and I’ll consider letting you live.” Mr. Grey’s tone had tempered to a deadly calm.

“Liddy? What business would I have with your sister? Check the bloody nursery.”

A struggle ensued, grunts and movement, then the thud of a body hitting a solid piece of furniture. The desk?

“Where is she, Westby?”

“I have . . . no”—the earl’s voice emerged on a breathless choke, as if something, or someone, was cutting off his air—“idea.”

“In that case, letting you live seems far too generous.”

Sophia fumbled with the drapery, trying to disentangle herself. Westby deserved a walloping, but Mr. Grey would suffer far more if he assaulted a powerful aristocrat.

“Mr. Grey!” she shouted and finally found an opening in the thick fall of velvet fabric.

Both men froze when she emerged. Westby lay atop his desk, face pink with exertion, as Jasper Grey leaned over him, a muscled forearm braced across the earl’s throat.

Mr. Grey was just as she recalled him, tall and lean, with tumbling chestnut hair and striking gray eyes, as cool as a January breeze.

“Miss Ruthven?” The infamous actor squinted at her. “What the hell are you doing in this bastard’s study?” He scowled down at the earl, then straightened and faced her. “I had no idea you possessed such wretched judgement, Sophia.”

“And I had no idea murder came so easily to you, Mr. Grey.”

They both cast a glance at the Earl of Westby, who’d sat up and begun clawing at his necktie to loosen its folds.

“There, you see. He’s alive. I’m not quite a murderer yet.”

“What in heaven’s name is going on?” The earl’s sister skidded to a halt in the study doorway. “The housemaid nearly fainted.”

Sophia scooted into the recess of the bay window, hoping to escape notice.

After an assessing glance at her brother, Lady Vivian turned her gaze on Mr. Grey, a grin curving her lips. “Winship,” she purred as she approached, “why are you in such a state? Come and have tea with us to soothe your nerves. We’ve missed your company at Westby House.”

This Sophia remembered about Jasper Grey too. The man had a way with women. Not only did they buzz about him, but he seemed to exude a calming effect too. On the day she’d met him, he’d turned an angry woman into a fawning, cooing fool with a few sweet words. The second time she’d seen him, as lead actor in one of her brother’s plays, his effect had been even more potent. Ladies in the audience swooned and the clamor to visit him backstage ended with one young woman crying over her trampled hat.

Now Lady Vivian wore the same look other ladies did around him—a sort of blissful, awestruck hunger.

“Leave us, Viv,” the earl commanded in a rusty bark. “Close the door behind you.”

She shot her brother a look of concern and offered their visitor another simpering grin before doing as Westby instructed.

When Sophia emerged from the window nook, Mr. Grey lifted his arm, and Westby shrunk back as if to avoid a blow.

“Let me take you out of here.” Mr. Grey crooked his fingers, bidding her to come toward him.

“You,” the earl began, scooting a safe distance away before shoving a finger in the air toward Mr. Grey, “get out of my house. Immediately.” He turned his attention toward Sophia, skimming her face before gaping at her breasts. “Do return another time for your kiss.”