Lady Sophia's Lover (Bow Street Runners #2)(22)

“Tell me,” she said, bending over the fragrant blossoms, “how did a man who was born into a distinguished family come to serve as a chief magistrate?”

Sir Ross’s gaze touched her profile as he replied. “My father insisted that I train for a profession, rather than lead a life of indolence. To please him, I studied the law. In the midst of my education, my father died in a hunting accident, and I left my studies to act as the head of the family. My interest in the law did not fade, however. It had become clear to me that there was much to be done in the areas of policing and judicial methods. Eventually I accepted an appointment at the Great Marlboro Street office, and soon thereafter I was asked to transfer to the Bow Street office and take over the leadership of the runners.”

The old woman who stood at the head of the flower cart regarded Sophia with a smile partitioning the leathery terrain of her face.

“Good morning, dearie.” She extended a little bunch of violets to Sophia and spoke to Sir Ross. “A pretty tart, she. Ye should make ‘er yer trouble ’n‘ strife.”

Sophia tucked the tiny bunch of violets in the side of her bonnet and fumbled at the little purse tied to her waist, intending to pay the wizened little woman.

Sir Ross stopped Sophia with a light touch on her arm and gave the flower seller some coins from his own pocket. “I want a perfect rose,” he told her. “Pink.”

“Aye, Sir Ross.” Grinning to reveal a row of broken brown teeth, the flower seller handed him a lovely, half-blooming pink rose, its petals still sparkling with morning dew.

Woodenly Sophia accepted the rose from Sir Ross and lifted it to her nose. The rich, powdery fragrance filled her nostrils. “It’s lovely,” she said stiffly. “Thank you.”

As they walked away from the flower cart, Sophia picked her way carefully across a patch of broken pavement. She felt Sir Ross’s steadying hand on her upper arm, and it took all her will to keep from shaking him off.

“Did that woman call me a tart?” she asked, wondering if she should have taken offense.

Sir Ross smiled slightly. “In street cant, that is considered a compliment. They attach no negative meaning to the word.”

“I see. There was something else she said… what does ‘trouble and strife’ mean?”

“It’s the Cockney term for ‘wife.’ ”

“Oh.” Uncomfortably she focused on the ground before them as they walked. “The Cockney way of speaking is quite fascinating, isn’t it?” she babbled, trying to fill the silence. “Almost like a foreign language, really. I must confess, I don’t understand half the things I hear at market.”

“That,” came his dry rejoinder, “is probably a good thing.”

When they returned to the kitchen of Bow Street No. 4, Eliza was waiting, a sheepish smile on her face. “Thank you, Miss Sophia. I am sorry that I couldn’t go to market.”

“That’s perfectly all right” Sophia said evenly. “You must take care of your knee so that it will heal properly.”

Eliza’s eyes widened when she saw that Sir Ross had accompanied Sophia. “Oh, sir… how very kind of you! I am very sorry to make so much trouble!”

“No trouble at all,” he said.

Eliza’s gaze locked onto the pink rose in Sophia’s hand with keen attention. Although the cook-maid forbore to comment, the speculation in her eyes was obvious. Carefully Eliza lifted a few objects from the market basket and hobbled toward the dry larder. Her voice floated behind her. “Did they have all the ingredients for the seed cake, Miss Sophia? The caraway and rye, and the currants for the top?”

“Yes,” Sophia replied as the cook-maid disappeared into the larder. “But we could find no red currants, and—”

Suddenly her words were smothered into silence as Sir Ross pulled her into his arms. His lips descended to hers in a kiss so tender and carnal that she could not help responding. Stunned, she struggled to retain her hatred of him, to remember the wrongs of the past, but his lips were utterly warm and compelling, and her thoughts scattered crazily. The pink rose dropped from her nerveless fingers. Sophia swayed against him, groping for his hard shoulders in a futile bid for balance. His tongue searched her mouth… delicious… sweetly intimate. Sophia inhaled sharply and tilted her head back in utter surrender, her entire existence distilled to this one burning moment.

Through the pounding heartbeat in her ears she dimly heard Eliza’s concerned voice echoing from the larder. “No red currants? But what will we top the seed cake with?”

Sir Ross released Sophia’s mouth, leaving her lips moist and kiss-softened. His face remained close to hers, and Sophia felt as if she were drowning in the silver pools of his eyes. His hand came to the side of her face, his ringers curving over her cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. Somehow Sophia managed to answer Eliza. “We f-found golden currants instead—”

As soon as the words left her mouth, Sir Ross kissed her again, his tongue exploring, teasing. Her groping fingers touched the back of his neck, where the thick black hair curled against his nape. Sensation rustled through her, spurring her pulse to an intemperate pace. Taking advantage of her surrender, he kissed her more aggressively, hunting for the deepest, sweetest taste of her. As her knees weakened, his arms wrapped securely around her, supporting her body as he continued to ravish her mouth.