Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(97)

Whatever was she going to do? How could she begin to tell Gray the truth? Perhaps she might start with that amusing tale of the red-faced bank clerk, how she’d charmed him into releasing five hundred pounds from her trust. She still suspected he’d have a good laugh at that. But then she would have to tell him the source of her remaining one hundred. That it had been won at cards, and a fair bit of it at the Duchess of Aldonbury’s own table. Should she tell Gray she’d been at school with his cousins? Stayed as a guest more than once in their family home? By now, Her Grace would have heard the sordid, albeit false, story of her elopement. She, like every other lady of the ton, would cut Sophia from her acquaintance as a matter of social necessity.

For Sophia, there could be no pretending, no adopting the role of a West Indian planter’s daughter. Even if she could stomach the thought of further deceit—and she was not certain she could, even for Gray—if ever she returned to London, she would be a pariah. Her ruin would be a contagion to anyone connected with her.

She knew she ought to tell Gray the truth. But once she did, all the choices would be his. He might insist on marrying her anyway, thereby destroying his sister’s prospects and his family’s tenuous respectability—everything he’d worked so hard, sacrificed so much to attain. Or … he might let her go.

Sophia buried her face in her hands. How could she tell him? How could she tell him what an inconstant, dishonest, scheming thing she had been, yet still make a claim on his honor? How could she force him to make this choice, between his love for his family and his promises to her?

How would she bear it if he chose them?

The irony of it all. If only she’d have been brave enough to stand up to her parents, to ask Toby to release her from their engagement instead of running away. There would have been scandal, to be sure, but she still would have received the occasional invitation from old friends. And perhaps next Season, she would have attended a ball, a mad crush of a debut, and locked gazes with a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman sporting a roguish smile and an intriguing scar on his chin.

Perhaps he would have asked her to dance.

The sunlight gilded that scar now, as well as the larger one on his chest. How she envied those scars, the indelible marks he bore for love. One for his brother, one for his sister. In some primitive way, Sophia wanted to mark him, too. He might never see it, never know it—but in her heart, he would always be hers.

Rifling quietly through her trunk, she located an inkwell and a small paintbrush. As she settled beside him on the bed, he stirred … but did not wake. Instead, he rolled onto his side, away from her. Perfect. Fortunately, Sophia had a deft touch and a steady hand. And Gray was exhausted and sleeping like the dead. She worked quickly, stealthily to create her mark. Just as she sat back to admire her sadly impermanent handiwork, footsteps pounded above and the cry rang out:

“Land ho!”

“There’s the Aphrodite,” Gray said, squeezed next to her in the jolly boat as a crewman rowed them toward Road Town. Of course, Gray had insisted she and her trunks be the first items taken ashore. He would not have left her behind.

He nodded toward his ship, moored on the other side of the harbor.

“Probably arrived a few days ago now, so they’ll be looking for our arrival. I wouldn’t be surprised to see Bel waiting on the dock.”

“I hope she is not there.” The words popped out. She ventured a glance at him, meeting with the expected frown.

“Why?” he asked. “I thought you looked forward to meeting her.”

“I do,” Sophia lied. “It’s just, I don’t feel ready, dressed like this. I should like to make a better first impression.”

Gray looked resplendent indeed this morning, fitted out in a crisp lawn shirt, dove-gray trousers, and a royal blue coat that barely contained his massive shoulders. He must have been saving the outfit for just this occasion, his triumphant homecoming. Sophia felt drab and common at his side, dressed in her beleaguered sprigged frock. She, too, had an item of truly splendid attire she might have worn. But the silk gown remained wrapped in tissue at the bottom of her trunk. If she was truly going to do this

—tell Gray the whole truth and give him a chance to let her go—well, to look that beautiful hardly seemed fair.

“Shall I introduce you as Jane, then?” He gave her a bemused look. “I can’t even think of you as Jane. It’s the wrong name for you entirely.”

Sophia’s hands curled into fists. He was giving her the perfect opportunity. She might as well do it now. “That’s because it’s not my name.”

His jaw tightened, and his thumb ceased stroking her palm. In an instant, a wall of ice had formed between them.

Sophia forced herself to speak. “It’s my middle name. You see, I … I …”

Her courage failed. “My family always used my middle name.”

His hard expression melted to a grin. “Another thing we have in common.”

He slid an arm about her waist, drawing her close.

Cursing her cowardice, Sophia leaned against him. Just the thought of it… telling him everything, watching him struggle to choose between her and his dreams … She felt her bonnet ribbons constricting about her throat, cutting off her air. Desperation tugged at her, urging her to flee. But this was not London. Tortola was so small, so un-crowded, so unfamiliar to her and known to Gray. From the boat she could see the settlement of Road Town rising up from the harbor like an amphitheater, all the largest buildings crowded near the water. People milled about the docks, nearly all of them shades of brown or ebony. How could a female, fair-skinned interloper like her possibly hope to disappear? Where would she turn, if he let her go?