Page 46 of Lady Sophia's Lover
Although she was tempted to point out that she would never have the opportunity to acquire such a taste, Sophia nodded obediently and drank. “I like the shape of the glass,” she commented while the champagne trickled down her throat.
“Do you?” A mischievous sparkle entered his eyes. “That style is called the coupe. It was modeled after Marie Antoinette’s breast.”
Sophia gave him a reproving glance. “You are wicked, Mr. Cannon,” she said, and he cackled in delight.
A new voice entered the conversation. “It wasnotmodeled after Marie Antoinette’s breast. Grandfather is trying to shock you.” The speaker was Ross, austerely handsome in his evening clothes, a black mask dangling in his fingers. His teeth flashed in a smile so easy and charming that Sophia’s breath caught. There was no man who could equal him tonight, no one who possessed his mixture of elegance and rugged masculinity.
Trying to conceal her reaction to him, Sophia took a deep swallow of cold champagne, and choked on the icy burn. “Good evening, Sir Ross,” she said hoarsely, her eyes watering. She stood awkwardly, looking for a place to deposit her half-filled glass.
“Well, Grandfather,” Ross continued, “I should have known you would be doing your best to corrupt Miss Sydney.”
“I would hardly call a good bottle of Rheimscorruption,” Cannon replied defensively. “Why, it is a health tonic! As the French say, champagne is the universal medicine.”
“That is the first time I’ve ever heard you agree with the French, sir.” The amusement lingered in Ross’s eyes as he caught Sophia’s wrist, preventing her from leaving. “Stay and finish your champagne, little one,” he said softly. “As far as I’m concerned, you may have anything you desire.”
Flushing, Sophia tugged at her wrist, conscious of the elderly man’s attention on them. “I desire to return to my duties, sir.”
To her disbelief, Ross lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm, right in front of his grandfather. Their relationship couldn’t have been more clear if he had proclaimed it from a podium.
“Sir Ross,” she said softly, shocked.
He held her gaze deliberately, informing her silently that he was no longer going to conceal his feelings for her.
Unnerved, Sophia handed her glass to him. “I must go,” she said breathlessly. “Please excuse me.” As she left with great haste, Ross remained with his grandfather, watching her so intently that she could feel the heat of his gaze on her back.
Glancing at his grandfather, Ross raised his brows expectantly. “Well?”
“It is a good match,” Cannon said, pouring more champagne with obvious relish. “She is a pleasant girl without pretensions. Much like her grandmother. Have you sampled her charms yet?”
Ross smiled at the abrupt question. “If I had, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“I think you have,” the old man said, regarding him over the rim of the glass. “And if she is anything like her grandmother was, you had a fine time indeed.”
“You old fox. Don’t say that you and Sophia Jane…?”
“Oh, yes.” The memory appeared to be a delicious one. Lost in private reflections, Cannon gently rolled the stem of the champagne glass between his timeworn fingers. “For years I’ve loved her,” he said softly. “I should have tried harder to win her. Don’t let anything come between you and the woman you love, my boy.”
The smile vanished from Ross’s face, and he replied gravely, “No, sir.”
As Sophia strode across the stone-and-marble-paved floor of the great hall, she saw a dark figure detaching itself from the shadows of a domed alcove. It was a man wearing a black silk mask, dressed in evening wear like the other guests. He was young and strapping, with broad shoulders and a slim waist—the same unusually powerful build that most of the Bow Street runners possessed. What was such a man doing far away from the drawing room? Sophia paused uncertainly. “Sir? May I assist you?”
He took a long time to respond. Finally he approached, stopping within an arm’s length of her. The eyes behind the mask were a bright jewel-blue, mesmerizing in their intensity. When he spoke, his voice was low and hoarse. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Puzzled, Sophia tilted her head as she gazed at him. Something about him made her uneasy, her nerves thrilling with a sense of dangerous awareness. The mask concealed most of his face, but there was no disguising the bold jut of his nose or the generous shape of his mouth. His brown hair was short and neatly brushed, and his skin was unusually swarthy for a gentleman.
“How may I help you?” she asked cautiously.
“What is your name?”
“Miss Sydney, sir.”
“You are the housekeeper here?”
“Only for tonight. I work for Sir Ross Cannon at Bow Street.”
“Bow Street is too dangerous a place for you,” he said, sounding annoyed.
He was drunk, she thought, and inched backward.
