Lady Sophia's Lover

CHAPTER 6

Ross was crumbling steadily. It seemed impossible to fortify her hatred, and that realization filled her with despair.I'm sorry, John , she thought bleakly. Iam failing you. You deserve better than this . But for now, she was going to set aside her plans for vengeance. She had no choice. Later she would think about it all, and decide what to do.

"I will look after him," Sophia said. "Give me your instructions, Dr. Linley."

He answered readily. "The dressing must be changed twice a day. Apply it to the wound bed just as you saw me do tonight. If you notice a purulent drainage or foul odor, or if the shoulder turns red and swollen, send for me. Also, if the area right around the wound becomes hot to the touch compared to the surrounding skin, I will wish to know immediately." He paused to smile at Sir Ross, who was beginning to stir and blink. "Serve him the usual sickroom pap--beef tea, milk toast, mulled eggs--and for God's sake, limit his coffee so that he will rest." Still smiling, Linley bent to place a hand on Sir Ross's good shoulder. "I'm done with you tonight, my friend, though I will return in a day or two to torment you further. Now I will go tell Sir Grant that he is allowed to see you. I suspect he is waiting most impatiently downstairs."

The doctor left the room, his footsteps quiet for such a tall man. "What a pleasant gentleman," Sophia remarked.

"Yes," Eliza agreed with a chuckle, "and Dr. Linley is unmarried as well. Many fine ladies in London want his services, both professional and personal. Whoever brings him to scratch will be a lucky woman."

"What do you mean by personal services?" Sophia asked, perplexed. "Surely you are not referring to--"

"Oh, yes," the cook-maid said slyly. "They say Dr. Linley is skilled in the bedroom arts as well as--"

"Eliza," Sir Ross interrupted grumpily, "if you must engage in prurient gossip, please do it in a room where I am not forced to listen." He scowled at both women, his gaze settling on Sophia. "Surely there is something better for the two of you to discuss than 'bedroom arts.' "

Sophia's laughing gaze met Eliza's. "He is quite right," she said. "We should not lower ourselves to gossip in front of Sir Ross." She paused before adding mischievously, "You can tell me the rest about Dr. Linley when we're in the kitchen."

As the ache in his shoulder subsided to a continuous pain, Ross accepted Sophia's help in undressing. He did as much as possible by himself, but the effort soon exhausted him. By the time she had settled a white linen nightshirt over his head and helped to guide his injured arm through the sleeve, he was sore and depleted. "Thank you," he muttered, settling back against the pillows with a grunt of pain.

Sophia straightened the covers and brought them to his midriff. Her gaze searched his, her eyes dark with concern and some other, unfathomable emotion. "Sir Grant is waiting just outside the door. Will you see him now, or shall I tell him to return later?"

"I'll see him." A sigh escaped Ross. He did not want to talk with Morgan or anyone else. He wanted silence, peace, and Sophia's gentle presence beside him.

Instinctively she began to reach for him, then hesitated. Not for the first time, Ross sensed her inner struggle, a conflict between intimacy and repulsion, as if she were determined to deny herself something she wanted badly. She extended her hand to stroke his forehead and smooth back his hair with cool fingertips. "Don't talk with him for long," she murmured. "You need to rest. I will return soon with a supper tray."

"I'm not hungry."

She ignored his words as she left, and Ross grinned ruefully at the sure knowledge that she was not going to desist until he ate something.

Sir Grant Morgan entered the bedroom, ducking his head beneath the doorframe. His gaze flickered over Ross, lingering at the bulky shape of the wound dressing at his shoulder. "How are you?" he asked quietly, lowering himself to the bedside chair.

"Never better," Ross said. "The injury is trifling. I'll be back at work by tomorrow, or the next day at the latest."

For some reason Morgan laughed gruffly. "Damn you, Cannon. I'd like to know whatyou would say to me , had I taken the foolish risk that you did this evening."

"If I hadn't joined in the pursuit, Butler would have gotten away."

"Oh, yes," Morgan said sardonically. "Sayer said you were a hell of an impressive sight. According to him, you climbed up to the roof like a damned cat and followed Butler right over to the next building. A five-foot jump between parapets, with certain death awaiting if you lost your footing. And after Butler fired, no one knew you'd been hit, because you kept going until you caught him. Sayer claims you're a bloody hero." Morgan's tone made it clear that he did not agree with the assessment.

"I did not fall," Ross pointed out, "and all has ended well. Let it rest at that."

"Let it rest?" Although Morgan was still controlling his temper fairly well, his face was covered with a betraying flush. "What right have you to risk your life in such a manner? Do you know what would become of Bow Street if you had died tonight? I need not remind you of all the people who would be only too happy to use your demise as an excuse to dismantle the runners and turn the whole of London over to private thief-takers and crime lords such as Nick Gentry."

"You wouldn't let that happen."

"I couldn't stop it," Morgan countered. "I haven't your skills, your knowledge, or your political influence--not yet, at any rate. Your death would jeopardize everything we've worked for--and that you should risk so much because of awoman , for God's sake--"

"What did you say?" Ross demanded. "You think I went on that rooftop because of a woman?"

"Because of Miss Sydney." Morgan's unwavering green eyes focused on him. "You've changed since she's come here, and tonight is a prime example of that. Although I won't pretend to understand what you're thinking--"

"Thank you," Ross muttered darkly.

"--it is clear that you are struggling with some problem. My guess is that it stems from your interest in Miss Sydney." The hard planes of Morgan's face relaxed as he viewed Ross with a perceptive gaze. "If you want her, take her," he said quietly. "God knows she would have you. That fact is obvious to everyone."

Ross brooded and made no reply. He was not the most self-aware of men, preferring to examine other people's motives and emotions in lieu of his own. To his uncomfortable surprise, Ross realized that Morgan was correct. He had indeed acted recklessly, out of frustration and yearning and perhaps even a strain of guilt. It seemed so long ago that his wife had died, and the pain he had carried for five years had faded. Lately there had been days at a time when he didn't even think about her, yet he had sincerely loved Eleanor. However, the memories had become distant and pale ever since Sophia had entered his life. Ross could not remember if he had felt this passionately about his wife. Surely it was indecent to compare them, but he couldn't help it. Eleanor, so willowy, pale, fragile...and Sophia, with her golden beauty and feminine vitality.

He turned an expressionless face to Grant Morgan. "My interest in Miss Sydney is my own concern," he said flatly. "And as for my somewhat precipitous actions this evening, from now on I will try to limit my activities to those of a more cerebral nature."

"And leave the thief-taking to the runners--asI have learned to do," Morgan said sternly.

"Yes. However, I wish to correct you on one point--I am not irreplaceable. The time is not long in coming when you will easily be able to fill my shoes."

Morgan grinned suddenly, glancing down at his own gigantic feet. "Perhaps you're right. It's the fellow who has to fillmy shoes who will have the most difficulty."

A light tap came at the door, and Sophia entered cautiously. She looked tousled and tempting, her hair coming loose from its pins. She carried a small tray with a covered dish, and a glass of what appeared to be barley water. Despite Ross's weariness, he felt his spirits surge in her presence.

Sophia smiled pleasantly at Morgan. "Good evening, Sir Grant. If you would like some supper, it would be no trouble to bring up another tray."

"No, thank you," Morgan replied pleasantly. "I will return home to my wife, as she is expecting me." Bidding them both good-bye, Morgan made to depart. He paused at the door, his gaze meeting Ross's over Sophia's head. "Consider what I said," he remarked meaningfully.

The pain in Ross's shoulder made rest difficult. He woke frequently and considered taking a spoonful of the opiate syrup that had been left on his night table.

But he rejected the idea, for he disliked being muddle-headed. He thought of Sophia sleeping a few rooms away, then conjured up a number of excuses he might use to summon her to his bedside. He was bored and uncomfortable, and he wanted her. The only thing that kept him from calling for her was his understanding that she needed to rest.

When dawn crept timidly over the city and sent its weak gray light through the half-open curtains, Ross was relieved to hear sounds of people stirring in the house. Sophia's light tread as she went to Ernest's tiny attic room to awaken him...the housemaids carrying coal pails and lighting the grates...Eliza's broken footsteps as she headed toward the kitchen.

Finally Sophia entered the bedroom, her face scrubbed and glowing, her hair pulled back in a thick plait that had been coiled and pinned at the nape of her neck. She carried a tray of supplies, set them on the night table, and came to the bedside.

"Good morning." Gently she laid her hand on his forehead, then pressed it against the beard-roughened space beneath his jawbone. "You're a bit feverish," she observed. "I will change the wound dressing, then have the maids fill a tepid bath. Dr. Linley said that a bath was acceptable as long as you don't get the bandages wet."

"Are you going to help me bathe?" Ross asked, enjoying the sudden tide of color that washed over her face.

"My nursing duties do not extend that far," Sophia replied primly, although amusement tugged at the corners of her lips. "If you require assistance with your bath, Ernest will provide it." She stared at him closely, apparently fascinated by the sight of his dark-stubbled face. "I've never seen you unshaven before."

Ross rubbed a hand over his scratchy jaw. "In the mornings I'm as prickly as a hedgehog."

She considered him appraisingly. "You look rather dashing, actually. Like a pirate."

He watched as Sophia busied herself, drawing the curtains aside to admit fresh daylight, pouring hot water into a washbasin, and carefully washing her hands. Although she tried to appear matter-of-fact about the situation, it was evident that she was not accustomed to being alone with a man in his bedroom. She did not quite meet his eyes when she returned to the bedside and laid out the materials for the new dressing.

"Sophia," he murmured, "if you are uncomfortable..."

"No," she said earnestly, her gaze flying to his. "I want to help you."

Ross could not suppress a mocking smile. "Your face is red." The blush remained, but a dimple appeared in her cheek while she uncovered the pot of honey and drizzled the amber liquid onto a square of felt. "If I were you, Sir Ross, I would not tease someone who is about to doctor you."

Ross fell obligingly silent as she reached for the buttons on his nightshirt and began to unfasten them. With every inch of hair-matted chest that was revealed, the telltale color bloomed brighter in Sophia's face. She worked carefully, fumbling a little with the buttons. Ross became absurdly aware of the sound of his breathing. He fought to keep the movement of his lungs slow and regular, although his pulse had shot into a hard-driven rhythm. He could not remember the last time a woman had undressed him. It seemed the most erotic experience he'd ever had, Sophia leaning over him in the silent room, her brow puckered with concentration. The scent of honey hung in the air, mingling with Sophia's fresh, feminine smell.

She freed the last carved bone button of his nightshirt and tugged it to the side, exposing his bandaged shoulder. Sophia glanced at the expanse of his bare chest, but her face did not reveal her reaction. Ross wondered if she preferred a man to be smooth-chested. Her lover had been fair-haired and quoted poetry...well,he was as dark as a satyr, and he was damned if he could remember a single line of verse. He stirred uncomfortably, the atmosphere becoming heated and tense. The weight of the covers concealed his lower half, but even so, his rising erection made a distinct hill that Sophia would easily notice if she happened to glance in the right direction.

Ross heard the sudden unsteadiness of her breathing as she began on the bandage, reaching beneath his shoulder to discover the tucked-in end of the cloth. All at once it became too much for him--the soft, fragrant woman, the bed, his own half-naked condition. His intellect was vanquished by primitive male urges. He was filled with the need to take, to claim, to master. He made a gruff sound and caught Sophia around the waist and tugged her onto the bed with him.

She gasped as he half rolled and pinned her beneath him. "Oft...Sir Ross, what..." Her hands came up to his chest, fluttering like a panicked bird's wings. She wanted to push him away, but she did not want to injure his shoulder further. "I-I don't want to hurt you--"

"Then don't move," he said huskily, and lowered his head.

He caught her lips with his, searching for the deepest taste of her. At first Sophia seemed paralyzed. He savored the delicate fire of her mouth, angling his lips, the kiss turning wet and supple. She moaned and surrendered almost magically, kissing him as if she wanted to consume him.

Her voluminous skirts mounded between them, and he tugged at them impatiently, then slid his leg between hers. Her felt her fingers on his chest, stroking through the black curls, finding the bed of muscle beneath.

That touch, simple as it was, gave him a pleasure akin to agony. Hungrily Ross took his mouth from hers and kissed the side of her throat, moving from the hollow beneath her ear to the juncture of her neck and shoulder. She arched against him, her eyes closed, her face flushed. "S-someone will come--"

"No one is coming," he said, distracting her with kisses while his fingers moved urgently along the buttons of her gown. "If someone approaches, I'll hear the floor creak."

While she lay gasping beneath him, he parted her gown and pulled at the ribbon of her chemise. His large hand slid between the gaping muslin seams and found incredibly soft skin, the tender curve of her breast. He circled his thumb over the fragile peak until it hardened into a rosy point.

Sophia turned her face into his throat, her frantic breaths striking his skin. "Ross..."

The sound of his name on her lips was wildly exciting. Ross bent his head over her chest. Using the tip of his tongue, he traced a damp circle around the fragile edge where the pink of her nipple met the paleness of surrounding skin. The little bud turned darker, harder, and Sophia's entire body stiffened. Slowly he licked the crest in luxurious strokes that caused her to lift higher against him.

"Please..." Her hands clasped the back of his head, urging him downward. "Please, Ross."

"Do you want more?"

"Yes. Do it again,oh, yes --"

She whimpered as he bent and took her nipple into his mouth. He sucked steadily, nibbled with his teeth, while his fingers toyed with the hardening peak of her other breast. Sophia's fingers tangled in his hair, and she brought his head back to hers. She kissed him with an almost shocking intensity, as if nothing existed except the two of them on this bed. Her hands wandered over his back, exploring every plane and rise of muscle.

"Sophia," Ross said raggedly. "How many lonely years I've waited for you."

Her dazed blue eyes stared into his, her pupils dilating as she felt him pulling up the mass of her skirts. He found the shape of her knee, the tight band of the garter holding up her stockings, the frayed edge of her muslin drawers. His palm swept upward, locating the springy cushion at the top of her thighs. The hair prickled softly against the muslin, and Ross cupped her tenderly before moving to the curve of her belly. He found the tapes of her drawers, pulled them loose, and eased his hand beneath the layer of fabric. He pressed words of reassurance against her skin, his fingertips trailing into the damp triangle between her thighs. "So beautiful, Sophia, so sweet...how soft you are. Open for me. Yes."

Carefully he parted the swollen folds and stroked a gentle fingertip between them. Sophia jolted against him, and his hand stilled inside her drawers. "No, no," he whispered, "I won't hurt you. Let me."

He kissed her for a long time until she relaxed once more, and his fingers slid back between her legs. This time she did not resist. He brushed kisses across her parted lips, then moved to her ear and caught the delicate lobe in his teeth. "I want to make love to you," he murmured.

She hid her face against his neck while his hand continued to play softly. "Yes," she said, and burst into tears.

The sudden outbreak of emotion stunned him. Deducing that she was afraid, that she thought this experience would end as the last one had, he cradled her in his arms and kissed the salty wet curve of her cheek. His voice was rough with remorse. "Don't cry. Do you want to wait? It's all right, Sophia."

She held onto him with surprising strength, recklessly pressing her body against his. "I don't want to wait. Do it now.Now ."

The blonde curls pushed impatiently against his hand, inflaming him, and he responded with a groan of need. He inserted his finger into the opening of her body and thrust deep, while her saturated flesh clasped his knuckle. Sophia sobbed and squirmed, her mouth pressing against his neck in hot, open kisses. His finger withdrew from the tender folds between her thighs, and she jerked against him with a protesting cry. "Easy," he whispered. "Be patient, sweetheart."

"Please," she whimpered. "I need you. Please."

The shaft of his cock bobbed heavily as he settled himself atop her. He pushed the taut crest against her lush curls, his heart pounding fiercely as he began to enter her. "Put your arms around me," he said hoarsely.

Suddenly he heard a quiet sound...the betraying creak of the hallway floor, indicating that someone was walking toward his bedroom.

Savagely Ross considered killing whoever it was. After years of waiting, he had finally found his woman, his mate, and she was in his bed. He was in no mood to be interrupted. He rolled onto his side, and vicious pain knifed through his shoulder. He welcomed the excruciating ache, since it helped to distract him from the tormenting throb of his loins.

Sophia clung to him desperately. "Don't stop, don't, don't--"

Ross pulled her close and crushed his lips against her forehead. When he could manage to speak, his voice was raw with frustration. "Sophia, someone is coming. The door is unlocked. If you don't want to be seen with me like this, you have to get out of bed."

It took several seconds for her to comprehend his words. Abruptly the blood drained from her face. She clambered out of bed in a panicked flurry of sheets, covers, and rumpled skirts.

Jerking the sheets up to his waist, Ross rolled onto his stomach. He smothered a grunt of fury against the mattress. As he willed his tremendous erection to subside--without success--he heard the sounds of Sophia adjusting her clothing. She rushed to the washstand and began to make a great show of washing her hands, as if she had been busy preparing to change the wound dressing.

A quick knock came at the door, and Ernest's cheerful face appeared. The boy was oblivious to the thick tension in the room. "Good morning, Sir Ross! Eliza sent me to tell ye that yer mother will arrive soon. A footman just brought word o' it."

"Wonderful," Ross said through his clenched teeth. "Thank you, Ernest."

"Ye're welcome, sir!"

The errand boy scampered away, the door yawning wide open in his wake.

Ross lifted his head to stare at Sophia, who refused to turn and face him. The splashing of her hands ceased, and she spoke while staring into the turbulent water. "I-I've just realized that it would make more sense for me to change your bandage after you bathe. I will send Ernest up with some breakfast, and Lucie will fill the hip bath."

"Sophia," he said softly. "Come here."

She ignored the command and fled, her high-pitched voice floating behind her. "I'll return soon..."

Despite his acute frustration, Ross could not prevent a rumble of moody laughter in his chest. "Go, then," he said, dropping his head back on the pillow. "You can't avoid me forever."

Sophia raced to her room and shut the door, her heart pounding so violently that her chest ached. "Oh, God," she whispered. She wandered dreamlike to the small, rectangular looking glass on her dresser. Her hair was disheveled, her lips swollen. There was a scrape on the side of her throat. Touching it with curiosity, Sophia realized that the abrasion had been made by the bristle of Sir Ross's night-beard. How strange it was that her skin had been marked by a man's kisses, a physical sign of how utterly he had claimed her.

Laying her forearms on the dresser-top, Sophia closed her eyes and groaned. She had never felt so tortured, her body feverish with unfulfilled desire, her heart aching with the knowledge that she was a weak-willed traitor. Once Ross had started kissing her, she had yielded without another thought. She had intended to become his lover, but her wish for revenge had undergone a devastating reversal. She no longer wanted to punish him, no matter how much he deserved it. She wanted to love him, to give him every part of herself...and that would result not in his destruction, but in her own.

When Ross was finished with breakfast and his bath, Sophia ventured upstairs once more. He was back in bed, looking impatient, his fingers delving into the newly changed bed linens. She was transfixed by the sight of him shaved and damp, his hair brushed back, his skin tan against the snowy white pillows. The blue-gray velvet of his dressing robe made his eyes look like distilled moonlight.

He met her gaze without smiling. "I don't know how much more of this I can stand," he muttered.

At first Sophia thought he was referring to the intimacy between them, and she colored deeply. Then she realized that he was chafing at his bedridden condition. "The extra rest will benefit you," she said. "You do not spend enough time in bed."

"You could remedy that."

"I meantsleeping" A nervous laugh escaped her. "Sir Ross, if you insist on embarrassing me, I will have to ask Eliza to change your dressing."

"No, don't." His lips twitched with a faint smile. "I'll be good."

He kept his promise, remaining still while she applied a new dressing. Sophia frowned as she finished her handiwork, having noticed that the wound looked red and swollen, although there was no sign of foul drainage. She touched Ross's forehead, which felt dry and hot. "Your fever is a bit higher than before. How do you feel?"

"I want to get out of bed and do something."

Sophia shook her head. "You'll stay there until Dr. Linley advises otherwise. In the meanwhile, I think that you should not allow your visitors to tire you."

"Good," he said wryly. "That will be a convenient excuse to get rid of my family, or they'll sit here and gabble all day."

"Shall I prepare some refreshments?" she asked.

"God, no. That will keep them here longer." "Yes, sir." Although Sophia did not look at Ross, she felt his intent gaze on her.

"Sophia," he asked quietly, "what is the matter?"

She forced her lips into a bright, stiff smile. "Nothing!"

"About what happened earlier--"

To Sophia's intense relief, he was interrupted by the sound of footsteps and the hum of animated voices in the hall. Suddenly Eliza appeared in the doorway. "Sir Ross," she said, "Mrs. Cannon and Master Matthew have arrived--"

"Darling!" A tall, gray-haired woman swished past Eliza and went to the bedside. Her slim body was clad in a gown of sea-green silk; a hint of exotic perfume drifted in her wake. As her long hand caressed the side of Ross's face, the jeweled rings on her fingers glittered richly. Withdrawing to a corner of the room, Sophia viewed Mrs. Catherine Cannon with discreet interest. Ross's mother was not precisely a beauty, but she was so stylish and self-possessed that the overall effect was dazzling.

Ross murmured something to his mother, and she laughed as she sat on the edge of the bed. "Darling boy, I expected to find you gaunt and pale," she exclaimed. "Instead you look as well as I've ever seen you. Why, you've gained weight--almost a stone! It becomes you."

"You may thank Miss Sydney for that," Ross commented, his gaze finding Sophia. "Come forward--I want to introduce you to my mother."

Sophia remained in the corner but curtsied deferentially, giving Catherine a shy smile. "How do you do, Mrs. Cannon?"

The woman sent her a look of friendly scrutiny. "What a charming young woman," she remarked, glancing at Ross with an arched brow. "Rather too pretty to work at a place such as Bow Street."

"Indeed," came a sardonic voice from the doorway. "One wonders at my saintly brother's motives in hiring such a comely wench."

Ross's younger brother, Matthew, stood there in a practiced pose, his weight resting on one leg, his shoulder lodged against the frame. One could easily see the physical resemblance between the two men, who shared the same dark coloring and long, powerful forms. However, Matthew's features were less angular than Ross's, his nose smaller, his chin less defined. Perhaps some women would call Matthew the more handsome of the two, for he retained a boyishness that gave him a certain engaging quality. However, Sophia thought that he looked like a half-baked version of his older brother. Ross was utterly a man, elegant and seasoned and hard. Matthew was a callow imitation.

Glancing at the insolent pup in the doorway, Sophia inclined her head in the slightest of nods. "Mr. Cannon," she murmured.

Ross viewed his brother with a frown. "Stop gaping, Matthew, and come into the room. Where is your wife?"

His mother answered. "Poor Iona has a head cold, and she was afraid of making you ill. She sends her wishes for your swift recovery." Skirting the edge of the room, Sophia curtsied once more. "I will afford you some privacy," she murmured. "Please ring if you need anything, Sir Ross."

As Sophia left the room, Ross glanced speculatively at his brother. He didn't like the way Matthew had referred to her, or the way he had looked at her. Exasperated, he wondered when Matthew would stop viewing every woman he met as a potential conquest.

Although Matthew's wife, Iona, was a lovely girl, it was clear that he had not abandoned his interest in other women. Whether he had ever slept with someone outside his marriage was still open to speculation. But if there was one thing that might possibly have kept him in line, it was the sure knowledge that Ross would not treat his infidelity lightly. Ross managed the financial affairs for the entire Cannon family, and he kept his younger brother on an allowance. If Ross ever had proof of Matthew's infidelity, he would not hesitate to discipline him with all the means at his disposal, including the swift tightening of the purse strings.

"How long hasshe worked here?" Matthew asked.

"Approximately two months."

"Rather inappropriate, is it not, for you to hire a woman like that? You know what people will say--that she is servicing you in more ways than one."

"Matthew," their mother protested in bewilderment, "such insinuations are not necessary."

Matthew responded with a smirk. "Mother, there are certain things a man knows just by looking at a woman. It is obvious that underneath Miss Sydney's exterior, she is a common slut."

Ross found it difficult to contain a flare of fury. His hand clenched around a wad of the bed linens. "You've always been a poor judge of character, Matthew. I'd advise you to keep your mouth shut--and remember that you are a married man."

Matthew stared at him warily. "What the bloody hell do you mean by that?"

"I mean that you seem to have taken an undue interest in my assistant."

"I havenot ," came Matthew's indignant reply. "I merely said--"

"Both of you, cease, I beg you," Catherine intervened with a startled laugh. "It distresses me to no end to hear you argue."

Ross shot an iron-cold glance at his brother. "I will not allow Matthew to insult the members of my household."

Matthew responded with a glare. "Tell me, what is your relationship with Miss Sydney, that you come to her defense so readily?"

Before Ross could reply, Catherine made an irritated sound. "Matthew, I am convinced that you are deliberately trying to annoy Ross! His relationship with Miss Sydney is his own concern, not ours. Now, wait outside the room, please, and let us have a few moments of peace."

"Gladly," Matthew replied in a surly tone. "I have never been much for the sickroom anyway." As soon as he exited the room, Catherine leaned forward intently. "Now, Ross, whatis your relationship with Miss Sydney?"

Ross could not restrain a burst of laughter. "You just said that was my own concern!"

"Well, yes, but I am your mother, and I have a right to know if you have taken an interest in someone."

He grinned at her avid curiosity. "I admit to nothing"

"Ross," she protested. She rolled her eyes and smiled. "Well, it has been a long time since I have heard you laugh. I was beginning to think you had forgotten how. But really, dear...a servant? When you could have your pick of all the well-bred heiresses in England?"

Ross met her gaze directly, aware that the very idea of marrying a member of one's household staff was considered an appalling social transgression. Sexual liaisons with servants were acceptable, but a gentleman would never marry one. Ross did not give a damn. Years of interacting with everyone from royalty to the poverty-stricken had shown him that the class consciousness of his own society was sheer hypocrisy. He had seen that noblemen were capable of committing foul crimes, and that even the lowest street scavengers sometimes behaved with honor.

"Miss Sydney is a viscount's daughter," he told his mother. "Though I wouldn't care if her father had been a rag seller."

His mother made a face. "I fear that working so long at Bow Street has given you some rather democratic sensibilities." Clearly, the remark was not intended as a compliment. "However...a viscount's daughter? One could do worse, I suppose."

"You're making assumptions, Mother," Ross said dryly. "I haven't said that I have any intentions toward her."

"But you do," she returned smugly. "A mother knows these things. Now, tell me how a young woman of supposedly good blood has come to work at Bow Street."

His eyebrows arched into sardonic crescents. "Aren't you going to ask about my wound?"

"I vow to give youanother wound if you do not tell me more about Miss Sydney!"