Miss Crewe slowly set the tankard down, as though refusing a poisoned chalice. She regarded Sophie, her head tilted, eyes narrowing. “Why should either of us matter to you? Surely Carrisford is large enough that you could simply avoid us, if you choose.”
Fury raced like lightning through Sophie’s veins: the sting of the injury was still fresh in her heart. “Because as long as there is one swindler at work in Carrisford, there’s a chance it could happen again—to my family, Miss Crewe. Tome. I am ashamed to admit I spent months quietly ignoring my misgivings about Mr. Verrinder. I let myself believe only the things he said, and not the things he did. And I will bedamnedif I let myself be led astray again by someone with more charm than honesty.”
“Charming, am I?” Miss Crewe echoed, and her smile twisted like a key turning in a lock. She bent closer, and some of the heat came back into her hazel eyes. “If it’s honesty you’re looking for—you really ought to start by being honest with yourself, Miss Roseingrave.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Sophie demurred at once. But her voice shook, giving everything away.
Miss Crewe chuckled, a low throb of a sound that made Sophie’s palms go damp and her mouth go dry. “Aren’t you lying just a little bit about your true motives?”
“You’re the only liar here.”
Miss Crewe went on as if Sophie’d said nothing at all. “You hide in corners, quiet and plain as a sparrow—but I see the way you look at me. My hands, my bosom... my mouth.”
Sophie’s eyes flicked down to each part as it was named. She couldn’t help it.
Rosy lips curled into a knowing smile. Miss Crewe leaned further forward, hardly more than a breath away. Her fingers lifted Sophie’s chin.
Sophie obeyed that gentle pressure quite before she realized what she was doing. The soft, teasing touch made her head spin. Anger was an anchor; she clung to it. “You are trying to distract me,” she said faintly.
Miss Crewe laughed, low and sweet, sliding her hand forward to follow the line of Sophie’s jaw. “Is it working?”
“No,” Sophie lied. She swallowed, and felt the muscles in her throat move beneath Miss Crewe’s palm. “I’ll not be put off so easily.”
Miss Crewe’s eyes burned now, and her voice lowered to a pitch that seemed to pluck at every nerve Sophie had, setting her thrumming. “You can keep following me all around town if you like... but be warned, little sparrow. I may take advantage.”
Miss Crewe leaned down, closed the gap, and kissed her.
Sophie was too aroused and frustrated and furious for prudence, so when Miss Crewe’s lips touched hers she seized the woman to prevent her from trying to escape.
This was precisely the wrong thing to do. It meant Sophie’s hands were now clutching at Miss Crewe’s shoulders, pulling her closer. She tasted of apples and ale, tart and earthy and intoxicating. Sophie’s gasp for air opened her lips and Miss Crewe did take advantage, as she’d promised—her tongue sank into Sophie’s mouth and swallowed up her helpless moan.
Sophie grew angrier, even as pleasure lured her into its drowning depths. Howdarethis swindler kiss so well?
The kiss became a duel, as Sophie battled to take back control. She slid her hands up and wound strong fingers into those auburn curls, her thumb tracing a demanding line across one perfect cheek. Miss Crewe’s mouth softened as Sophie held her in place—tempted by that softness, Sophie bit lightly but insistently at her rosebud lip.
Miss Crewe made a noise of surprise and pleasure, deep in the back of her throat, and Sophie pressed forward, desperate to taste it for herself.
Miss Crewe tilted back, a feint of yielding so that Sophie wound up pinning her luscious body with all its curves against the arm of the sofa. Sophie had one moment of wild, predatory triumph—and then Miss Crewe slipped one sure hand up from Sophie’s waist, and cupped her clothed breast.
Layers of cloth and stays were no armor against the caress. Sophie nearly went out of her skin with horrified pleasure—and even as her nipple tightened and ached beneath her chemise, she tore herself free and stumbled away, until she stood with her back pressed against the wood of the parlor door.
Miss Crewe stretched languorously, one arm above her head, her hair a ruin, sleek and self-satisfied as a preening tiger. The movement called full attention to the glorious length of her, the dip of her waist, the high, full breasts beneath the worn gray gown.
Sophie’s courage failed her, and she fled.
Chapter Five
Sophie managed to stay close to home—and out of Miss Crewe’s path—for three days. She knew it was cowardly, and tortured herself further by imagining how many nefarious deeds Miss Crewe could undertake in such a span of time. Perhaps by now she’d swindled half the finest families in Carrisford into giving up their gold.
Or their daughters. But presumably the children of the wealthy and well protected were less vulnerable to a ribbon weaver’s appeal than lonely, hungry Sophie Roseingrave, shop owner’s daughter; no pampered, comfortable scion of the local gentry would be so unguarded as to let an argument end with a kiss that still had her nerves sizzling days later.
Or perhaps they were just as susceptible. Perhaps Miss Crewe was even now whispering in the ear of some trembling silk-clad maiden, that siren’s voice offering seductive promises and lustful threats.
Shame and jealousy were a poisonous combination, and they kept Sophie quite sick until her father sent her out with the new panels for the veneer on Mrs. Muchelney’s piano.
The house was as busy as before: Susan was having a singing lesson in the front room, and the boys could be heard in the garden shouting something in delighted rage that Sophie couldn’t quite make out. “It’s Latin—or something like it, anyway,” Mrs. Muchelney sighed, as she led Sophie up the stairs. “Their tutor has been teaching them about Caesar, and now they’ve apparently decided our creek is as good as a Rubicon.”
Sophie peeked out a window where the stairs turned and saw the two boys, leaping back and forth over the small stream, jabbing triumphantly at one another with sticks whenever they ended up on the same side. Oftentimes they’d miss, and end up ankle deep in the wet, which seemed to delight them just as much as when they fought.
