“All those white robes in one place,” he replied, sounding as though he might perish from boredom.
She turned the page. “Ooh! Henges! Shall we learn about those?”
The henges broke him. “Stop. For God’s sake. Stop before I leap from this conveyance not from my own demons but from your eagerness over horned groins.”
“Horned forecourts.”
“I honestly don’t care. Anything but more of the damn masonry.”
She closed the book and looked at him, willing herself to seem displeased with his insistence. “Is there something else you’d prefer to discuss?”
Understanding dawned in his green eyes, followed by irritation, and then what Sophie could only define as respect. “You sneaking minx.”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You did it on purpose.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“To get me to choose a topic of discussion.”
She widened her eyes until they felt as though they might pop out. “Certainly, if you’d like to choose a topic, my lord . . . I wouldn’t deign to eschew conversation.”
He gave a little laugh and stretched his legs, propping his feet up on the bench across from them. “I shall choose a topic, then.”
She did the same, placing her feet on the bench next to his. She clutched the closed book on her lap. “I imagine it won’t be stonework.”
“It will not be.” His attention moved to their feet. “Are the boots comfortable?”
She followed his gaze, considering his great black Hessians next to her smaller grey shoes, ankle height and designed for function rather than fashion. She should dislike the previously owned footwear, but he’d procured it, and somehow that made the boots rather perfect. “Quite,” she replied.
He nodded. “I should have had the doctor look at your feet.”
“They’re perfectly fine.”
“You should have been wearing better shoes.”
“I was not planning for an adventure.”
He looked down at her then. “So you decided to head for your future husband on a whim?”
Oh, dear.
She did not wish to speak of that. She’d never really meant to lie to him. But now, she would seem ridiculous if she confessed the truth—that Robbie wasn’t the purpose of this journey. That the journey had been without purpose until it had begun to seem as though it might be for freedom.
But the Marquess of Eversley would not take well to knowing that he’d rescued her from highwaymen and bounty hunters for the whisper of freedom. So she nodded and lied. “Yes. Sometimes when an idea strikes, you must follow it.”
He raised a brow. “You are headed to, what, propose? Woo him?”
She looked down at her lap, toying at the edges of the pages. “What makes you think he has not already been wooed?”
He crossed one black boot over the other, brushing his foot against hers. “Because you aren’t headed to Mossband in a beautifully appointed carriage, your mother and sisters in tow.”
She couldn’t help but chuckle at that image.
“That is amusing?”
“The idea of my mother and sisters choosing to leave London for little Mossband, even if it were for my wedding.” She shook her head. “We haven’t been back since we left a decade ago.”
He watched her for a long while. “You haven’t seen Robbie in ten years?”
“No,” she said, feeling quite trapped.
“Have you exchanged a lifetime of letters?”
She ignored the question, rather than lie.
He pressed on, his tone softer, knowing. “Why don’t you go home?”
And still, she could not bring herself to tell him the truth. “I am going home.”
“I mean your London home. The massive town house in Mayfair.”
She shook her head. “That’s not home.”
“But a dusty town filled with farmers is?”
She thought for a long minute about that, about the quaint honesty of Mossband. About the people who lived and worked there. About the life she had before Father had become an earl. The life she could have again.
Maybe it was the rocking of the carriage, or the way King waited, with the patience of Job, or the close quarters. Whatever it was, she told the truth. “It is the only place I have ever felt free.”
Until now.
“What does that mean?”
She did not reply.
He lifted his boots off the bench and let them fall to the floor before moving to sit across from her, to get a better look, knees spread wide, fingers laced between them. “Look at me, Sophie.” She looked up to find his gaze on her, glittering in the carriage’s fading light. “What does that mean?”
She dropped her own feet to the floor and fiddled with the deckled edge of the book, uncertain of where to begin. “I was ten when my father earned his earldom. He burst through the door of our house, where I had never dreamed of more than I had, and announced, ‘My ladies!’ with a great, booming laugh. It was such a lark! My mother cried and my sisters screamed and I . . .” She paused. Thought. “They were infectious. Their happiness was infectious. So we packed our things and moved to London. I said good-bye to my life. To my home. To my friends. To my cat.”
His brow furrowed. “You couldn’t take your cat?”
She shook her head. “She did not travel well.”
“Like your sister?”
“She howled.”
“Sesily?”
Sophie smiled at the teasing. “Asparagus. Would cling to the back of the seat in the coach and howl. My mother’s nerves could not bear it.” She grew serious. “I had to leave her.”
“You had a cat named Asparagus.”
“I know. It’s silly. What’s asparagus to do with the price of wheat?”
He smiled at that. “That’s the second time you’ve used that phrase.”
She smiled, too. “My father,” she said simply.
“I’ve always liked him, you know.”
Her brows rose. “Really?”
“You’re surprised?”
“He’s crass compared to the rest of London.”
“He’s honest compared to the rest of London. The first time we ever met, he told me that he didn’t like my father.”
She nodded. “That sounds like Papa.”
“Go on. You left Asparagus.”
She looked out the window again. “I haven’t thought about that cat in years. She was black. With little white paws. And a white nose.” She shook her head to clear it of the memory. “Anyway, we left and we never came back. There is a country seat in Wales somewhere, but we never go there. My mother was too focused on our making a new, aristocratic life. That meant visiting other, more established country seats filled with aristocratic young women who were supposed to become our friends. Who were to help us find a place for ourselves. To climb.
“She swore that in a few years, we’d fit in perfectly. And my sisters do. They somehow realized that their perfect beauty would lead to the gossip pages adoring them, which would lead to the ton adoring them. Against its better judgment. They are expert climbers. Except . . .”
She trailed off, and he had to prompt her to finish. “Except?”
“Except I am not. I do not fit in. I am not perfectly beautiful.” She gave him a half smile. “I am not even beautifully perfect. You’ve said it yourself.”
“When did I say it?” he asked, affronted.
“I’m the plain one. The boring one. The unfun one.” She waved a hand down at her livery, the clothing that had driven him to call her plump. “Certainly not the beautiful one.” He cursed softly, but she raised a hand before he could speak. “Don’t apologize. It’s true. I’ve never felt like I belonged there. I’ve never felt worth the effort. But in Mossband—I felt valued.
“In escaping London, I have become more than I ever was there.” She smiled. “And when those men came looking, when you ferreted me out, I’ve never f
elt more free.” She paused, then added, softly, “Or more valued. You never would have helped me escape before.”
“That’s nonsense,” he said, and the tone brooked no refusal.
“Is it? You left me standing in a hedge with your boot,” she pointed out.
“That’s not the same. I left you there because you had value.”
“No, I had a title. Those aren’t the same thing.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but she stopped him, unable to keep her frustration at bay. “I would not expect you to understand, my lord. You, who have such value to spare. Your name is King, for heaven’s sake.”
Her words circled the carriage, fading into heavy silence. And then he said, “Aloysius.”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Aloysius Archibald Barnaby Kingscote. Marquess of Eversley. Future Duke of Lyne.” He waved his hand in a flourish. “At your service.”
He was joking.
But he did not appear to be joking.
“No,” she whispered, playing the name over in her head, and her hand flew to her mouth, desperate to hold in her response. But it was too much. She couldn’t stop herself. She began to laugh.
He raised a brow and leaned back in his seat. “And you are the only person to whom I have ever offered it. This is why, in case you were wondering. Because even I have my limits of supercilious pomposity.”
She caught her breath, unable to stop herself from laughing again before she said, “It’s so—”
“Horrible? Ridiculous? Inane?”
She removed her hand. “Unnecessary.”
He tilted his head in acknowledgment. “That, as well.”
She giggled. “Aloysius.”
“Be careful, my lady.”
“Others don’t know?”
“I imagine they do. It’s there in black and white, in Burke’s Peerage, but no one ever brings it up in my company. At least, they haven’t since I was in school and made it clear I did not wish to be called such.”
“The boys at school simply acceded to your request?”
“They acceded to my boxing training.”
She nodded. “I suppose they weren’t expecting you to be very good at that, what with being named Aloysius.”
He put on his best aristocratic tone. “In some circles, it’s very royal.”
“Oh? Which circles are those?”
He grinned. “I’m not certain.”
She matched his grin. “I confess, I would call myself King, as well.”
“You see? Now you should feel sorry for me.”
“Oh, I do!” she said so quickly that they both laughed, and Sophie was suddenly, keenly aware that she liked the sound of his laughter. She liked the look of it, as well. And then they were not laughing anymore. “You are not uncomfortable,” she said quietly, leaning forward. The motion of the carriage no longer unsettled him.
He seemed startled by the reminder. “I am not. You are a welcome distraction.”
Her cheeks warmed as he, too, leaned forward. She considered retreating, but found she did not wish to. When he lifted his hand to her cheek, she was very grateful for her bravery, his warm hand a welcome temptation. They were so close, his eyes a beautiful green, his lips soft and welcome and just out of reach. She wondered what might happen if she leaned forward. Closed the distance between them. And then he spoke, the words on a whisper. “He doesn’t even know you’re coming, does he?”
She retreated at that, not pretending to misunderstand. “Why do you ask all the questions?”
“Because you answer them,” he replied.
“I should like to ask some.”
He nodded. “I’ll answer yours if you answer this one. Why the baker? I understand the bookshop and the freedom, but the baker—it’s been a decade. Why him, as well?”
She looked away, watching farmland beyond the window, the countryside dotted with sheep and bales of hay. So much simpler than London. So much more free. She opened the book on her lap and closed it. Again and again. And finally, she said, “He was my friend. We made a promise.”
“What kind of promise?”
“That we’d marry.”
“A decade ago.”
What had she done? Where was she going? What would come from this mad adventure? She couldn’t ask him any of that. Didn’t want him to hear it. And so she lifted her gaze to his and said, “A promise is a promise.”
He watched her for a long time, and then said, “You realize that this ends poorly.”
“Not necessarily.”
He stretched his arm across the back of the seat. “How does it end, then?”
She paused, thinking for a long moment about Mossband. About her childhood. About the world into which she’d been born and the world into which she’d been thrust. And then she answered him. “I hope it ends happily.”
He went utterly still, and she had the sudden sense that he was angry with her. When he spoke, there was no mistaking the disdain in his tone. “You think he’s been pining away for the earl’s daughter who left a decade ago?”
“It’s not impossible, you know,” she snapped. Must he always make her feel as though she was less than? “And I wasn’t an earl’s daughter. Well, I was, but not really. I’ve never really been an earl’s daughter. That’s the point. We were friends. We made each other happy.”
“Happiness,” he scoffed. “You haven’t any idea what to do with yourself now that you’re free, do you?”
She scowled. “I don’t care for you.”
“Shall we wager on it?”
“On my not caring for you? Oh, let’s. Please.”
He smirked. “On Robbie’s caring for you.”
She narrowed her gaze on his smug face, ignoring the sting of his words. “What’s the wager?”
“If we get there, and he wants you, you win. I’ll buy you your bookshop. As a wedding present.”
“What an extravagant gift,” she said smartly. “I accept. Though I have a second demand now.”
His brows rose. “More than a bookshop?”
She tilted her head. “Be careful, my lord, I might find reason to believe you are not so certain that you will win.”
“I never lose.”
“Then why not allow a second demand?”
He leaned back, “Go ahead.”
“If I win, you must say something nice about me.”
His brows snapped together. “What does that mean?”
“Only that you have spent the last week telling me all the ways that I fail. My lack of intelligence, my lack of excitement, my lack of proper figure, my lack of beauty, and now, my inability to land a husband.”
“I didn’t say—”
She raised her hand. “And you had better make it exceedingly complimentary.”
There was a long silence, after which he said, in a tone that could only be described as grumbling, “Fine.”
“Excellent. I think I might look forward to that more than to Robbie’s proposal.”
One black brow rose. “A clear indication that marrying the baker is an excellent idea.” He leaned forward, his voice lowering. “But don’t forget, Sophie. If we get there, and it’s a disaster . . .”
Her heart began to pound. “What then?”
“Then I win. And you must say something nice about me.”
Before she could retort, the carriage began to slow, and a wild cry came from the coachman. She stiffened, nerves chasing her triumph away. She snapped her gaze to him. “Is it highwaymen?”
“No.” King touched her ankle, the warm skin of his hand against that place that had never been touched by another person making her breath catch. “We are at the next posting inn.”
Her shoulder ached, and she was happy for the stop. “Will we spend the night?”
He shook his head. “We only change horses, and then press on. We have to put some distance between you and your pursuers.”
And then the door was open and he disappeared into the afterno
on’s golden sunlight.
Chapter 11
SOPHIE AND EVERSLEY:
SEDUCTION OR ABDUCTION?
Thank God they’d arrived when they did.
A quarter of an hour longer, and King would not have been held responsible for what happened between them. Lord deliver him from long carriage rides with impossible, infuriating, remarkable women. How was he supposed to keep from kissing her? From touching her?
Every time the woman opened her mouth, he wanted her more.
And then she’d declared herself less than valued. Told him that only now, as she ran, London and her past at her heels, did she feel free. Proclaimed herself existent.
As though he’d needed a proclamation to notice her.
As though he wasn’t keenly aware of her every movement. Her every word.
Despite knowing that he shouldn’t see her at all.
She had been trouble since the moment he’d met her, at the bottom of the damn trellis at Liverpool House. And still, he seemed to never quite be able to escape her. He was the Minotaur, trapped by her labyrinth.
It was useful to have the break to remind himself of all the reasons why he didn’t want her. Why he didn’t even enjoy her.
She was the very opposite of women he enjoyed.
Except she wasn’t.
Indeed, he would have no trouble saying something nice about her. When she’d enumerated all the terrible things he’d said until now, he’d felt like a proper ass. He didn’t believe any of those things. Not anymore.
Not ever.
He began to unhitch the tired horses, quickly and efficiently, as he remained keenly aware of the fact that the men they’d encountered in Sprotbrough might be stupid enough to believe Sophie had been an ordinary footman on an ordinary carriage, but were also smart enough to realize she’d left the inn—and sooner rather than later. There would be no lingering. Which was for the best, because when she’d asked if they would be sleeping here tonight, his entire body had leapt to answer in the affirmative.
In the same room.
In the same bed.
With as little sleeping as possible.
The Rogue Not Taken Page 17