The Rogue Not Taken (15 page)

“He deserved it, if that’s worth anything,” she grumbled.

“I have no doubt he did, the pompous ass,” Eversley said. “What did he do to you?”

“It wasn’t me,” she said. “I wouldn’t have done it if it were me.”

He watched her carefully. “For whom, then?”

“He was hidden away in the greenhouse. With a woman.”

“And?”

He was going to make her elaborate. “The woman was not my sister.”

“Ah,” he said.

And that was it. There was no judgment in the word. And at the same time, there was no understanding. “You don’t think he deserved it, after all.”

“I did not say that.”

“You did not
not
say it, either.” When he did not reply, irritation flared. “I suppose you’re all in some secret club, anyway.”

“We all?” he asked.

She narrowed her gaze on his. “Lotharios who don’t mind ruining marriages.”

“I told you, I don’t dally with married ladies.”

“Only soon-to-be-married ones.”

“There’s a difference.”

Every time she thought he was fairly decent, he reminded her of the truth. She tossed the paper at him. “No. There isn’t.” She paused, then added, “Lady Elizabeth, daughter of the Marquess of Twillery.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“She should. You ruined her planned marriage to the Earl of Exeter.”

“Ah. Yes. It’s coming back to me,” he said, relaxing into his chair.

“She married her father’s stable master.”

“Happily, if I recall.”

“She didn’t have a choice after you ended her engagement.”

“Love conquered. Isn’t that what is important?” He remained unruffled.

“Of course you can be flip about it,” she said. “You’re a man.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Your reputation is only enhanced by your actions. Poor Lady Elizabeth is ruined forever.”

“Lady Elizabeth might disagree with that assessment of the situation.” He returned his attention to the article in the paper about her altercation with Haven. “You are rather ruined yourself, it appears.”

“Those assembled were not amused.”

He smirked. “I don’t imagine they were. So, now we know.”

She looked to him in confusion. “What do we know?”

“What you’re running from.”

“I’m not running,” she insisted. “Either way, you needn’t trouble yourself with it; I have purchased a ticket on the mail coach tomorrow. I look forward to being rid of you, and I’m sure you feel the same.”

“You’re not going anywhere on a mail coach,” he said simply, as though she were asking his permission.

She shot him a look. “You’re acting like your name gives you some sort of special power over me. Again. I do not care for it.”

The words were punctuated by the door to the street opening behind her, Eversley’s gaze flickering over her shoulder to consider the newcomers as he turned the
newspaper over. He tracked their movement for so long that she had to resist the desire to turn and look.

Instead, she leaned forward. “Don’t tell me it’s the
real
King?”

He cut her a look. “I suppose you think it’s amusing to mock my name?”

She smirked. “I do, rather.”

“You should not bite the hand that feeds you,” he said.

“Are you calling me a dog?”

“No,” he replied, “Hounds are more docile and obedient than you could ever be.”

She was about to tell him precisely which of them was houndlike when he reached for her hand across the tabletop as though it were the most normal thing in the world, looked deep into her eyes, and smiled.

Sophie’s breath caught. Good Lord, he was a beautiful man, all strength and power and that smile—it was no wonder that he was known for being a proper rake. It was almost enough to have Sophie forgetting that she disliked him and instead allowing him all sorts of liberties. Like holding her hand, for example. Her pulse quickened at the feeling of his warm skin against hers, and she at once regretted and rejoiced in the lack of gloves between them. She instantly attempted to remove her hand from his, keenly aware that even if they were married, the touch was inappropriate.

He held her like steel the moment she tried to move, and he spoke, the words loud enough for half the pub to hear. “I win, darling.”

Her brow furrowed. He won what?
Darling?
She leaned in. “Are you addled, sir?”

He smiled again, the expression full of privacy and promise, as though the two of them not only liked each other, but shared a lifetime of secrets. He lifted her hand
to his lips, kissing the knuckles in succession. Sophie opened her mouth, then closed it, heart pounding, attention riveted to the place where his kisses rained.

What was happening?

“Apologies for the interruption.”

For a moment, she did not even hear the words, too focused on the strange, seductive man across the table. But Eversley heard enough for both of them, replying without moving his gaze from hers. “What is it?”

“We are looking for a missing girl.”

They were there for her.

Eversley’s grasp did not shift, and it was that firm, steady grip that kept her from gasping her surprise. She watched his eyes, read the question in them. Knew that he was leaving her the opportunity to reveal herself. She looked up at them, discovering the pair of dusty riders she’d noticed earlier. “A missing girl,” she said, clutching Eversley’s hand as though it were a port in the storm. “How terrible.”

Perhaps it wasn’t she.

The thought had barely formed before the man said, “Lady Sophie Talbot.”

She was found.

Her plans were thwarted. Eversley was right—her father had sent men to find her. They would ferret her back to London, to the bosom of her family, where she would be primped and preened and sent into Society at her great, mortal embarrassment.

She would have to become Sophie, the
unfun
Dangerous Daughter.

Days ago, that might have been fine . . . but now she knew there was another possibility. There was freedom. There was Mossband. There was even the possibility of Robbie, who might make good on his promise once he
discovered that she was there, and marriageable. Perhaps he had been waiting for her all these years. Perhaps he had despaired for want of her.

Perhaps not.

There was Eversley.

Her gaze flickered to his and dropped away. With whom would she spar if these men took her into custody? Would she ever see him again?

Would she mind?

The answer whispered through her, and she hated even the thought of giving it voice. But there was no turning back. She’d had her chance for proper escape. For a simple, happy life, far from London and the future for which she’d never asked.

And it had been ruined.

Know when you’
ve been bested
, her father had schooled her again and again.
Cut your losses. Shake hands. And return to destroy them another day.

The thought echoing through her, Sophie was quiet, gathering her courage. Ignoring the constant litany of
Do not make me return
that echoed in her head as the newcomer added, “She is believed to be traveling with the Marquess of Eversley.”

She paused at that. How could they know?

Matthew.

The footman would have arrived at the Talbot house and produced a letter from Sophie—and her father would have immediately had the poor boy questioned. She resisted the urge to ask if Matthew was well.

“Oh?” Eversley asked calmly, as though he had no concern whatsoever. “Are they eloping?”

“Not if we have anything to do with it.” The man leaned down and said, “What are your names? If you don’t mind my asking?”

Eversley’s grip tightened as her gaze flew to his face, where he watched the other man. Willed him to lie. To protect her, even as she knew he was in no way beholden to her.
She was not his problem
. How many times had he told her that?

It did not matter that she rather wished she
was
his problem.

And then he replied. “Matthew,” he said, with utter calm. “Mr. and Mrs.” He turned his glittering smile on their visitor. “Newlyweds.”

The man watched them for a long moment before Sophie settled her free hand on their entwined ones and smiled her warmest smile.

She did not know why, but he was saving her. Again.

And worse, she was beginning to like him.

S
he had a beautiful smile.

It was the wrong time to notice it, but the entire morning he’d been noticing her—from the moment she’d walked into the pub in what had to be a years-old dress procured from the pub owner’s wife. There was nothing attractive about the frock, and still he could not keep his attention from her.

Then she’d argued with him—no surprise, as arguing seemed to be what they did together. And it was more exciting than anything he’d done with a woman in a very long time.

When the men had arrived, he’d known, without question, that they were looking for her. And he’d been about to turn her over—to explain that Lady Sophie Talbot was nothing more than a nuisance, and be rid of the woman and her troublesome life, when he’d made the mistake of looking at her.

She’d looked crushed, her blue eyes full of sadness and
resignation. And the smallest, most devastating sliver of hope.

Hope that he might help her out of this mess.

So he had. Like a fool, perpetuating the myth of their marriage, locking them together for more time, until the bounty hunters left. It was idiocy, of course, considering the fact that she’d just sent a messenger to her father, apprising him, no doubt, of the entire situation. Of her plans, which the Earl of Wight would never allow, no matter how much his youngest daughter believed herself plain or boring or irrelevant.

She thought too little of herself, and King had suddenly wished very much to change her mind. As insane as that sounded.

He blamed her beautiful smile.

Which he’d noticed at the exact wrong time, of course.

Dammit.

He came to his feet the moment the man left their table and sat at the bar, knowing that they hadn’t entirely convinced him that they were simple newlyweds smitten with each other. Knowing that he was about to pay the barkeep for information on them. Knowing that Sophie had just paid for an urgent delivery to London. He swore under his breath and, refusing to release Sophie’s hand, pulled her from her chair to her feet, leaning down to whisper at her ear, “They are not certain of us. Feign love.”

She turned to look at him, blinking. “How do I feign something like that?”

She was so damn innocent. It slayed him. He leaned back in, pressing his lips to her ear, enjoying the way she curled into the touch. “Pretend I’m your Robbie.”

Confusion washed through her eyes, and he knew the truth, a thread of relief twisting through him. She did not love Robbie.

Not that he cared one way or another.

He pulled her from the room, instead, using his strength to keep her closer than was proper. Once they were through the back entrance of the pub, he drew her into the dark hallway just beyond the door, hesitating at the foot of the stairway that led to the rooms above.

He imagined they didn’t have much time, so he was not gentle when he set her against the wall. “How is your shoulder?” he asked, realizing he hadn’t asked her before. Though he’d spoken to Mary and to the mad doctor every day, he hadn’t seen Sophie in three days. And he should have asked after her wound.

He should have asked after her, period.

She was confused by the question, but answered nonetheless. “It is fine, thank you. Stiff, but it remains uninfected.”

He nodded. “Excellent.”

“You knew they were here.” She hissed. “That’s why you wagered.”

He hadn’t, but he did not correct her. “You shouldn’t have agreed to bet me.”

“Because you’re a scoundrel?”

“Because I do not lose.” A stool scraped against wood in the pub. The man approached. King pressed closer to her, his hands encircling her waist. She squeaked her surprise as he leaned in. There was no time to prepare her. No time to change his plan. No time for anything but a quick, low “Time for my forfeit. Make it look real, Mrs. Matthew.” And he set his lips to hers.

For a moment, she froze beneath him, her lips pressed together in a flat line, her hands up at his shoulders, pushing at him, a little sound of protest caught in her throat. He lifted one hand to her neck, his thumb brushing along the line of her jaw, his fingers threading into the hair at
the nape of her neck, massaging there until she relaxed, sighing her pleasure at the sensation.

He didn’t intend to like kissing Sophie Talbot.

He didn’t intend for anything more than the most perfunctory of caresses—long enough to convince her pursuers, and mechanical enough to get the job done.