The Rogue Not Taken
Page 10

And decidedly fun.
Take that, odious Royal Rogue.
Thinking of the unknowing Marquess of Eversley, inside the very carriage upon which she stowed away, she laughed. So much for his thinking she wouldn’t get that for which she’d asked. She almost regretted that he wouldn’t know it when she leapt from the carriage and sallied home.
She’d pay good money to see his smug expression turned to shock.
She chuckled to herself, watching blue sky and green farmland pass, dotted with flocks of sheep, copses of trees, and bales of hay. And gloried in the fact that she had escaped without the aid or the attention of the aristocracy. She could never tell anyone this story, sadly. Within moments of her return to the Talbot house on Berkeley Square, she would have to dispose of Matthew’s exceedingly helpful—if ill-fitting—clothing and concoct a new tale of her return. And swear her father’s new young footman to secrecy.
But for now, until the rooftops of London appeared in the distance and reminded her that the afternoon—and her public and no doubt long-term shaming—were inescapable, she would enjoy her triumph.
And she did enjoy it, cheeks aching from the pull of her grin, until she became aware of other aches, in her legs and arms.
At first, she ignored them. She was strong enough to manage for the few miles back to Mayfair. The streets of London would require stops and starts and slow going, and all she had to do was keep her head down and hold fast, and she’d be home within the hour.
And then her feet started in, still in their silken slippers, as Matthew’s boots had been too small for her always-too-long “flippers,” as her father referred to them, refusing to accept the fact that the comparison to water creatures was not at all complimentary.
Silk slippers, it turned out, were not made for outriding.
Nor, it turned out, was Sophie.
Indeed, within half an hour, she was having a difficult time of it, her hands now aching as well, under the too-tight grip she had on the back of the carriage. She hadn’t expected her role as outrider to be quite so taxing.
She gritted her teeth, reminding herself that there were more difficult situations than this one in the world. Men had built bridges. Families had fled to the Colonies. She was daughter to a coal miner. Granddaughter to one.
Sophie Talbot could hang on to a carriage for the two miles it took to get home.
The carriage increased its speed, as though the universe itself had heard her words and desired to underscore her idiocy. She looked down and considered leaping to the ground and walking the rest of the way. Watching the road tear past, she unconsidered it.
She’d wished to leave a garden party, not the earth.
“Oh, bollocks.”
Sophie. Language. She heard her mother’s admonition in the minuscule part of her brain that was not currently panicking, but she had no doubt that if there was ever a time for cursing, it was this one—dressed as a servant, clinging to a carriage, certain she was going to die.
And then the coach passed a mail coach laden with people, a small child hanging off the top of it, grinning down at her.
That’s when Sophie realized that, wherever this carriage and the man inside were headed, it was not London.
“Oh, bollocks,” she repeated. Louder.
The child waved.
Sophie did not dare release her grip to return the gesture. Instead, she tightened her hold, pressed her forehead to the cool wood of the carriage, and chanted her litany.
“Bollocksbollocksbollocks,” she said.
As though punishing her for her crassness, a wheel hit a rut in the road, and the vehicle bounced, jarring her spine and nearly tossing her from the back of the coach. She cried out in fear and desperation. Clinging tightly, the ache in her hands sharp now.
There was only one option. She had to get off this carriage. Immediately. It was only two or three miles to the Talbot home. She could walk if she exited this ridiculous situation immediately.
The coachmen called back, “I told you to sit with me!”
Sophie closed her eyes. “When do we stop?”
She waited long seconds for the terrifying reply. “It’s good weather, so I’d say we’ll make it in three hours. Maybe four!”
She groaned, the sound coming on a word far worse than bollocks. Leaping from the carriage was suddenly an entirely viable possibility.
“I suppose you’re changing your mind about riding on the block?” called the coachman.
Of course she was changing her mind. She never should have gone through with such a terrible plan. If she hadn’t vowed to run from the silly garden party, she’d be home now. And not here—minutes away from falling to her death.
“Shall I stop so you can join me?”
She barely heard the part of the question that came after the word stop.
Dear God. Yes. Please stop.
“Yes, please!”
The carriage began to slow, and relief flooded her, replacing everything else, making her forget her panic and pain for a fleeting moment. A very fleeting moment.
“I thought it odd, that you would want to ride on the back of the coach all afternoon.”
Well, the coachman could have said as much. Then they wouldn’t be in this predicament. As Sophie wouldn’t have set foot on the coach if she had known that there was even a hint of possibility that the Marquess of Eversley wasn’t headed to Mayfair. But she was not about to waste time dwelling on her mistake, when she could be spending time rectifying it. She released her grip, shoulders straight and head high, taking a deep breath, preparing to descend from the carriage and announce that Matthew was not joining them for the ride to wherever they were headed. And neither was she.