The Rogue Not Taken
Page 13

Sophie found that she was oddly drawn to that grin herself.
“Looks as though I won, lads.” The others were stopped now, and a chorus of groans rose from myriad curricles when he added, “Again.”
As this was the first time Sophie had been outside a posting inn after dark, she had to imagine that this was an ordinary occurrence—but she’d certainly never thought that men raced their curricles up the Great North Road for fun.
Fun.
The word echoed, reminding her of her earlier conversation with Eversley, in which he’d called her unfun.
Irritation flared. She was perfectly fun.
After all, she was here, wasn’t she? Dressed as a boy in a courtyard filled with men who appeared to have a keen knowledge of fun.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the man’s movement as he leapt down from the carriage and headed to his horses to give the great, matching beasts praise for their work. He swaggered to the animals that huffed and sighed, great ribs heaving from their long run, even as they leaned into the weighty caress of their master.
Sophie was transfixed by him—by the group he seemed to lead. She’d never seen anything like them, clad all in black, and with great informality—black coats over black linen, and not a cravat to be seen among them. Their trousers gleamed in the light from the lanterns posted around the drive—she considered the attire. Was it . . . leather? How odd. And how fascinating.
Her gaze flickered to the leader, and the long curve of this thigh, hugged tightly by the attire. She had considered the line of that muscle for longer than was appropriate.
He was an exceedingly well-made man. Empirically so.
The second she had noticed in a single day.
She coughed at the thought, heat spreading across her cheeks, and the noise brought his attention, his head immediately turning to her. Though his eyes remained obscured, Sophie had never felt so well inspected, and she found herself immensely grateful for Matthew’s livery, hiding the truth of her—that she had never been in such a situation, that she did not belong here.
She dropped her gaze to his boots, eager to disappear.
That’s when she noticed that he was not wearing boots.
At least, he was not wearing two of them.
Bollocks.
The Marquess of Eversley had arrived.
And from the way he came toward her—the swagger she’d identified earlier likely due to his lacking one boot—he was about to discover that she had done the same. She did not look up at him, keeping her gaze firmly affixed on his feet, hoping he would ignore her.
It did not work. “Boy,” he drawled, coming entirely too close. Unsettlingly close.
She shifted from one foot to the other, willing him away.
That did not work, either.
“Did you hear me?” he prompted.
She moved, dropping a half inch before she stopped herself from curtsying. Even if she weren’t dressed as a man, he didn’t deserve politeness of any kind, this ruiner of women who represented everything she loathed about the Society that had so roundly turned its back upon her. This man who had turned his back upon her. If only he’d been willing to help her, she wouldn’t be in this ridiculous situation.
“Are you able to hear?” he fairly barked the last.
Straightening, she coughed and pressed her chin tighter to her chest, lowering her voice. “Yes, my lord.” The honorific was strangled in her throat.
She was saved from whatever he was about to say by the arrival of one of his comrades. “Goddammit, King, you’re fucking fearless. I thought you were going to kill yourself on the last turn.”
She inhaled, not because of the unexpected foul language—a childhood around coal miners made one immune to profanity—but because of the unexpected voice, thick with a Scottish brogue. Her gaze snapped up, and she found herself face-to-face with the Duke of Warnick, a legendary scoundrel in his own right—an uncultured Scotsman who unexpectedly ascended to a dukedom, sending all of London into a panic. The duke was rarely seen in London and even more rarely welcome in London, but here he stood, half a yard from her, laughing and clapping the Marquess of Eversley on the shoulder to congratulate him for what Sophie could only imagine was not killing himself in the process of arriving at the inn.
Eversley matched the duke’s wide grin, all arrogance and awfulness. “Broke two spokes on my right wheel,” he boasted, the words explaining why the man traveled with a carriage full of curricle wheels. “But fearlessness begets victory, it seems.”
Warnick laughed. “I had a half a mind to run you off the road in that last quarter mile.”
“Even if you could have caught me,” King boasted, “you’re too much a coward to have done it.”
Sophie rather thought that not killing a man was more honorable than cowardly, but she refrained from pointing it out, instead easing away from the duo, eager to escape discovery by the marquess in this open space, where he could thoroughly ruin her in front of what she now realized was a collection of men who might easily recognize a Talbot sister.
The duke stepped closer to Eversley, lowering his voice to a menacing pitch. “Did you just call me a coward?”
“I did, indeed. When was the last time you were in London?” Eversley asked pointedly before he noticed her moving. “Stay right there,” he said, one finger staying her even as he did not take his gaze from the duke, leaving her no choice but to freeze in place until they finished their conversation.
She had never quite realized how rude aristocrats could be to their servants. After all, she had work to do. She wasn’t certain what kind of work, specifically, but she was sure it had little to do with staring at these two cabbageheads.