The Rogue Not Taken
Page 51

“Did it seem reckless?”
“You tipped onto one wheel. The whole thing could have toppled over.”
He looked away. “It’s happened before. I survived.”
She imagined him tossed on the side of the road, broken and bleeding. She did not like it. Her brow furrowed. “You could have died.”
“I didn’t.” There was something in the words, something darker than she would like. She wished his eyes were open, so she could make more sense of him.
“But you could have.”
“That’s part of the fun.”
“The threat of death is fun?”
“You can’t imagine that?”
“Considering I nearly died of a gunshot wound several days ago, I do not.”
He did look at her then, and there was no humor in his gaze. “That’s not the same.”
“Because it was not at my own hand?”
“There are many who would say that, yes.” The carriage bounced over a rough patch of road and he gritted his teeth.
“Are you afraid you might die? Now? Is that why you dislike carriages?”
He paused. “This is a very small carriage.”
It was a perfectly ordinary-sized carriage. “Why?”
For a moment, his gaze darkened, and she lost him to thought—something that seemed unpleasant. Haunting. She resisted the urge to put her hand on him. To soothe whatever that memory was. She didn’t expect him to answer. And he didn’t, despite shaking his head and saying, “I don’t care for them.” He paused. “And I do not wish to discuss it further.”
She nodded. “All right, what do you wish to discuss instead?”
“I suppose that I cannot say that I wish to sleep instead?”
“You look as though you might leap from this carriage at any moment,” she said. “You are no more going to sleep than I am going to fly.”
He narrowed his gaze on her. “If you were a man, I would not care much for you.”
Her brows rose. “You do not care much for me, anyway.”
He watched her for a long moment. “I was warming to you.”
The words sent a thread of excitement through her that came on a wave of memory, the dark hallway behind the Warbling Wren pub, his hands and mouth upon her. The feel of his hair in her fingers.
She had been warming to him, as well.
She cleared her throat. “We can discuss anything you like.” He did not reply, and the minutes ticked by in silence, until, finally, she gave up. “You are tremendously antisocial, my lord. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“No,” he said.
Obstinate man. Sophie reached into the satchel on the floor of the coach and extracted a book. She opened it, pretending that he was not there, hoping that it was something diverting.
He leaned forward, and she could smell him, clean and with a spice she could not identify. It was lovely.
She cleared her throat and looked down at the book. A Popular and Practical Treatise on Masonry and Stone-cutting. Oh, dear. It was not diverting.
Could nothing in the world go her way?
She began to read. Vaguely. She was distracted by the stretch of his trousers over his thighs, which were larger than she could have imagined. Of course, she should have guessed they would be, what with all the curricle racing he did.
Her fingers itched to touch the thigh closest to her. The one touching her. The one that she’d had a leg wrapped around earlier in the day.
It was very warm in the carriage.
“Where did you get a book?”
She started at the words, cheeks flaming. She did not look up. “I thought you did not wish to talk.”
“I don’t. But that does not mean I do not wish an answer.”
“It was at the back of the drawer in the table in my bedchamber.” She turned a page with force, as though doing so would make him smaller. Less formidable.
Less intriguing.
It did not.
Of course, anything would be more intriguing than a treatise on masonry and stone-cutting. But one made do. She soldiered on.
The silence stretched between them as the carriage careened up the Great North Road, away from Sprotbrough and toward their futures, and Sophie read, slowly, distracted by every sway of the conveyance and the way it pressed her to him.
King, however, remained unmoved.
On several occasions, she nearly spoke, desperate for conversation, but she refused to break first and, after an age, she was rewarded.
“Is it any good?” he asked.
“Quite,” she lied. “I had no idea that masonry was so fascinating.”
“Really,” he said, voice dry as sand. “Well, I suppose I should not be so surprised that you find it so. What with you being the unfun sister.”
She cut him a look, took in the small smirk on his lips, and decided that if he wasn’t going to be a decent companion, neither was she. “There’s nothing unfun about it, my lord.” She took a deep breath and waged her war.
“This book has a comprehensive explanation of hemispheric niches, hemispheric domes, and cylindric groins. There is a great deal to learn.”
The smirk grew. “About groins particularly I would imagine.”
She ignored the words, punishing him far better than she could ever imagine by reading aloud. “This is the first and only work in English on the art of stone-cutting, and such a publication has been long and eagerly sought after.”
“No doubt”—he reached across her to close the book and consider its cover—“Peter Nicholson, Esquire, has convinced himself of such a thing.”
She ignored the sliver of pleasure that coursed through her as his hand brushed hers, instead reopening the book. “I think he might be right. There are several full chapters explaining the basic and complex geometry necessary to properly stonework. Isn’t that fascinating? Did you know that,” she read, “In preparing stones for walls, nothing more is necessary than to reduce the stone to its dimensions so that each of its eight solid angles may be contained by three right angles?”