The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel 1)

She became aware of her wrinkled nose. Consciously unwrinkled it. “Apologies,” she lied.

“Think nothing of it.”

And there, as she considered him, dressed in his summer finery, missing a boot, she realized that, horrid or not, in that moment, he was precisely what she required. If she could stomach him for the three quarters of an hour it would take to get home. “You are going to have to leave here rather quickly if you don’t want a run-in with Lord Newsom.”

“I’m so happy that you understand. If you’d give me my boot, I could make some haste.” He reached for the footwear. She stepped backward once more, remaining out of reach. “My lady,” he said firmly.

“It seems that you are in a particular position.” She paused. “Or, perhaps it is I who am in a particular position.”

His gaze narrowed. “And what position is that?”

“A position to negotiate.” He was her transport home.

A shout came from around the corner of the house, and his attention slid past her, to where his enemy was no doubt about to appear. She took the opportunity to escape, boot in hand, toward the back of the house, where a line of trees and underbrush hid a low stone wall and, beyond it, a line of carriages waiting for their owners to leave the revelry and head home.

He followed her. He had to. After all, she had his boot.

And he had a carriage.

It was an ideal trade. Once protected from view by the trees, she turned to him. “I have a proposition for you, Lord Eversley.”

His brows rose. “I’m afraid I’m through with propositions for the day, Lady Sophie. And even I know better than to engage in a public assignation with one of the Dangerous Daughters.”

He knew who she was. She blushed at the words, anger and embarrassment warring on her cheeks. Anger won out. “You realize that if you were female, you would have been exiled from Society years ago.”

He lifted one shoulder. Dropped it. “Ah, but I am not female. And thank God for that.”

“Yes, well, some of us are not so lucky. Some of us don’t have your freedom.”

He met her gaze, suddenly very serious. “You don’t know the first thing about freedom.”

She did not back down. “I know you have more of it than I will ever be allowed. And I know that without it, I must resort to—” She searched for the word.

“Nefariousness?” he supplied, his seriousness gone once more, so quickly that Sophie almost paused to consider it. Until she remembered that he was far too irritating for thoughtful speculation.

“There is nothing nefarious about this.”

“We are together in a secluded area, my lady. If you intend for it to end in the same manner your sister’s assignation with her former lover and now husband famously ended, it’s quite nefarious.”

Of all the infuriating things the man could say. She stamped her foot on the thick spread of ground cover. “I am really quite tired of hearing about poor maligned Haven and how my sister trapped him into marriage.”

“He didn’t sign up for marrying your sister,” Eversley said.

“Then he should not have been fiddling about with her ink!” she pronounced.

When he laughed, Sophie changed her mind about him being infuriating.

The man was horrible.

“You think it amusing?”

He pressed a hand to his chest. “I apologize.” The snicker became a laugh again. “Fiddling about with her ink!”

She scowled. “It was your figure of speech.”

“But you made it really, tremendously perfect. I assure you, if you understood the double entendre inherent in the metaphor, you would, as well.”

“I doubt that.”

“Oh, for your sake, I hope I’m right. I’d hate to think you’re no fun.”

“I’m perfectly fun!” she said.

“Really? You’re Sophie, the youngest of Talbot girls, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“The unfun one.”

She rocked back at the description. Was that what people said about her? She hated the little flare of sadness that came at the words. The hesitation. The tiny glimmer of fear that he might actually be correct. “Unfun isn’t a word.”

“Until five minutes ago, defenestration wasn’t one, either.”

“Of course it was!” she announced.

He rocked back on his heels. “So you say.”

“It’s a word,” she declared imperiously before recognizing the teasing gleam in his eye. “Oh. I see.”

He spread his hands wide, as though proving his point. “Unfun.”

“I’m perfectly fun,” she said, without conviction.

“I don’t think so,” he said smartly. “Look at you. Not a nod to the Orient to be found.”

She scowled. “It’s a ridiculous theme for a garden party attended by people with no knowledge of and even less interest in the country of China.”

He smirked. “Be careful. Lady Liverpool might hear you.”

She straightened her shoulders. “As Lady Liverpool is dressed as a Japanese fish, I don’t imagine she would care about my views.”

His brows rose. “Is that a jest, Lady Sophie?”

“It is an observation.”

He tutted. “So. Unfun after all.”

“Well, I think you are unpleasant. Which is a word,” she said.

“You’d be the first woman to think that.”

“Surely I cannot be the first woman of sound mind you’ve ever encountered.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and . . . strangely inviting. Pleasing. A sound of approval.

She pushed the thought away. She didn’t care if he approved her. She didn’t care what he thought of her. Or what the rest of his silly, vapid, horrible world thought of her. Honestly, if all of Society thought her unfun—she grimaced inwardly at the word—why should she care? He was a means to an end.

“I’ve had enough,” she said, returning to the situation at hand. She’d watched her father negotiate enough over her lifetime that she knew when it was time to speak frankly and get a deal done. “I assume you are leaving the party?”

The question caught Eversley by surprise. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Take me with you.”

He barked a single expression of shock. “Ah. No.”

“Why not?”

“So many reasons, poppet. Not the least of which is this—I’ve no intention of being saddled with one of the Soiled S’s.”

She stiffened at the moniker. Most people did not call them such to their faces. She supposed she should expect nothing less from this horrible man. “I do not intend to ensnare you, Lord Eversley. I assure you, even if I had had such an idea, this interaction”—she waved a hand back and forth between them—“would have cured me of such an affliction.” She took a deep breath. “I require escape. Surely you understand that. As you seem to require the same.”

He focused on her. “What happened?”

She looked away, remembering the cold gaze of Society. Its wicked cut. “It is not important.”

His brows rose. “If you’re in the woods with me, love, I’d say it is quite important.”

“This is a strip of trees. Not ‘the woods.’”

“You’re very contrary for someone who needs me.”

“I don’t need you.”

“Then give me my boot and I’ll be on my way.”

She tightened her grip on the boot. “I need your carriage. That’s a different thing altogether.”

“My carriage is about to be otherwise engaged,” he said.

“I simply need conveyance home.”

“You’ve four sisters, a mother, and a father. Ride with them.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Pride.

Well, she certainly wasn’t going to tell him that.

“You shall just have to trust me.”

“Again, the ladies of your family don’t exactly have reputations

that engender trust.”

She did not pretend to misunderstand. “Oh, and you are the very portrait of respectability.”

He grinned. “I don’t trade on respectability, love.”

She was beginning to hate him.

She nodded. “Fine. You leave me no choice but to resort to extreme measures.” His brows rose. “Take me, or lose your boot.”

He watched her for a long moment, and she willed herself to remain still under his consideration. She attempted to convince herself not to notice the beautiful green of his eyes; the long, straight line of his aristocratic nose; the handsome curve of his lips.

She should not be noticing his lips.

She swallowed at the thought, and his gaze flickered to the place where her throat betrayed the movement. His lips twitched. “Keep the boot.”

It took a moment for her to remember what it was they had been talking about.

Before she could think of a retort, he was through the trees and over the wall, headed for his carriage on one stockinged foot.

By the time she reached the wall, he was at the front of a large, smart-looking black carriage, fussing about with the horses. Sophie watched him for long moments, wishing he would step on something uncomfortable. It appeared he was rehitching all the horses, checking harnesses and straps, but that would be silly, as he no doubt had a stableful of servants to do just that.

Once he’d inspected each of the six horses, he entered the coach, and Sophie watched as a young, liveried outrider closed the door with a snap and ran ahead to help make way for the carriage to exit through the crush of conveyances.

She sighed.

The Marquess of Eversley had no idea of how lucky he was to be blessed with the freedom that came with funds and masculinity. She imagined he was already stretched across the seat of that luxurious carriage, the portrait of aristocratic idleness, considering a nap to recover from his exertion earlier in the afternoon.

Lazy and immovable.

She had no doubt that he’d already forgotten her. She didn’t imagine he spared much room for remembering most people—there wasn’t much point, after all, with the constant stream of ladies in his life.

She doubted he even remembered his servants.

Her gaze flickered to the footman, not nearly old enough to be a footman. Likely more of a page. The boy stood on the edge of the stream of carriages, watching as drivers slowly returned to their seats and began to shift and move their charges to release the Eversley conveyance.

Her reticule grew heavy in her hand, its weight the result of the money inside. Never leave the house without enough blunt to win you a fight. Her father’s words had been drilled into the minds of all the Talbot sisters—not that aristocratic ladies often found themselves requiring assistance to escape fisticuffs.

But Sophie was no fool, and she knew that the interaction with Society she’d just had was the closest thing to a fight she was likely to ever experience. She had no doubt that her father would deem the funds in her reticule well spent on escape.

Decision made, she approached the footman.

“Excuse me, sir?”

The servant turned, surprised, no doubt, to find a young lady at his elbow, holding a gentleman’s boot. He bowed quickly. “M-my lady?”

He was as young as he’d looked. Younger than she was. Sophie sent a quick prayer of thanks to her maker. “How long before the carriage is free to leave?” she asked in a tone that she hoped was all casualness.

He seemed grateful for a question he could answer. “No more than a quarter of an hour, my lady.”

She had to work quickly, then. “And tell me, do you work for the marquess?”

He nodded, his gaze flickering to the boot in her hands. “Today.”

She shoved the boot behind her back, unable to keep the surprise from her voice. “Not for long?”

The boy shook his head. “I am headed to a new position. In the North Country.”

A shadow crossed his face—sadness, perhaps. Regret? She grasped at it, an idea forming before she could consider it from all angles. “But you wish to stay in London?”

He seemed to realize then that he absolutely should not be speaking with an aristocratic lady. He lowered his head. “I am pleased to serve the marquess however he requires, my lady.”

She nodded quickly. Underservants were shuttled from one holding to another with unfortunate regularity. She had no doubt that Eversley had never thought twice about the fact that his employees might not wish to be moved about at his whim. He did not seem the type to think of others at all.

And so it was that Sophie felt no guilt whatsoever when she put her plan in motion. “I wonder, though, if you might be willing to serve an earl?”

His wide gaze snapped to hers. “My lady?”

“My father is the Earl of Wight.”

The young man blinked.

“Here. In London.”

The boy seemed confused by the offer and, if she was honest, Sophie was not surprised. It was not every day, she imagined, that pages received employment opportunities at garden parties.

She pressed on. “He began his life in the coalfields. Like his father and his father’s father before him. He’s not an ordinary aristocrat.” Still nothing. Sophie spoke frankly. “He pays servants very well. He’ll pay you double what the marquess pays.” She paused. Increased the offer. “More.”

The boy tilted his head.

“And you can stay in London,” Sophie added.

His brow knit. “Why me?”

She smiled. “What is your name?”

“Matthew, my lady.”

“Well, Matthew, someone’s lucky star should shine today, don’t you think?”

The boy remained skeptical, but she could tell he was considering the offer when he looked over her shoulder to the Marquess of Eversley’s carriage and said, “Double, you say?”

She nodded.

“I’ve ’eard the servants’ quarters at Wight Manor are the nicest in London,” he said, and Sophie knew she had him.

She leaned in. “You can see for yourself. Tonight.”

He narrowed his gaze.

“You come round this afternoon, after the party disbands. Ask to speak to Mr. Grimes—my father’s secretary. Tell him I sent you. I shall vouch for you when you arrive.” She reached into her reticule and extracted a piece of paper and a pencil, and scribbled the direction of her family’s home in Mayfair and a quick note to ensure him entry to the house. She reached back into her purse and pulled out two coins. Handing the coins and the letter to the boy, she added, “That’s two crowns.”

The boy gaped at her. “That’s a month’s worth of blunt!”

She ignored the crass reference to the money. After all, she’d been banking on such crassness. “And my father will pay you more than that. I promise.”

His lips pressed flat together.

“You don’t believe me,” she said.

“I’m to believe a girl?”

She ignored the insult in the words, instead meeting his gaze. “How much would it take for you to believe me?”

His brows knit together and he said, more question than statement, “A quid?”

It was an enormous amount, but Sophie understood the power of money and the things it could buy—trust included—better than most. She reached back into her purse and extracted the rest of the money she carried. She didn’t hesitate in paying the boy, knowing she would replenish her stash the moment she returned home.

The boy’s hand curled around the coins tightly, and Sophie knew she’d won. “There is only one other thing,” she said slowly, a little twinge of guilt threading through her.

Her father’s newest and most loyal servant did not hesitate. “Anything you require, my lady.”

“Anything?” she asked, unable to keep the hope from her tone.

He nodded. “Anything.”

She took a deep breath, knowing that once she put this plan into motion, it would be imposs

ible to turn back. Knowing, too, that if she were caught, she would be flatly ruined.

She looked behind her, Liverpool House rising like the gates of hell above the trees. Frustration and sadness and anger warred within her as she remembered the gardens. The party. The greenhouse. Her pig of a brother-in-law. The way all of London rallied in his support. Against her. The way they shunned her. Shamed her.

She had to leave this place. Now. Before they realized how much that shaming stung.

And there was only one way to do it.

She turned back to Matthew. “I require your livery.”

Chapter 3

SOPHIE’S FROCK FOUND!

FOUL PLAY FEARED!

It took longer than it should have for Sophie to realize that the carriage was not headed for Mayfair.

Had she realized this prior to clandestinely squeezing into Matthew’s livery and tucking her hair up under his cap, she might have had the presence of mind to turn back. She most certainly would have taken the calculated risk to sit up on the block next to the coachman instead of refusing his invitation.

Unfortunately, she did not realize it—despite the coachman’s raised brows and skeptical “Suit yourself”—instead taking her place as an outrider at the back of the coach, standing tall on the back step of the coach, clinging tightly, and quite happily, to its handles.

Nor did she realize it when the coach reached the end of the long drive of Liverpool House and turned left instead of right.

Nor did she realize it when the passing landscape became more pastoral. Instead, she took several deep breaths of what her father would call “fine fettled air,” and felt—for the first time since she and her sisters had been packed up and transported to London—rather free.

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.