The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel 1)

“All those white robes in one place,” he replied, sounding as though he might perish from boredom.

She turned the page. “Ooh! Henges! Shall we learn about those?”

The henges broke him. “Stop. For God’s sake. Stop before I leap from this conveyance not from my own demons but from your eagerness over horned groins.”

“Horned forecourts.”

“I honestly don’t care. Anything but more of the damn masonry.”

She closed the book and looked at him, willing herself to seem displeased with his insistence. “Is there something else you’d prefer to discuss?”

Understanding dawned in his green eyes, followed by irritation, and then what Sophie could only define as respect. “You sneaking minx.”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You did it on purpose.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“To get me to choose a topic of discussion.”

She widened her eyes until they felt as though they might pop out. “Certainly, if you’d like to choose a topic, my lord . . . I wouldn’t deign to eschew conversation.”

He gave a little laugh and stretched his legs, propping his feet up on the bench across from them. “I shall choose a topic, then.”

She did the same, placing her feet on the bench next to his. She clutched the closed book on her lap. “I imagine it won’t be stonework.”

“It will not be.” His attention moved to their feet. “Are the boots comfortable?”

She followed his gaze, considering his great black Hessians next to her smaller grey shoes, ankle height and designed for function rather than fashion. She should dislike the previously owned footwear, but he’d procured it, and somehow that made the boots rather perfect. “Quite,” she replied.

He nodded. “I should have had the doctor look at your feet.”

“They’re perfectly fine.”

“You should have been wearing better shoes.”

“I was not planning for an adventure.”

He looked down at her then. “So you decided to head for your future husband on a whim?”

Oh, dear.

She did not wish to speak of that. She’d never really meant to lie to him. But now, she would seem ridiculous if she confessed the truth—that Robbie wasn’t the purpose of this journey. That the journey had been without purpose until it had begun to seem as though it might be for freedom.

But the Marquess of Eversley would not take well to knowing that he’d rescued her from highwaymen and bounty hunters for the whisper of freedom. So she nodded and lied. “Yes. Sometimes when an idea strikes, you must follow it.”

He raised a brow. “You are headed to, what, propose? Woo him?”

She looked down at her lap, toying at the edges of the pages. “What makes you think he has not already been wooed?”

He crossed one black boot over the other, brushing his foot against hers. “Because you aren’t headed to Mossband in a beautifully appointed carriage, your mother and sisters in tow.”

She couldn’t help but chuckle at that image.

“That is amusing?”

“The idea of my mother and sisters choosing to leave London for little Mossband, even if it were for my wedding.” She shook her head. “We haven’t been back since we left a decade ago.”

He watched her for a long while. “You haven’t seen Robbie in ten years?”

“No,” she said, feeling quite trapped.

“Have you exchanged a lifetime of letters?”

She ignored the question, rather than lie.

He pressed on, his tone softer, knowing. “Why don’t you go home?”

And still, she could not bring herself to tell him the truth. “I am going home.”

“I mean your London home. The massive town house in Mayfair.”

She shook her head. “That’s not home.”

“But a dusty town filled with farmers is?”

She thought for a long minute about that, about the quaint honesty of Mossband. About the people who lived and worked there. About the life she had before Father had become an earl. The life she could have again.

Maybe it was the rocking of the carriage, or the way King waited, with the patience of Job, or the close quarters. Whatever it was, she told the truth. “It is the only place I have ever felt free.”

Until now.

“What does that mean?”

She did not reply.

He lifted his boots off the bench and let them fall to the floor before moving to sit across from her, to get a better look, knees spread wide, fingers laced between them. “Look at me, Sophie.” She looked up to find his gaze on her, glittering in the carriage’s fading light. “What does that mean?”

She dropped her own feet to the floor and fiddled with the deckled edge of the book, uncertain of where to begin. “I was ten when my father earned his earldom. He burst through the door of our house, where I had never dreamed of more than I had, and announced, ‘My ladies!’ with a great, booming laugh. It was such a lark! My mother cried and my sisters screamed and I . . .” She paused. Thought. “They were infectious. Their happiness was infectious. So we packed our things and moved to London. I said good-bye to my life. To my home. To my friends. To my cat.”

His brow furrowed. “You couldn’t take your cat?”

She shook her head. “She did not travel well.”

“Like your sister?”

“She howled.”

“Sesily?”

Sophie smiled at the teasing. “Asparagus. Would cling to the back of the seat in the coach and howl. My mother’s nerves could not bear it.” She grew serious. “I had to leave her.”

“You had a cat named Asparagus.”

“I know. It’s silly. What’s asparagus to do with the price of wheat?”

He smiled at that. “That’s the second time you’ve used that phrase.”

She smiled, too. “My father,” she said simply.

“I’ve always liked him, you know.”

Her brows rose. “Really?”

“You’re surprised?”

“He’s crass compared to the rest of London.”

“He’s honest compared to the rest of London. The first time we ever met, he told me that he didn’t like my father.”

She nodded. “That sounds like Papa.”

“Go on. You left Asparagus.”

She looked out the window again. “I haven’t thought about that cat in years. She was black. With little white paws. And a white nose.” She shook her head to clear it of the memory. “Anyway, we left and we never came back. There is a country seat in Wales somewhere, but we never go there. My mother was too focused on our making a new, aristocratic life. That meant visiting other, more established country seats filled with aristocratic young women who were supposed to become our friends. Who were to help us find a place for ourselves. To climb.

“She swore that in a few years, we’d fit in perfectly. And my sisters do. They somehow realized that their perfect beauty would lead to the gossip pages adoring them, which would lead to the ton adoring them. Against its better judgment. They are expert climbers. Except . . .”

She trailed off, and he had to prompt her to finish. “Except?”

“Except I am not. I do not fit in. I am not perfectly beautiful.” She gave him a half smile. “I am not even beautifully perfect. You’ve said it yourself.”

“When did I say it?” he asked, affronted.

“I’m the plain one. The boring one. The unfun one.” She waved a hand down at her livery, the clothing that had driven him to call her plump. “Certainly not the beautiful one.” He cursed softly, but she raised a hand before he could speak. “Don’t apologize. It’s true. I’ve never felt like I belonged there. I’ve never felt worth the effort. But in Mossband—I felt valued.

“In escaping London, I have become more than I ever was there.” She smiled. “And when those men came looking, when you ferreted me out, I’ve never f

elt more free.” She paused, then added, softly, “Or more valued. You never would have helped me escape before.”

“That’s nonsense,” he said, and the tone brooked no refusal.