The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel #1)(15)

He recognized her.

The duke laughed, unaware of what had happened before his eyes, and returned to his curricle, tossing back, “The boy might get an eyeful stealing into the lady’s boudoir.”

Sophie couldn’t help her little huff of indignation. Of course, Marcella was criticized for her actions as the marquess was lauded by his brawny, boorish brethren.

Eversley cut her a look at the sound. “I hope my boot is inside that carriage.”

She resisted the urge to tell him precisely what he could do with the boot in question, instead playing the perfect servant. “Unfortunately not, my lord.”

He raised a brow. “No?”

She wished she could meet his gaze. Granted, his brilliant green eyes were unsettling in the extreme, but at least if she could see them, she would be able to glean something of his thoughts on the situation. Instead, she soldiered on, lifting her chin, and he noted the defiance in the gesture. “No.”

He lowered his voice. “Where is it, then?”

She lowered her voice to match his. “I imagine it is where I left it. In the Liverpool hedge.”

She rather enjoyed the way his throat worked in the moment of silence following her announcement. “You left my Hessian in a hedge.”

“You left me in a hedge,” she pointed out.

“I had no use for you.”

“Well, I had no use for your boot.”

He considered her for a long moment, and changed the topic. “You look ridiculous.”

Of course she did. She lifted one shoulder, let it drop. “It’s your livery.”

“It’s for a footman! Not some spoiled girl looking for a lark.”

Anger flared at the words. “You know nothing about me. I am not spoiled. And it was not a lark.”

“Oh? I suppose you have a perfectly reasonable explanation for why you stole my footman’s livery and stowed away in my carriage.”

“I do, as a matter of fact. And I was not in your carriage. I was on it.”

“Along with my blind coachman, it seems. Why were you up there?”

She smirked. “Footmen don’t ride inside carriages, my lord. And even if they did, the carriage in question is filled with wheels. Why is that?”

“In case I need a replacement,” he said without hesitation. “Where is my footman, anyway? Did you knock him unconscious and leave him naked in the hedge alongside my boot?”

“Of course I didn’t. Matthew is perfectly well.”

“Is he wearing your dress?”

She blushed. “No. He bought a set of clothes from one of the Liverpool stableboys.”

He did not pause in his questions. “And you? Did you strip in front of all London?”

“Of course not!” She was growing indignant. “I’m not mad.”

“Oh, no,” he said, “Of course not.”

“I’m not!” she insisted, hissing the words so as not to draw attention to them. “I changed clothes in my family’s carriage. And I paid Matthew for his livery before sending him to my father for another position.”

He stilled. “You stole my footman.”

“It wasn’t stealing.”

“I had a footman this morning. And now I don’t have one. How is that not stealing?”

“It was not stealing,” she insisted. “It’s not as though you owned him.”

“I paid him!”

“It seems I paid him better.”

He went quiet, and she could see the frustration in his gaze before he offered a single, perfunctory nod and said, “Fair enough.”

He turned away.

Well. That was unexpected. And not at all ideal, as she had no money, and he was the only person in the place who might be inclined to help her get home, assuming it meant that she was gone from his life.

She ignored the fact that stowing away on his carriage might have worked against her.

Sophie sighed. He was insufferable, but she was intelligent enough to know when she needed someone. “Wait!” she called, drawing the attention of the coachman and several of his companions from earlier in the evening, but not the man in question.

He was ignoring her. Deliberately.

She scurried after him, ignoring the pain of the gravel on her slippered feet. “My lord,” she called, all nervousness. “There is one more thing.” He stopped and turned to face her. She drew close to him, suddenly keenly aware of his height, of the way her forehead aligned with his firm, straight, unyielding lips.

“It doesn’t fit you.”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“The livery. It’s too tight.”

First he described her as unfun and now as plump. She knew it of course, but he didn’t have to point out the fact that she wasn’t the most lithe of women. She swallowed around the tightness in her throat and brazened on. “Excuse me, Lord Perfection, I did not have time to visit a modiste on the way.” He did not apologize for his rudeness—not that she was surprised—but neither did he leave, so she pressed on. “I require conveyance home.”

“Yes, you said as much this afternoon.”

When he’d refused to help and landed her in this mess.

He wasn’t alone in landing you in this mess. She ignored the thought. “Yes, well, it remains the case.”