The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel #1)(16)

“And, as was the case this afternoon, it is not my problem.”

The words surprised her. “But . . .” She trailed off, not quite knowing what to say. “But I . . .”

He did not wait for her to find words. “You’ve stolen my boot and my footman in what I can only assume is a misguided attempt to gain my attention and my title, if the former actions of your family are any indication. I’m sure you’ll understand if I am less than amenable to providing you aid.” He paused, and when she did not speak, he added, “To put it plainly, you may be a colossal problem, Lady Sophie, but you are not my problem.”

The words stung quite harshly, and the way he turned his back on her, as though she were nothing, worth nothing—not even thought—delivered an unexpected blow, harsher than it might have been on another day, when all of Society and her family hadn’t turned their backs upon her in a similar fashion.

A memory flashed of the events of the afternoon, the aristocracy, en masse, disowning her, choosing their precious duke over the truth. Over the right.

Tears came, unbidden. Unwelcome.

She would not cry.

She sucked in a breath to keep them at bay.

Not in front of him.

They stung at the bridge of her nose, and she sniffed, all unladylike.

He turned back sharply. “If you are attempting to prey upon my kindness, don’t. I haven’t much of it.”

“Do not worry,” she replied. “I would never dream of thinking you kind.”

He watched her for a long, silent moment before the coachman spoke from above, where he was disconnecting the reins from the driving block. “My lord, is the boy bothering you?”

The marquess did not take his eyes from her. “He is, rather.”

The other man scowled at her. “Get to the stables and find the horses some food and water. That should be something you cannot muck up.”

“I—”

Eversley interrupted her. “I should do as John Coachman says,” he cut her off. “You don’t want to suffer his wrath.”

Her wide eyes flickered from one man to the other.

“After you’re done with that, find your bed, boy,” the coachman said. “Perhaps a good sleep will return the brain to your head.”

“My bed,” she repeated, looking to the marquess, hating the way his lips twitched.

“They’ve space in the hayloft.” The coachman’s exasperation was unmistakable as he spoke to her—as though she were an imbecile—before returning to his four-legged charges, leaping down and unhitching them to bring them to the stables, leaving Sophie and Eversley in the center of the quickly emptying courtyard.

“The hayloft sounds quite cozy,” the marquess said.

Sophie wondered if the marquess would find a blow to the side of his head cozy, but she refrained from asking.

“So cozy,” he continued, “that I think I shall find my own bed. It seems that one of my feet is quite cold. I should like to go in and warm it up by the fire.”

Her feet were also cold and aching. Silk slippers were not designed for coach-top rides through Britain or the work of footmen, after all. She thought of the warm fire that was no doubt burning inside the inn.

She wasn’t certain what would be in the hayloft, but if she had to imagine, she’d say hay . . . and that meant there wouldn’t be a warm fire there.

She could reveal herself. Now was the time. She could take off her hat and point out her own ridiculous footwear. She could announce herself Lady Sophie Talbot, rely upon the kindness of one of the other men who had barreled into the Fox and Falcon atop their strange-looking curricles, and beg for conveyance home.

Eversley seemed to understand her intentions even before they were fully formed. “An excellent idea. Saddle yourself to another. Warnick is a duke.”

She did not pretend to misunderstand. “I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man in Christendom.”

“You only say that because I’ve thwarted your idiot plan.”

“This was never my plan.”

“Of course not, why would I think it from a Dangerous Daughter?” he scoffed, and she hated him then. Hated him for invoking the ridiculous moniker. For being just like all the others. For believing that she wanted the life into which she’d been thrust.

For believing that life worth something. Worth more than the life she’d been born into. For refusing to see—just as the rest of London refused to see—that Sophie was different. And that she had been perfectly happy before. Before titles and town houses and teas and trappings of the ton.

Before those trappings had trapped her.

She swallowed back her frustration. “I thought you were heading to Mayfair,” she said, hating the smallness in her voice.

He pointed to the road without hesitation. “Thirty miles to the south. Perhaps you’ll be lucky and a mail coach will happen by.”

The words reminded her of her current circumstances. “I haven’t any money for a mail coach.”

“It is unfortunate, then, that you gave it all to my footman.”

“Not unfortunate for the boy, I imagine,” she replied, unable to keep the tartness from her voice. “After all, I saved him from having to serve you for the rest of his days.”

He smirked. “It looks like you’ve quite a walk ahead of you, then. If you start now, you’ll be there by tomorrow evening.”