The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel #1)(24)

Happily.

She leaned back against a particularly uncomfortable case, the corner of which gouged into the back of her neck. Not that she cared. She was too busy imagining this new, fresh life. Away from the cold, uncaring eyes of Society.

She’d rent the rooms above one of the shops on the high road in Mossband. They would remember her there—they’d welcome her home. The haberdasher, the butcher, the baker. She wondered if Mr. and Mrs. Lander were still at the bakery—he with his wide smile and she with her wide hips—and if they still made breakfast buns laden with cinnamon and honey.

She wondered if Robbie was still there.

The baker’s son had been long and lean, with a winning smile and a teasing gleam in his eye. He’d been two years older than she, and her playmate in the afternoons, when he’d stolen away from the bakery with one of those buns, sticky and sweet, and they’d licked sugar from their fingers and whiled away the hours until supper with plans for the future.

They would marry, Robbie had promised her when they were too young to understand the meaning in the word. One day, he would be the Mossband baker, and she the woman who ran the bookshop. And they would rise before the sun and work a full, happy day, the smell of those buns clinging to hair and clothes and books.

It had taken Sophie no time to decide that without the yoke of London and the ton, she would have that bookshop. Her father would send her funds, and she would make Mossband the most lettered town in the North Country. There wasn’t a bookshop for miles—books had arrived by post from London when she was a child, or had been purchased in bulk when her father traveled to Newcastle to negotiate coal prices. He’d always remembered “his girlies,” as he liked to refer to his daughters, and he’d returned with gifts for them all—hair ribbons for Seraphina, elaborate clothes for Seleste’s dolls, silk threads in every possible color for Sesily, sweets for Seline. But for Sophie, it was books.

Her father wasn’t a reader—he’d never learned how, despite having an uncanny head for numbers—so the crate of books he brought home with him was always eclectic: texts on animal husbandry, economic dissertations, travelogues, hunting manuals, four separate versions of the Book of Common Prayer. Once, he’d come home with an obscure collection of etchings from India that her governess had promptly snatched away and never returned.

To any other young girl, her father’s boxes would have been boring. But to Sophie, they’d been magic. The books had been leather-bound adventures, pages and pages of distant worlds and remarkable people and learning. And simple, unadulterated happiness. They’d piled up in her bedchamber, first on shelves, and then on the floor, and then, finally, in the armoires her mother had installed so the books could be hidden. But the book shipments had never stopped, so Sophie had always imagined that her mother hadn’t minded her opinions so very much. Until the Liverpool summer soiree, when her mother had been horrified by her opinions. Just as the rest of London had been.

Cold memory pooled inside her—London’s most powerful members simply turning their backs on her, as though she didn’t exist. Exiling her. Worse. Disappearing her.

She couldn’t go back; so she would go forward. And she would forge her own future by returning to the dearest memories of her past.

And if Robbie was still there, perhaps he’d make good on that long-ago promise. Perhaps he’d marry her. An ache began in her chest at the thought—at the idea of being married. Of being loved. Robbie had had a lovely smile. And he’d always listened when she told him about her books and her ideas.

If they married—well, there were worse things than marrying an old friend.

And if they didn’t—she’d have her bookshop. And there were much worse things than that.

She opened her eyes, meeting the gaze of the young mother in the seat opposite. Instead of looking away in embarrassment this time, however, the young woman tilted her head slightly, revealing her curiosity. The woman’s gaze slid down Sophie’s face and throat, stilling on the place where her coat buttons strained against her breasts, and Sophie couldn’t help but look down as well, following the perusal.

Discovering the button that had come undone, revealing a white chambray shirt and a swell that was decidedly unfootmanlike.

Sophie snatched the coat together, fastening the button once more, and met the woman’s eyes again. She nodded in the direction of Sophie’s cap. “You’re coming loose.”

Sophie reached up to find a long brown curl escaped from its moorings.

Sophie opened her mouth to explain, then closed it when she could not find the words. She shrugged.

The woman smiled, let in on her secret, then leaned forward to whisper, “I wondered why a fancy servant was riding by mail.”

It hadn’t occurred to her that the livery might draw attention to her in this world, when it made her so invisible in the world from which she’d come. “I suppose it’s obvious that I’m not a servant.”

“Only to someone who is looking. Most people don’t look,” the young woman said, before looking at the boy on the seat next to Sophie. “Give it back, John.”

Sophie looked down at the boy, who was grinning up at her, dangling her watch from his fingers. “I weren’t really going to take it.”

“No one knew that,” the woman said. “And you promised no more pocketing.”