The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel #1)(37)

She turned her head and sniffed delicately. Gin and honey.

The inn was not responsible for the strange odor.

Oh, dear.

She scuttled back from his approach and held up a hand. “No!”

Eversley stilled, his eyes widening at the words. “I beg your pardon?”

He was going to smell her. “Don’t come any closer!”

“Why not?”

“It’s not appropriate.”

“What isn’t?”

“You. Being here. So near. While I am abed.”

One black brow rose. “I assure you, my lady, I’ve no intention of debauching you.”

She had no doubt of that, considering her current situation, but she couldn’t well tell him the truth. “Nevertheless, I must insist on the utmost propriety.”

“Who do you think nursemaided you for the last day?”

Bollocks. He was right. He’d been close. He’d had to have noticed her odor. But it didn’t mean he had to any longer. She straightened her shoulders, ignoring the twinge in the left. “My reputation, you see.”

He blinked. “You were shot on the Great North Road while wearing stolen livery—”

“How many times must I tell you that I paid for that livery?”

“Fine. You were shot on the Great North Road while wearing purchased livery from a stolen footman, after stowing away in an unmarried gentleman’s carriage.”

“Gentleman is a stretch, don’t you think?”

He ignored the comment. “How, precisely, is your reputation not in already in tatters?”

Her reputation was already in tatters for any number of the events of the last four days, but she wasn’t about to bring that up. Instead, she raised a hand once more, wondering how she might procure a bath without anyone inhaling in her vicinity. “That’s all perceived damage. Not actual damage.”

Those brows rose again. “You’ve lived in London for how long?”

“A decade.”

“And you still believe there is a difference between truth and lies when it comes to scandal. Isn’t that charming.”

She scowled at his dry tone. “The point is, my lord, I’d appreciate you keeping your distance.”

He looked as though he might argue, but instead said, more to himself than to her, “The doctor will be here in minutes, anyway.”

As though Eversley summoned the man himself, the doctor took that moment to arrive, thankfully, Mary on his heels with a steaming cup of tea.

It was only then that Sophie recalled that the doctor was also handsome. Of course. Because when it rained it poured, and Sophie—who’d never held a handsome gentleman’s attention for longer than the half second it took for him to realize she was not the lady he sought—was bedridden and unwashed when saddled with two of them. She was doomed.

“Mrs. Matthew!” the surgeon said, all jolly humor. “I trust you had a good rest.”

She’d forgotten that they’d christened her with the name. “I seem to have, Doctor . . .” She paused. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name, sir.”

“I never gave it,” the doctor said simply, taking the tea from Mary with a dazzling smile. “Thank you.”

Mary blushed. “Of course, Doctor.”

Eversley snorted his irritation. Or was it something else? Could it be jealousy of the doctor’s effect on women? No. Eversley was exceedingly attractive himself.

Not that she noticed.

She’d have to like him to notice.

And she did not like him.

The doctor approached the bed and handed Sophie the cup of herbed tea. He waited for her to take a long drink before asking, “How do you feel?”

Vaguely, Sophie realized that the man still hadn’t shared his name. No one else in the room seemed to mind, however, so Sophie answered the question, keenly aware of the Marquess of Eversley’s watchful gaze. “Quite well.”

“Well. I’m sure that’s not true.” The doctor took the teacup from her and passed it back to Mary before seating himself on the bed and donning his spectacles. “So let’s have a look.”

She shrank back against the pillows, unable to think of anything but her odor. “I’d rather—”

He ignored her and put a hand to her forehead. “Excellent. No fever.” Before Sophie could enjoy the pronouncement, the surgeon added, “I’ve smelled worse, madam, I assure you.” He did not lower his voice, and the words boomed through the room.

Sophie went scarlet as Eversley looked to the ceiling in frustration. “Is that why you wouldn’t let me near you?”

“You’re the one who pointed out that I’d been doused in gin and honey,” she defended herself.

“To underscore his madness, not your stench!”

Mary’s mouth fell open.

Sophie imagined hers might have also, if she weren’t so angry. “My stench?” She glared at him.

He rocked back on his heels, as though considering his next move. “I did not mean—”

She’d had enough. “Of all the ungentlemanly things you’ve said to me, my lord—and there have been many—that might be the worst of the lot.”

He looked as though he wanted to say something, but refrained. Thankfully, because the doctor chose that precise moment to peel away the bandage, and Sophie yelped in pain.