The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel #1)(47)

“I told you, I don’t dally with married ladies.”

“Only soon-to-be-married ones.”

“There’s a difference.”

Every time she thought he was fairly decent, he reminded her of the truth. She tossed the paper at him. “No. There isn’t.” She paused, then added, “Lady Elizabeth, daughter of the Marquess of Twillery.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“She should. You ruined her planned marriage to the Earl of Exeter.”

“Ah. Yes. It’s coming back to me,” he said, relaxing into his chair.

“She married her father’s stable master.”

“Happily, if I recall.”

“She didn’t have a choice after you ended her engagement.”

“Love conquered. Isn’t that what is important?” He remained unruffled.

“Of course you can be flip about it,” she said. “You’re a man.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Your reputation is only enhanced by your actions. Poor Lady Elizabeth is ruined forever.”

“Lady Elizabeth might disagree with that assessment of the situation.” He returned his attention to the article in the paper about her altercation with Haven. “You are rather ruined yourself, it appears.”

“Those assembled were not amused.”

He smirked. “I don’t imagine they were. So, now we know.”

She looked to him in confusion. “What do we know?”

“What you’re running from.”

“I’m not running,” she insisted. “Either way, you needn’t trouble yourself with it; I have purchased a ticket on the mail coach tomorrow. I look forward to being rid of you, and I’m sure you feel the same.”

“You’re not going anywhere on a mail coach,” he said simply, as though she were asking his permission.

She shot him a look. “You’re acting like your name gives you some sort of special power over me. Again. I do not care for it.”

The words were punctuated by the door to the street opening behind her, Eversley’s gaze flickering over her shoulder to consider the newcomers as he turned the newspaper over. He tracked their movement for so long that she had to resist the desire to turn and look.

Instead, she leaned forward. “Don’t tell me it’s the real King?”

He cut her a look. “I suppose you think it’s amusing to mock my name?”

She smirked. “I do, rather.”

“You should not bite the hand that feeds you,” he said.

“Are you calling me a dog?”

“No,” he replied, “Hounds are more docile and obedient than you could ever be.”

She was about to tell him precisely which of them was houndlike when he reached for her hand across the tabletop as though it were the most normal thing in the world, looked deep into her eyes, and smiled.

Sophie’s breath caught. Good Lord, he was a beautiful man, all strength and power and that smile—it was no wonder that he was known for being a proper rake. It was almost enough to have Sophie forgetting that she disliked him and instead allowing him all sorts of liberties. Like holding her hand, for example. Her pulse quickened at the feeling of his warm skin against hers, and she at once regretted and rejoiced in the lack of gloves between them. She instantly attempted to remove her hand from his, keenly aware that even if they were married, the touch was inappropriate.

He held her like steel the moment she tried to move, and he spoke, the words loud enough for half the pub to hear. “I win, darling.”

Her brow furrowed. He won what? Darling? She leaned in. “Are you addled, sir?”

He smiled again, the expression full of privacy and promise, as though the two of them not only liked each other, but shared a lifetime of secrets. He lifted her hand to his lips, kissing the knuckles in succession. Sophie opened her mouth, then closed it, heart pounding, attention riveted to the place where his kisses rained.

What was happening?

“Apologies for the interruption.”

For a moment, she did not even hear the words, too focused on the strange, seductive man across the table. But Eversley heard enough for both of them, replying without moving his gaze from hers. “What is it?”

“We are looking for a missing girl.”

They were there for her.

Eversley’s grasp did not shift, and it was that firm, steady grip that kept her from gasping her surprise. She watched his eyes, read the question in them. Knew that he was leaving her the opportunity to reveal herself. She looked up at them, discovering the pair of dusty riders she’d noticed earlier. “A missing girl,” she said, clutching Eversley’s hand as though it were a port in the storm. “How terrible.”

Perhaps it wasn’t she.

The thought had barely formed before the man said, “Lady Sophie Talbot.”

She was found.

Her plans were thwarted. Eversley was right—her father had sent men to find her. They would ferret her back to London, to the bosom of her family, where she would be primped and preened and sent into Society at her great, mortal embarrassment.

She would have to become Sophie, the unfun Dangerous Daughter.

Days ago, that might have been fine . . . but now she knew there was another possibility. There was freedom. There was Mossband. There was even the possibility of Robbie, who might make good on his promise once he discovered that she was there, and marriageable. Perhaps he had been waiting for her all these years. Perhaps he had despaired for want of her.