While the Duke Was Sleeping (The Rogue Files #1)(15)

“I will be back,” he assured her, wondering where that promise had come from. He owed her and the others nothing. He wanted nothing from them. He should not become embroiled with this family.

They were merely in shock and sought to cleave to him in this time of trouble. The golden son was gravely wounded. They would later regret inviting the black sheep into their fold. As soon as Autenberry awoke from his coma, he would make them see the error of their ways. Struan was not of their ilk. For all his money and aping of their manners, he was not one of them.

Turning, he strode from the room. He wasn’t entirely certain of his intent, only that the moment the shopgirl departed the bedchamber he was on his feet and after her, his blood pumping in a way that insisted he go, move, follow. He’d spent a lifetime trusting his instincts, so he didn’t question his need to pursue her.

Her plain skirts whipped around her ankles. She was a quick little thing as she advanced on the front door, her hand reaching out for the latch. The valet stationed in the corner shifted on his feet, his eyes wide, clearly uncertain whether or not he should step forward to open the door for her as she charged ahead with all the doggedness of a rushing bull.

She was the sort of female to dive in front of carriages and rescue dukes, after all. His chest clenched. He couldn’t say why, but the sudden thought irritated the hell out of him. Foolhardy chit.

In any event, he beat the valet to the door, stepping around her and blocking her exit. “How do you intend to get home?” he asked.

She blinked, her expression startled. It was a frequent look on her face. As was the flash of distaste that crossed her face as she looked him up and down. It was a look he’d experienced before—that expression of disdain. As though he were a bit of filth beneath her boot. As a boy, he had been treated to that expression frequently enough. He never cared for it. Not then. And he especially didn’t care for that look coming from her now.

“I was blessed with two perfectly functioning legs. I can walk, sir,” she said stiffly as though he were somehow deficient of intelligence.

He stared at her, looking her up and down in turn, not missing the shabby dress beneath her starched pinafore. If she was Autenberry’s fiancée he would eat his boot. “Do you live close?” He would wager she did not. Not in Mayfair or in any of the surrounding areas. Too rich for her blood.

She hesitated, dipping her gaze and shaking her head. It was all the confirmation he needed.

“Come,” he said brusquely. “I’ll hail a hack for the both of us.”

“That’s not necessary—”

He took her by the elbow and led her out the front door, ignoring her protests. “Come now. We are family . . . or soon to be, are we not?”

Family. He’d meant the words to be partly jesting, but as he stared down at the lass, the word reverberated through him with dishonesty and he faced the glaring and uncomfortable truth. He had no family, least of all her.

He might have just exchanged civil words with a chamber full of people who he could rightfully call family, but they were far from kin to him. It took more than a blood connection to be family. His father had taught him that painful lesson well. No, he was quite alone in this world.

Her lips pressed into a flat line. He expected to hear her resounding refusal, but she surprised him by agreeing. “Very well, then. Thank you.”

The driver from earlier still waited at the edge of the drive. Struan was surprised the man hadn’t left yet to find other fares. He hopped from his perch as soon as he spotted them. Snatching his cap off his head, he bobbed a greeting. “Hallo, there.” He motioned to each of them. “I ’spected one of you might need to be conveyed elsewhere . . .”

“That’s very good of you.” Struan nodded with approval.

The driver hurried to open the door and drop the step for her to ascend. “I hope his lordship is faring well.”

“His Grace has not yet woken,” she offered.

The driver tsked his tongue. “I’ll be saying a prayer for him. Me and the missus will tonight.”

“That’s very kind of you,” she said, and Struan could not help but notice she used a much gentler tone of voice when addressing the hackney driver than when she spoke to him.

Unbidden, he wondered what tone of voice she used with his brother. Undoubtedly sweet. She probably even smiled—something he had yet to see her do. And why should she? The man she claimed to be her fiancé was in a false sleep as a result of their brawl in the streets. Naturally, she didn’t feel like smiling at him.

She supplied her address and the driver shut the door.

He settled across from her, watching her as the hack started rolling forward. “Will you return tomorrow?” he heard himself asking.

She opened her mouth and then closed it with a snap, clearly uncertain how to reply.

“Foolish question. I am certain you will,” he went on to answer for her. “You will be much too worried to stay away.”

She turned to gaze out the window, dismissing him. He began to suspect she wouldn’t say anything at all when she suddenly declared, “He’ll mend, you know.” Defiance tinged her voice—as though she expected him to argue the point.

“I do hope so,” he replied.

She jerked her head around to look at him, her gaze narrowly sharply. “He will. He will wake. I know it.”