“I’m perfectly fun!” she said.
“Really? You’re Sophie, the youngest of Talbot girls, aren’t you?”
“I am.”
“The unfun one.”
She rocked back at the description. Was that what people said about her? She hated the little flare of sadness that came at the words. The hesitation. The tiny glimmer of fear that he might actually be correct. “Unfun isn’t a word.”
“Until five minutes ago, defenestration wasn’t one, either.”
“Of course it was!” she announced.
He rocked back on his heels. “So you say.”
“It’s a word,” she declared imperiously before recognizing the teasing gleam in his eye. “Oh. I see.”
He spread his hands wide, as though proving his point. “Unfun.”
“I’m perfectly fun,” she said, without conviction.
“I don’t think so,” he said smartly. “Look at you. Not a nod to the Orient to be found.”
She scowled. “It’s a ridiculous theme for a garden party attended by people with no knowledge of and even less interest in the country of China.”
He smirked. “Be careful. Lady Liverpool might hear you.”
She straightened her shoulders. “As Lady Liverpool is dressed as a Japanese fish, I don’t imagine she would care about my views.”
His brows rose. “Is that a jest, Lady Sophie?”
“It is an observation.”
He tutted. “So. Unfun after all.”
“Well, I think you are unpleasant. Which is a word,” she said.
“You’d be the first woman to think that.”
“Surely I cannot be the first woman of sound mind you’ve ever encountered.”
He chuckled, the sound warm and . . . strangely inviting. Pleasing. A sound of approval.
She pushed the thought away. She didn’t care if he approved her. She didn’t care what he thought of her. Or what the rest of his silly, vapid, horrible world thought of her. Honestly, if all of Society thought her unfun—she grimaced inwardly at the word—why should she care? He was a means to an end.
“I’ve had enough,” she said, returning to the situation at hand. She’d watched her father negotiate enough over her lifetime that she knew when it was time to speak frankly and get a deal done. “I assume you are leaving the party?”
The question caught Eversley by surprise. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Take me with you.”
He barked a single expression of shock. “Ah. No.”
“Why not?”
“So many reasons, poppet. Not the least of which is this—I’ve no intention of being saddled with one of the Soiled S’s.”
She stiffened at the moniker. Most people did not call them such to their faces. She supposed she should expect nothing less from this horrible man. “I do not intend to ensnare you, Lord Eversley. I assure you, even if I had had such an idea, this interaction”—she waved a hand back and forth between them—“would have cured me of such an affliction.” She took a deep breath. “I require escape. Surely you understand that. As you seem to require the same.”
He focused on her. “What happened?”
She looked away, remembering the cold gaze of Society. Its wicked cut. “It is not important.”
His brows rose. “If you’re in the woods with me, love, I’d say it is quite important.”
“This is a strip of trees. Not ‘the woods.’”
“You’re very contrary for someone who needs me.”
“I don’t need you.”
“Then give me my boot and I’ll be on my way.”
She tightened her grip on the boot. “I need your carriage. That’s a different thing altogether.”
“My carriage is about to be otherwise engaged,” he said.
“I simply need conveyance home.”
“You’ve four sisters, a mother, and a father. Ride with them.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Pride.
Well, she certainly wasn’t going to tell him that.
“You shall just have to trust me.”
“Again, the ladies of your family don’t exactly have reputations that engender trust.”
She did not pretend to misunderstand. “Oh, and you are the very portrait of respectability.”
He grinned. “I don’t trade on respectability, love.”
She was beginning to hate him.
She nodded. “Fine. You leave me no choice but to resort to extreme measures.” His brows rose. “Take me, or lose your boot.”
He watched her for a long moment, and she willed herself to remain still under his consideration. She attempted to convince herself not to notice the beautiful green of his eyes; the long, straight line of his aristocratic nose; the handsome curve of his lips.
She should not be noticing his lips.
She swallowed at the thought, and his gaze flickered to the place where her throat betrayed the movement. His lips twitched. “Keep the boot.”
It took a moment for her to remember what it was they had been talking about.
Before she could think of a retort, he was through the trees and over the wall, headed for his carriage on one stockinged foot.
By the time she reached the wall, he was at the front of a large, smart-looking black carriage, fussing about with the horses. Sophie watched him for long moments, wishing he would step on something uncomfortable. It appeared he was rehitching all the horses, checking harnesses and straps, but that would be silly, as he no doubt had a stableful of servants to do just that.
Once he’d inspected each of the six horses, he entered the coach, and Sophie watched as a young, liveried outrider closed the door with a snap and ran ahead to help make way for the carriage to exit through the crush of conveyances.
She sighed.
The Marquess of Eversley had no idea of how lucky he was to be blessed with the freedom that came with funds and masculinity. She imagined he was already stretched across the seat of that luxurious carriage, the portrait of aristocratic idleness, considering a nap to recover from his exertion earlier in the afternoon.
Lazy and immovable.
She had no doubt that he’d already forgotten her. She didn’t imagine he spared much room for remembering most people—there wasn’t much point, after all, with the constant stream of ladies in his life.
She doubted he even remembered his servants.
Her gaze flickered to the footman, not nearly old enough to be a footman. Likely more of a page. The boy stood on the edge of the stream of carriages, watching as drivers slowly returned to their seats and began to shift and move their charges to release the Eversley conveyance.
Her reticule grew heavy in her hand, its weight the result of the money inside. Never leave the house without enough blunt to win you a fight. Her father’s words had been drilled into the minds of all the Talbot sisters—not that aristocratic ladies often found themselves requiring assistance to escape fisticuffs.
But Sophie was no fool, and she knew that the interaction with Society she’d just had was the closest thing to a fight she was likely to ever experience. She had no doubt that her father would deem the funds in her reticule well spent on escape.