But for now, until the rooftops of London appeared in the distance and reminded her that the afternoon—and her public and no doubt long-term shaming—were inescapable, she would enjoy her triumph.
And she did enjoy it, cheeks aching from the pull of her grin, until she became aware of other aches, in her legs and arms.
At first, she ignored them. She was strong enough to manage for the few miles back to Mayfair. The streets of London would require stops and starts and slow going, and all she had to do was keep her head down and hold fast, and she’d be home within the hour.
And then her feet started in, still in their silken slippers, as Matthew’s boots had been too small for her always-too-long “flippers,” as her father referred to them, refusing to accept the fact that the comparison to water creatures was not at all complimentary.
Silk slippers, it turned out, were not made for outriding.
Nor, it turned out, was Sophie.
Indeed, within half an hour, she was having a difficult time of it, her hands now aching as well, under the too-tight grip she had on the back of the carriage. She hadn’t expected her role as outrider to be quite so taxing.
She gritted her teeth, reminding herself that there were more difficult situations than this one in the world. Men had built bridges. Families had fled to the Colonies. She was daughter to a coal miner. Granddaughter to one.
Sophie Talbot could hang on to a carriage for the two miles it took to get home.
The carriage increased its speed, as though the universe itself had heard her words and desired to underscore her idiocy. She looked down and considered leaping to the ground and walking the rest of the way. Watching the road tear past, she unconsidered it.
She’d wished to leave a garden party, not the earth.
“Oh, bollocks.”
Sophie. Language. She heard her mother’s admonition in the minuscule part of her brain that was not currently panicking, but she had no doubt that if there was ever a time for cursing, it was this one—dressed as a servant, clinging to a carriage, certain she was going to die.
And then the coach passed a mail coach laden with people, a small child hanging off the top of it, grinning down at her.
That’s when Sophie realized that, wherever this carriage and the man inside were headed, it was not London.
“Oh, bollocks,” she repeated. Louder.
The child waved.
Sophie did not dare release her grip to return the gesture. Instead, she tightened her hold, pressed her forehead to the cool wood of the carriage, and chanted her litany.
“Bollocksbollocksbollocks,” she said.
As though punishing her for her crassness, a wheel hit a rut in the road, and the vehicle bounced, jarring her spine and nearly tossing her from the back of the coach. She cried out in fear and desperation. Clinging tightly, the ache in her hands sharp now.
There was only one option. She had to get off this carriage. Immediately. It was only two or three miles to the Talbot home. She could walk if she exited this ridiculous situation immediately.
The coachmen called back, “I told you to sit with me!”
Sophie closed her eyes. “When do we stop?”
She waited long seconds for the terrifying reply. “It’s good weather, so I’d say we’ll make it in three hours. Maybe four!”
She groaned, the sound coming on a word far worse than bollocks. Leaping from the carriage was suddenly an entirely viable possibility.
“I suppose you’re changing your mind about riding on the block?” called the coachman.
Of course she was changing her mind. She never should have gone through with such a terrible plan. If she hadn’t vowed to run from the silly garden party, she’d be home now. And not here—minutes away from falling to her death.
“Shall I stop so you can join me?”
She barely heard the part of the question that came after the word stop.
Dear God. Yes. Please stop.
“Yes, please!”
The carriage began to slow, and relief flooded her, replacing everything else, making her forget her panic and pain for a fleeting moment. A very fleeting moment.
“I thought it odd, that you would want to ride on the back of the coach all afternoon.”
Well, the coachman could have said as much. Then they wouldn’t be in this predicament. As Sophie wouldn’t have set foot on the coach if she had known that there was even a hint of possibility that the Marquess of Eversley wasn’t headed to Mayfair. But she was not about to waste time dwelling on her mistake, when she could be spending time rectifying it. She released her grip, shoulders straight and head high, taking a deep breath, preparing to descend from the carriage and announce that Matthew was not joining them for the ride to wherever they were headed. And neither was she.
Freedom was a wonderful thing.
She was half looking forward to the marquess’s shock when he discovered that she’d stowed away. He could do with a surprise now and then to offset his arrogant existence, and she was thrilled to be able to give it to him.
Right up until her legs gave way and she collapsed to the ground in an ungraceful, inglorious heap.
“Bollocks.” It was becoming her very favorite word.
The coachman’s eyes widened from high above, and she couldn’t blame him, as she felt certain that outriders had one, single responsibility—to refrain from falling off the carriage.
“On your feet, you clumsy git,” the coachman called, no doubt thinking he sounded charmingly teasing. “I haven’t all day to wait for you!”
Gone was her triumph.
Gone was her freedom.
She pushed up onto her hands and knees, muscles aching after the strain of hanging on to the carriage along the bumpy roads. She stood slowly, keeping her back to the carriage as she straightened her spine and rolled her shoulders back. “I’m afraid you shall have to wait,” she said, “as I require an audience with the marquess.”
There was a beat as the words settled with the driver, along with a fair amount of shock, no doubt, that a footman would deign to demand to speak with his master.
Wouldn’t he be surprised when he realized that the Marquess of Eversley was not her master after all. And that she was not his footman.
She felt a slight twinge of remorse when she considered that the coachman would have to retrace their path to London once she revealed herself—his body was no doubt protesting their travels as much as hers was.
“Are you mad?” he asked, all incredulity.
She looked up at him. “Not at all.” She approached the carriage and banged on the door. “Open, my lord.”
There was no movement from inside the vehicle. The door remained firmly shut.
“You are mad!” the coachman announced.
“I swear to you, I am not,” she said. “Eversley!” she called, ignoring the twinge of pain that came as she rapped smartly on the great black coach. He was probably asleep, as one would expect from a lazy aristocrat. “Open this door!”
He was going to be furious when he saw her, but she did not care. Indeed, Sophie had a keen, unyielding desire to teach the outrageous, unbearable aristocrat a lesson. She was certain that no one had ever done such a thing—no one had ever crossed the Marquess of Eversley, known in private conversations as King. As though he weren’t pompous enough, he assumed the highest title in Britain as his name.