The Rogue Not Taken

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.

Perhaps not.

There was Eversley.

Her gaze flickered to his and dropped away. With whom would she spar if these men took her into custody? Would she ever see him again?

Would she mind?

The answer whispered through her, and she hated even the thought of giving it voice. But there was no turning back. She’d had her chance for proper escape. For a simple, happy life, far from London and the future for which she’d never asked.

And it had been ruined.

Know when you’ve been bested, her father had schooled her again and again. Cut your losses. Shake hands. And return to destroy them another day.

The thought echoing through her, Sophie was quiet, gathering her courage. Ignoring the constant litany of Do not make me return that echoed in her head as the newcomer added, “She is believed to be traveling with the Marquess of Eversley.”

She paused at that. How could they know?

Matthew.

The footman would have arrived at the Talbot house and produced a letter from Sophie—and her father would have immediately had the poor boy questioned. She resisted the urge to ask if Matthew was well.

“Oh?” Eversley asked calmly, as though he had no concern whatsoever. “Are they eloping?”

“Not if we have anything to do with it.” The man leaned down and said, “What are your names? If you don’t mind my asking?”

Eversley’s grip tightened as her gaze flew to his face, where he watched the other man. Willed him to lie. To protect her, even as she knew he was in no way beholden to her. She was not his problem. How many times had he told her that?

It did not matter that she rather wished she was his problem.

And then he replied. “Matthew,” he said, with utter calm. “Mr. and Mrs.” He turned his glittering smile on their visitor. “Newlyweds.”

The man watched them for a long moment before Sophie settled her free hand on their entwined ones and smiled her warmest smile.

She did not know why, but he was saving her. Again.

And worse, she was beginning to like him.

She had a beautiful smile.