The Rogue Not Taken
Page 19
“No. I believe you used the term unfun, which is even more unflattering, as it appears that I am so deeply boring that I require a word that, prior to today, did not exist.”
“It’s not the same thing at all.” He was hard-pressed to think of an adjective less suited to Lady Sophie Talbot than uninteresting.
“And we’re back to my being unintelligent, I see.” She turned her back on him and continued her walk. He noticed that she was limping, which was unsurprising—the roads were barely conducive to carriage wheels and horseshoes.
The limp bothered him, a sliver of weakness that left him aware of her in a way he preferred not to be, making it impossible to leave her to the wolves here on the road. No matter how much he had sworn to himself that she was not his problem.
He’d pack her into the next stagecoach home the moment the sun rose. Surely there was a frock to be purchased from a maid at the inn. He’d have to pay handsomely, no doubt, but it would be worth it to send the troublesome woman back to London.
“Come back to the inn,” he said. “We’ll find you a bed, and tomorrow we’ll get you home.”
“I can find my own way home,” she said. “You needn’t worry about me.”
He sighed, letting his exasperation show in the sound. “You could be gracious and accept my offer of help.”
“Forgive me if I am not in the mood to scrape and bow because an aristocrat has condescended to tolerate me only after his reputation is at risk.”
He’d struck an interesting chord, it seemed. He plucked at it again, unable to resist. “Someone has to take responsibility for you. You can’t be trusted not to cause a scene.”
She stopped at that. Turned to him. “I don’t cause scenes.”
His brows shot up. “All you do is cause scenes, love.”
“I’m not your love,” she said, her hands fisted at her sides.
“You most certainly are not,” he agreed without thinking. “I am drawn to more feminine specimens.”
Her shoulders drooped for a moment—barely long enough to be called such—and King wanted to take the words back. They weren’t accurate. She was perfectly feminine. Indeed, as she accepted the blow of his words, there was something exceedingly feminine about her, something that one did not immediately notice.
Not that he cared. He wasn’t interested in her femininity.
She was obstinate as hell and more trouble than she was worth. And if there was one thing he did not care for, it was women who were troublesome.
But he’d hurt her feelings. And it was unsettling, as she didn’t seem the type whose feelings were easily hurt. Indeed, she was walking again, all straight spine and stiff shoulders, guard up.
It was a ruse. Designed to keep him from seeing the truth.
He knew it, because he’d used a similar one himself.
There was nothing at all uninteresting about her.
He called after her. “You can’t walk all the way back to London.”
“That shows what you know,” she said without breaking her stride. “I’m not going back to London. I’m headed north.”
“Not if you’re walking in this direction, you’re not,” he said, before the full meaning of her words sank in. “Wait. North? Why?”
She stopped. “This is north.”
“No,” he said. “It’s south.”
She peered down the dark road. “You’re certain?”
“Quite. Why are you heading north?”
She pivoted and began her march in the opposite direction. “Because I’m going home.”
She was perhaps the most frustrating woman he’d ever met. “London is south.”
“Yes. I do have a general knowledge of geography.”
“Well, you lack a knowledge of direction, it appears, so one does wonder.” She did not waver from her purpose. They walked for several minutes in silence, until they were once more in the lights of the Fox and Falcon.
King couldn’t help himself. “If not London, where is home?”
“Cumbria.”
He stilled. What was she playing at? He was headed to Cumbria. To his home.
The Dangerous Daughters.
The nickname whispered through him with a keen awareness of the rumors about the Talbot daughters—rich, but not nearly quality. They’d need to purchase their aristocratic marriages or steal them, and the fastest way to steal a title was to ruin oneself in the arms of a peer.
A carriage ride to Cumbria would easily result in ruination.
Dangerous, indeed.
Christ. He’d been right earlier that evening. The girl was after him. The guilt he’d felt at leaving her to the men in the stables disappeared, replaced by hot anger. “So it was a plan. To trap me.”
Her brows snapped together. “I beg your pardon?”
“How did you know I was headed to Cumbria? Did the footman give up that information as well?”
“You’re headed to Cumbria?” she asked, all surprise.
He narrowed his gaze on her. “Coy isn’t attractive on you, Sophie.” He deliberately left the title she was due off her name.
“And I am so very desperate for you to find me attractive.”
He raised a brow. “Tell me the truth.”
“It’s quite simple. I’m headed to Cumbria. I spent the first ten years of my life in Mossband.”
He laughed without humor. “I’ve never in my life heard such a terrible lie.”
“It’s true. Not that I can understand why you would care.”
“It’s not the same thing at all.” He was hard-pressed to think of an adjective less suited to Lady Sophie Talbot than uninteresting.
“And we’re back to my being unintelligent, I see.” She turned her back on him and continued her walk. He noticed that she was limping, which was unsurprising—the roads were barely conducive to carriage wheels and horseshoes.
The limp bothered him, a sliver of weakness that left him aware of her in a way he preferred not to be, making it impossible to leave her to the wolves here on the road. No matter how much he had sworn to himself that she was not his problem.
He’d pack her into the next stagecoach home the moment the sun rose. Surely there was a frock to be purchased from a maid at the inn. He’d have to pay handsomely, no doubt, but it would be worth it to send the troublesome woman back to London.
“Come back to the inn,” he said. “We’ll find you a bed, and tomorrow we’ll get you home.”
“I can find my own way home,” she said. “You needn’t worry about me.”
He sighed, letting his exasperation show in the sound. “You could be gracious and accept my offer of help.”
“Forgive me if I am not in the mood to scrape and bow because an aristocrat has condescended to tolerate me only after his reputation is at risk.”
He’d struck an interesting chord, it seemed. He plucked at it again, unable to resist. “Someone has to take responsibility for you. You can’t be trusted not to cause a scene.”
She stopped at that. Turned to him. “I don’t cause scenes.”
His brows shot up. “All you do is cause scenes, love.”
“I’m not your love,” she said, her hands fisted at her sides.
“You most certainly are not,” he agreed without thinking. “I am drawn to more feminine specimens.”
Her shoulders drooped for a moment—barely long enough to be called such—and King wanted to take the words back. They weren’t accurate. She was perfectly feminine. Indeed, as she accepted the blow of his words, there was something exceedingly feminine about her, something that one did not immediately notice.
Not that he cared. He wasn’t interested in her femininity.
She was obstinate as hell and more trouble than she was worth. And if there was one thing he did not care for, it was women who were troublesome.
But he’d hurt her feelings. And it was unsettling, as she didn’t seem the type whose feelings were easily hurt. Indeed, she was walking again, all straight spine and stiff shoulders, guard up.
It was a ruse. Designed to keep him from seeing the truth.
He knew it, because he’d used a similar one himself.
There was nothing at all uninteresting about her.
He called after her. “You can’t walk all the way back to London.”
“That shows what you know,” she said without breaking her stride. “I’m not going back to London. I’m headed north.”
“Not if you’re walking in this direction, you’re not,” he said, before the full meaning of her words sank in. “Wait. North? Why?”
She stopped. “This is north.”
“No,” he said. “It’s south.”
She peered down the dark road. “You’re certain?”
“Quite. Why are you heading north?”
She pivoted and began her march in the opposite direction. “Because I’m going home.”
She was perhaps the most frustrating woman he’d ever met. “London is south.”
“Yes. I do have a general knowledge of geography.”
“Well, you lack a knowledge of direction, it appears, so one does wonder.” She did not waver from her purpose. They walked for several minutes in silence, until they were once more in the lights of the Fox and Falcon.
King couldn’t help himself. “If not London, where is home?”
“Cumbria.”
He stilled. What was she playing at? He was headed to Cumbria. To his home.
The Dangerous Daughters.
The nickname whispered through him with a keen awareness of the rumors about the Talbot daughters—rich, but not nearly quality. They’d need to purchase their aristocratic marriages or steal them, and the fastest way to steal a title was to ruin oneself in the arms of a peer.
A carriage ride to Cumbria would easily result in ruination.
Dangerous, indeed.
Christ. He’d been right earlier that evening. The girl was after him. The guilt he’d felt at leaving her to the men in the stables disappeared, replaced by hot anger. “So it was a plan. To trap me.”
Her brows snapped together. “I beg your pardon?”
“How did you know I was headed to Cumbria? Did the footman give up that information as well?”
“You’re headed to Cumbria?” she asked, all surprise.
He narrowed his gaze on her. “Coy isn’t attractive on you, Sophie.” He deliberately left the title she was due off her name.
“And I am so very desperate for you to find me attractive.”
He raised a brow. “Tell me the truth.”
“It’s quite simple. I’m headed to Cumbria. I spent the first ten years of my life in Mossband.”
He laughed without humor. “I’ve never in my life heard such a terrible lie.”
“It’s true. Not that I can understand why you would care.”
