The Rogue Not Taken
Page 53
She dropped her own feet to the floor and fiddled with the deckled edge of the book, uncertain of where to begin. “I was ten when my father earned his earldom. He burst through the door of our house, where I had never dreamed of more than I had, and announced, ‘My ladies!’ with a great, booming laugh. It was such a lark! My mother cried and my sisters screamed and I . . .” She paused. Thought. “They were infectious. Their happiness was infectious. So we packed our things and moved to London. I said good-bye to my life. To my home. To my friends. To my cat.”
His brow furrowed. “You couldn’t take your cat?”
She shook her head. “She did not travel well.”
“Like your sister?”
“She howled.”
“Sesily?”
Sophie smiled at the teasing. “Asparagus. Would cling to the back of the seat in the coach and howl. My mother’s nerves could not bear it.” She grew serious. “I had to leave her.”
“You had a cat named Asparagus.”
“I know. It’s silly. What’s asparagus to do with the price of wheat?”
He smiled at that. “That’s the second time you’ve used that phrase.”
She smiled, too. “My father,” she said simply.
“I’ve always liked him, you know.”
Her brows rose. “Really?”
“You’re surprised?”
“He’s crass compared to the rest of London.”
“He’s honest compared to the rest of London. The first time we ever met, he told me that he didn’t like my father.”
She nodded. “That sounds like Papa.”
“Go on. You left Asparagus.”
She looked out the window again. “I haven’t thought about that cat in years. She was black. With little white paws. And a white nose.” She shook her head to clear it of the memory. “Anyway, we left and we never came back. There is a country seat in Wales somewhere, but we never go there. My mother was too focused on our making a new, aristocratic life. That meant visiting other, more established country seats filled with aristocratic young women who were supposed to become our friends. Who were to help us find a place for ourselves. To climb.
“She swore that in a few years, we’d fit in perfectly. And my sisters do. They somehow realized that their perfect beauty would lead to the gossip pages adoring them, which would lead to the ton adoring them. Against its better judgment. They are expert climbers. Except . . .”
She trailed off, and he had to prompt her to finish. “Except?”
“Except I am not. I do not fit in. I am not perfectly beautiful.” She gave him a half smile. “I am not even beautifully perfect. You’ve said it yourself.”
“When did I say it?” he asked, affronted.
“I’m the plain one. The boring one. The unfun one.” She waved a hand down at her livery, the clothing that had driven him to call her plump. “Certainly not the beautiful one.” He cursed softly, but she raised a hand before he could speak. “Don’t apologize. It’s true. I’ve never felt like I belonged there. I’ve never felt worth the effort. But in Mossband—I felt valued.
“In escaping London, I have become more than I ever was there.” She smiled. “And when those men came looking, when you ferreted me out, I’ve never felt more free.” She paused, then added, softly, “Or more valued. You never would have helped me escape before.”
“That’s nonsense,” he said, and the tone brooked no refusal.
“Is it? You left me standing in a hedge with your boot,” she pointed out.
“That’s not the same. I left you there because you had value.”
“No, I had a title. Those aren’t the same thing.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but she stopped him, unable to keep her frustration at bay. “I would not expect you to understand, my lord. You, who have such value to spare. Your name is King, for heaven’s sake.”
Her words circled the carriage, fading into heavy silence. And then he said, “Aloysius.”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Aloysius Archibald Barnaby Kingscote. Marquess of Eversley. Future Duke of Lyne.” He waved his hand in a flourish. “At your service.”
He was joking.
But he did not appear to be joking.
“No,” she whispered, playing the name over in her head, and her hand flew to her mouth, desperate to hold in her response. But it was too much. She couldn’t stop herself. She began to laugh.
He raised a brow and leaned back in his seat. “And you are the only person to whom I have ever offered it. This is why, in case you were wondering. Because even I have my limits of supercilious pomposity.”
She caught her breath, unable to stop herself from laughing again before she said, “It’s so—”
“Horrible? Ridiculous? Inane?”
She removed her hand. “Unnecessary.”
He tilted his head in acknowledgment. “That, as well.”
She giggled. “Aloysius.”
“Be careful, my lady.”
“Others don’t know?”
“I imagine they do. It’s there in black and white, in Burke’s Peerage, but no one ever brings it up in my company. At least, they haven’t since I was in school and made it clear I did not wish to be called such.”
“The boys at school simply acceded to your request?”
“They acceded to my boxing training.”
She nodded. “I suppose they weren’t expecting you to be very good at that, what with being named Aloysius.”
His brow furrowed. “You couldn’t take your cat?”
She shook her head. “She did not travel well.”
“Like your sister?”
“She howled.”
“Sesily?”
Sophie smiled at the teasing. “Asparagus. Would cling to the back of the seat in the coach and howl. My mother’s nerves could not bear it.” She grew serious. “I had to leave her.”
“You had a cat named Asparagus.”
“I know. It’s silly. What’s asparagus to do with the price of wheat?”
He smiled at that. “That’s the second time you’ve used that phrase.”
She smiled, too. “My father,” she said simply.
“I’ve always liked him, you know.”
Her brows rose. “Really?”
“You’re surprised?”
“He’s crass compared to the rest of London.”
“He’s honest compared to the rest of London. The first time we ever met, he told me that he didn’t like my father.”
She nodded. “That sounds like Papa.”
“Go on. You left Asparagus.”
She looked out the window again. “I haven’t thought about that cat in years. She was black. With little white paws. And a white nose.” She shook her head to clear it of the memory. “Anyway, we left and we never came back. There is a country seat in Wales somewhere, but we never go there. My mother was too focused on our making a new, aristocratic life. That meant visiting other, more established country seats filled with aristocratic young women who were supposed to become our friends. Who were to help us find a place for ourselves. To climb.
“She swore that in a few years, we’d fit in perfectly. And my sisters do. They somehow realized that their perfect beauty would lead to the gossip pages adoring them, which would lead to the ton adoring them. Against its better judgment. They are expert climbers. Except . . .”
She trailed off, and he had to prompt her to finish. “Except?”
“Except I am not. I do not fit in. I am not perfectly beautiful.” She gave him a half smile. “I am not even beautifully perfect. You’ve said it yourself.”
“When did I say it?” he asked, affronted.
“I’m the plain one. The boring one. The unfun one.” She waved a hand down at her livery, the clothing that had driven him to call her plump. “Certainly not the beautiful one.” He cursed softly, but she raised a hand before he could speak. “Don’t apologize. It’s true. I’ve never felt like I belonged there. I’ve never felt worth the effort. But in Mossband—I felt valued.
“In escaping London, I have become more than I ever was there.” She smiled. “And when those men came looking, when you ferreted me out, I’ve never felt more free.” She paused, then added, softly, “Or more valued. You never would have helped me escape before.”
“That’s nonsense,” he said, and the tone brooked no refusal.
“Is it? You left me standing in a hedge with your boot,” she pointed out.
“That’s not the same. I left you there because you had value.”
“No, I had a title. Those aren’t the same thing.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but she stopped him, unable to keep her frustration at bay. “I would not expect you to understand, my lord. You, who have such value to spare. Your name is King, for heaven’s sake.”
Her words circled the carriage, fading into heavy silence. And then he said, “Aloysius.”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Aloysius Archibald Barnaby Kingscote. Marquess of Eversley. Future Duke of Lyne.” He waved his hand in a flourish. “At your service.”
He was joking.
But he did not appear to be joking.
“No,” she whispered, playing the name over in her head, and her hand flew to her mouth, desperate to hold in her response. But it was too much. She couldn’t stop herself. She began to laugh.
He raised a brow and leaned back in his seat. “And you are the only person to whom I have ever offered it. This is why, in case you were wondering. Because even I have my limits of supercilious pomposity.”
She caught her breath, unable to stop herself from laughing again before she said, “It’s so—”
“Horrible? Ridiculous? Inane?”
She removed her hand. “Unnecessary.”
He tilted his head in acknowledgment. “That, as well.”
She giggled. “Aloysius.”
“Be careful, my lady.”
“Others don’t know?”
“I imagine they do. It’s there in black and white, in Burke’s Peerage, but no one ever brings it up in my company. At least, they haven’t since I was in school and made it clear I did not wish to be called such.”
“The boys at school simply acceded to your request?”
“They acceded to my boxing training.”
She nodded. “I suppose they weren’t expecting you to be very good at that, what with being named Aloysius.”
