The Rogue Not Taken

SLEEPING BEAUTY WAKES; NO NUZZLING NECESSARY

Sophie woke the next day, the late-afternoon sun streaking through the mottled glass windows, dust dancing in the light, and a somewhat unsettling smell underscoring the not-so-cleanliness of the rooms above the Warbling Wren pub.

“She wakes.” The words came from a chair at the far end of the room, set back in the shadows so she could not see their speaker. She didn’t need to see him, though. She knew precisely who it was.

He’d stayed with her.

She ignored the comfort that came with the thought. She didn’t want him to stay with her. She didn’t need him to stay with her. He was a rake and a scoundrel. And if not for him, she wouldn’t be here.

But he’d stayed, nonetheless.

She pushed herself up without thinking, pain shooting through her shoulder and causing her to cry out. One hand flew to her bandage, a mistake, as the lightest touch seemed to send fire through her.

The Marquess of Eversley was beside her in an instant. “Dammit, woman. Are you simply unable to be cautious?” He put an arm behind her back. “Lie down.”

She brushed away his assistance. “I was being cautious. When a lady awakes to find a scoundrel in her chamber, she removes herself from the bed.”

His reply was dry as sand. “In my experience, the exact opposite is true.”

“Yes, well, I question the company you keep.” Her shoulder began to throb. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Eighteen hours, give or take,” he said. “Do you remember waking for your tea?”

A hazy memory came. Mary leaning over her with a teacup. “Vaguely.”

“And the pain?”

She shifted and hid her wince. “Bearable.”

“Interesting. I would have wagered that it hurts like a bastard.”

It did, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “You shouldn’t use that word in front of a lady.”

“No? You realize you’ve an affinity for certain foul language yourself.”

She blushed. “One word.”

“One is all you require.” She looked to her lap as he said, “Does it hurt?”

Like a bastard. “Women are known for their ability to endure pain.”

“Mmm. And to think you are considered the weaker sex.”

She cut him a look. “A label no doubt assigned by a man who never witnessed a childbirth.”

One side of his mouth kicked up in a small smile. “You’re feeling better, I see.” Something about the warmth in the words sent a little thread of pleasure straight through her. She was grateful for the time to collect herself when he stood and went to the door, opening it and speaking to someone out of view before closing the door and turning back to her. “I’ve sent for the mad doctor, against my better judgment. And for more tea.”

She thought of the surgeon. “He didn’t seem mad to me.”

“He doused you in gin and slathered you with honey. While I wouldn’t turn away a cake that had received such a treatment, it seems a bit odd for medicinal purposes.” He came closer. “Now that you’re awake, let me have a better look at that shoulder.”

She turned her head and sniffed delicately. Gin and honey.

The inn was not responsible for the strange odor.

Oh, dear.

She scuttled back from his approach and held up a hand. “No!”

Eversley stilled, his eyes widening at the words. “I beg your pardon?”

He was going to smell her. “Don’t come any closer!”

“Why not?”

“It’s not appropriate.”

“What isn’t?”

“You. Being here. So near. While I am abed.”

One black brow rose. “I assure you, my lady, I’ve no intention of debauching you.”

She had no doubt of that, considering her current situation, but she couldn’t well tell him the truth. “Nevertheless, I must insist on the utmost propriety.”

“Who do you think nursemaided you for the last day?”

Bollocks. He was right. He’d been close. He’d had to have noticed her odor. But it didn’t mean he had to any longer. She straightened her shoulders, ignoring the twinge in the left. “My reputation, you see.”

He blinked. “You were shot on the Great North Road while wearing stolen livery—”

“How many times must I tell you that I paid for that livery?”

“Fine. You were shot on the Great North Road while wearing purchased livery from a stolen footman, after stowing away in an unmarried gentleman’s carriage.”

“Gentleman is a stretch, don’t you think?”

He ignored the comment. “How, precisely, is your reputation not in already in tatters?”

Her reputation was already in tatters for any number of the events of the last four days, but she wasn’t about to bring that up. Instead, she raised a hand once more, wondering how she might procure a bath without anyone inhaling in her vicinity. “That’s all perceived damage. Not actual damage.”

Those brows rose again. “You’ve lived in London for how long?”

“A decade.”

“And you still believe there is a difference between truth and lies when it comes to scandal. Isn’t that charming.”

She scowled at his dry tone. “The point is, my lord, I’d appreciate you keeping your distance.”

He looked as though he might argue, but instead said, more to himself than to her, “The doctor will be here in minutes, anyway.”

As though Eversley summoned the man himself, the doctor took that moment to arrive, thankfully, Mary on his heels with a steaming cup of tea.

It was only then that Sophie recalled that the doctor was also handsome. Of course. Because when it rained it poured, and Sophie—who’d never held a handsome gentleman’s attention for longer than the half second it took for him to realize she was not the lady he sought—was bedridden and unwashed when saddled with two of them. She was doomed.

“Mrs. Matthew!” the surgeon said, all jolly humor. “I trust you had a good rest.”

She’d forgotten that they’d christened her with the name. “I seem to have, Doctor . . .” She paused. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name, sir.”

“I never gave it,” the doctor said simply, taking the tea from Mary with a dazzling smile. “Thank you.”

Mary blushed. “Of course, Doctor.”

Eversley snorted his irritation. Or was it something else? Could it be jealousy of the doctor’s effect on women? No. Eversley was exceedingly attractive himself.

Not that she noticed.

She’d have to like him to notice.

And she did not like him.

The doctor approached the bed and handed Sophie the cup of herbed tea. He waited for her to take a long drink before asking, “How do you feel?”

Vaguely, Sophie realized that the man still hadn’t shared his name. No one else in the room seemed to mind, however, so Sophie answered the question, keenly aware of the Marquess of Eversley’s watchful gaze. “Quite well.”

“Well. I’m sure that’s not true.” The doctor took the teacup from her and passed it back to Mary before seating himself on the bed and donning his spectacles. “So let’s have a look.”

She shrank back against the pillows, unable to think of anything but her odor. “I’d rather—”

He ignored her and put a hand to her forehead. “Excellent. No fever.” Before Sophie could enjoy the pronouncement, the surgeon added, “I’ve smelled worse, madam, I assure you.” He did not lower his voice, and the words boomed through the room.

Sophie went scarlet as Eversley looked to the ceiling in frustration. “Is that why you wouldn’t let me near you?”

“You’re the one who pointed out that I’d been doused in gin and honey,” she defended herself.

“To underscore his madness, not your stench!”

Mary’s mouth fell open.

Sophie imagined hers might have also, if she weren’t so angry. “My stench?” She glared at him.

He rocked back on his heels, as though considering his next move. “I did not mean—”

She’d had enough. “Of all the ungentlemanly things you’ve said to me, my lord—and there have been many—that might be the worst of the lot.”

He looked as though he wanted to say something, but refrained. Thankfully, because the doctor chose that precise moment to peel away the bandage, and Sophie yelped in pain.

Eversley stepped forward. “You hurt her.”

“Yes. I sensed that,” the doctor said without looking up from his work. “No signs of infection, however.”

Relief flooded Sophie. “Then I shall live?”

The doctor met her gaze. “For today.”

“Christ,” muttered Eversley. “You’re a comforting bastard, aren’t you?”

The doctor turned to him. “I tell the truth. No fever and no infection a day after the injury is positive. But medicine is more art than science. She might still die.” He returned his attention to Sophie. “You might still die.”

She did not know what to say, so she settled on “Oh.”

He extracted more tea from his bag and set it on the bedside table. “I wasn’t sure if you’d need more than a few days’ worth. But I’m feeling more hopeful.”

Sophie imagined that should make her feel more certain of her future. But on the heels of his other statement, she wasn’t entirely sure.

The doctor went on. “Continue with the tea—this blend will keep you more awake than the last—and be certain to keep the wound clean.” He set a pot of honey on the table next to the herbs and turned to Eversley. “The honey is essential. Apply after every bath.”

She might have argued that the assignment was given to the man who had become a rather prickly thorn in her side, but she was distracted by another, far more tempting word. “I may bathe?”

The doctor turned back to her. “Of course. Preferably daily, in clean, hot water. And summon me immediately if you begin to feel ill or if the wound changes appearance.”

That sounded as though they could not leave. “When can we leave?” Everyone looked to her, each person more shocked than the next.

“You are in possession of free will, Mrs. Matthew,” the doctor said. “However, I would hope to keep you nearby for at least a week.”

“A week,” she groaned. She had planned to be north within the week. Beginning her future.

“You do not care for our little town?”

Her gaze settled on Eversley. He had to get north, too. “A week is a long time to linger,” she said. “My husband”—she ignored the warning in his eyes—“and I have much to attend to in Cumbria.”

The doctor shrugged one lanky shoulder. “Then leave.”

“Not until she is healthy.” Eversley cut in. “When will we know she’s healthy again?”

The doctor stood, gathering his things. “When the wound heals and she’s not dead.”

Eversley appeared to want to strangle the surgeon. Sophie smiled. “Thank you, Doctor.”

He returned the kindness. “I trust that, whenever you leave, I will see you again, Mrs. Matthew.” He moved to leave, stopping to nod once at Eversley. “Mr. Matthew.”

“I shall see you out,” Mary said, doe-eyed, following the handsome man’s heels.

Sophie watched as the door closed. “Well. I have never met a man who makes one feel so very grateful to be alive in the moment.”

Eversley scowled at her. “Why do they call us Matthew?”

“For my footman.” The last word was lost in a yawn that she hurried to hide.

Eversley blinked. “You mean my footman.”

She waved a hand in the air. “Whichever. His name is Matthew. I used it in the mail coach.”

“And I pronounced us married.”

“Which was a silly thing to do.”

“Yes, I’m realizing that now that I’ve been named for a footman.”

“A good one,” she said, yawning again. Exhaustion seemed to be taking hold.

“A terrible one,” he said, approaching her and helping her lie back against the pillows. “If he were any good, he would have told you he didn’t speak to ladies of station and returned to his work. I’ve a fair mind to seek him out and put a bullet in his shoulder, as without him, you would be intact.”

Was he concerned for her? “I am intact,” she said softly, ignoring the pleasure that threaded through her at the idea. Ignoring the idea itself. “If in need of a bath, apparently.”

“Christ,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean that you stink.”

She closed her eyes and sighed. “Be careful, my lord. There are only two ways for that to go. The first way, you offend me. The other way, you are a liar.”

There was a pause as she drifted into slumber, when she was awake enough to hear him. “Why do you travel north? What’s there?”

“My bookshop,” she replied, thoughts barely taking hold before they poured from her lips. “Mossband . . . sticky buns . . . Robbie.”

“Robbie?”

“Hmm?” It was difficult to keep up with the conversation.

“Who is Robbie?”

Memory came, hazy and welcome, blond hair and ruddy cheeks. Her friend. The only friend she’d ever really had. “We’ll marry,” he’d promised once long ago.

She smiled. It would be nice to marry a friend. Perhaps he’d love her. It would be nice to be loved. Perhaps they’d marry. Perhaps they’d be happy.

After all, they’d promised it all those years ago. She’d said it, too. “We’ll marry.”

She repeated the words now, aloud, the Marquess of Eversley watching over her.