The Rogue Not Taken by Sarah MacLean Read Free Book Online Page A

toppling before it slammed down, one wheel spoke flying across the yard as the driver executed a perfect half turn to face the vehicles following behind. The driver stood tall on legs that should have been tired, but instead seemed incredibly strong, towering over horse and vehicle, arms akimbo as he faced his no-doubt maniacal comrades. Much of his face was obscured by the low brim of his hat, but the light from the inn was drawn, nonetheless, to his wide, wicked grin.
    Sophie found that she was oddly drawn to that grin herself.
    “Looks as though I won, lads.” The others were stopped now, and a chorus of groans rose from myriad curricles when he added, “Again.”
    As this was the first time Sophie had been outside a posting inn after dark, she had to imagine that this was an ordinary occurrence—but she’d certainly never thought that men raced their curricles up the Great North Road for fun.
    Fun.
    The word echoed, reminding her of her earlier conversation with Eversley, in which he’d called her unfun.
    Irritation flared. She was perfectly fun.
    After all, she was here, wasn’t she? Dressed as a boy in a courtyard filled with men who appeared to have a keen knowledge of fun.
    Her thoughts were interrupted by the man’s movement as he leapt down from the carriage and headed to his horses to give the great, matching beasts praise for their work. He swaggered to the animals that huffed and sighed, great ribs heaving from their long run, even as they leaned into the weighty caress of their master.
    Sophie was transfixed by him—by the group he seemed to lead. She’d never seen anything like them, clad all in black, and with great informality—black coats over black linen, and not a cravat to be seen among them. Their trousers gleamed in the light from the lanterns posted around the drive—she considered the attire. Was it . . . leather? How odd. And how fascinating.
    Her gaze flickered to the leader, and the long curve of this thigh, hugged tightly by the attire. She had considered the line of that muscle for longer than was appropriate.
    He was an exceedingly well-made man. Empirically so.
    The second she had noticed in a single day.
    She coughed at the thought, heat spreading across her cheeks, and the noise brought his attention, his head immediately turning to her. Though his eyes remained obscured, Sophie had never felt so well inspected, and she found herself immensely grateful for Matthew’s livery, hiding the truth of her—that she had never been in such a situation, that she did not belong here.
    She dropped her gaze to his boots, eager to disappear.
    That’s when she noticed that he was not wearing boots.
    At least, he was not wearing two of them.
    Bollocks.
    The Marquess of Eversley had arrived.
    And from the way he came toward her—the swagger she’d identified earlier likely due to his lacking one boot—he was about to discover that she had done the same. She did not look up at him, keeping her gaze firmly affixed on his feet, hoping he would ignore her.
    It did not work. “Boy,” he drawled, coming entirely too close. Unsettlingly close.
    She shifted from one foot to the other, willing him away.
    That did not work, either.
    “Did you hear me?” he prompted.
    She moved, dropping a half inch before she stopped herself from curtsying. Even if she weren’t dressed as a man, he didn’t deserve politeness of any kind, this ruiner of women who represented everything she loathed about the Society that had so roundly turned its back upon her. This man who had turned his back upon her. If only he’d been willing to help her, she wouldn’t be in this ridiculous situation.
    “Are you able to hear?” he fairly barked the last.
    Straightening, she coughed and pressed her chin tighter to her chest, lowering her voice. “Yes, my lord.” The honorific was strangled in her throat.
    She was saved from whatever he was about to say by the arrival of one of his comrades. “Goddammit, King, you’re