She resisted the urge to lean into him. To look at him. “Oh. Hello, my lord.”
He raised a brow. “Hello.”
“You’ve decided to acknowledge my presence.”
“My lady, I assure you, were I not aware of you, I would most definitely not be lingering in Sprotbrough.”
Her lips flattened into a straight line. She was nothing more than a difficulty for him. Obviously. “What are your questions?”
“Why are you exchanging funds with the barkeep?”
She pushed past him to fetch a hard biscuit and a cup of tea from the sideboard, grateful that he wasn’t asking more questions about Robbie, who had somehow become her betrothed in the days since her being shot.
She should have told King the truth about Robbie. But damned if she didn’t want him to think her spoken for. To think her purposeful.
To think her desired.
To desire her himself.
She resisted the thought the moment it came. Good Lord. She did not wish him to desire her. She was not mad. She did not even enjoy his company. And he certainly did not enjoy hers.
She collected her plate and cup and turned to find him there, ready to guide her by the elbow to the table he had claimed, appointed with his own breakfast and what she had to imagine was a weeks-old newspaper. “Well?” he prompted when she sat. “The barkeep’s money?”
“Why do you care to know?”
“Husbandly curiosity.”
She sipped her tea. “Luckily for both of us, you have no claim on my business dealings, my lord.”
“No?” he asked casually, leaning back in his own chair. “With what money did you pay him?”
Sophie’s cheeks warmed. “Is that your second question?”
“Yes, but let’s call it rhetorical. I assume our pickpocketing young hero returned your purse and my funds?”
The already dry biscuit was like sand in her mouth. She swallowed and placed the purse on the table between them. “There are a few pounds missing,” she whispered, “I shall repay you.”
He did not touch the bag. “With what funds? My money is all you have.”
She leaned forward. “Not for long. The barkeep is sending a letter home to my father, apprising him of my situation and asking for funds.”
He leaned forward himself. “You think your father does not already seek you?”
“I cannot imagine why he would.”
Dark brows rose. “You cannot.”
She shook her head. “I’m not my sisters.”
“What does that mean?” If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was irritated.
“Only that they’re much more interesting than I. They’ll all marry well and make beautiful, wealthy children who will climb aristocratic trellises like wisteria.” She looked out the window. A team of oxen hauled a massive cart past, revealing a pair of dusty men hitching their horses on the opposite side of the street. “I am not a climber.” He watched her for a long moment, silent, until she felt she needed to add, “You see? I told you I wasn’t angling to marry you.”
“If I remember correctly, you told me you wouldn’t marry me if I were the last man in Christendom.”
“Harsh, but true, I’m afraid.”
“I’d ask why, but I’m afraid your honesty might wound me.” He sat back. “Care for a wager?”
“What kind of wager?”
“I wager your father seeks you already.”
She smiled. “I’m certain it’s not true. Matthew saw me into your carriage. My father knows I am well.”
King raised a brow. “At best, your father thinks I’ve ruined you.”
She shook her head. “Don’t worry about that. He’s a reasonable man who will understand everything when I explain it. You shan’t be saddled with a wife.”
“Oh, I don’t worry about being saddled with a wife.”
She considered the words. “I suppose you wouldn’t be. You’ve avoided marriage after ruination before.”
“It’s less avoiding than eschewing. I shall never marry. Angry fathers be damned.”
“Why not?” She couldn’t resist the question, but when his face darkened in reply, she instantly regretted it. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have asked that.”
After a pause, he said. “Your father seeks you already, my lady. That’s the wager.”
Triumph flared. Even if her father was looking for her, he would receive her missive tomorrow, and call off any search. She could not lose. She smiled, allowing herself to enjoy the moment. “I assure you, he does not. What do you forfeit when I win?”
“What would you like?”
“My bookshop. On the Mossband High Street.”
“Done. And when I win, I get a forfeit of my choosing.”
Her brows snapped together. “That seems a high price.”
“Higher than the cost of a bookshop?”
She tilted her head to one side. “I suppose not. All right. I agree.”
He smirked and reached over to steal a bit of her biscuit. “I will simply say, you’re a fool if you think your father hasn’t hired two dozen men to comb the English countryside and get you home.”
“I am going home,” she said.
“Home to London.”
“That’s just it. London isn’t my home.”
“And Mossband is?”
“Yes.” It must be. It was her only chance.
“You don’t remember it.”
“I remember it perfectly,” she insisted. “I remember the town square and the baker and the haberdasher and the livery. I remember the Maypole, festooned with ribbons, and the way that the summer days lingered as the sun set over the hills and the river. I remember that it was more beautiful and more interesting and more . . .” She searched for the word. “. . . honest than anything in London.”