His green gaze consumed her. “I see you, Sophie.”
She caught her breath at the words. They weren’t true, of course. But how she wished they were.
She shook her head, returning to safer, less discomfiting ground. “It was a group of men talking about her. I stumbled upon them at a ball. They didn’t see me. They were too busy seeing her.” She lifted her good shoulder. Let it drop. “Sesily’s shape is . . . Well, men notice it. And because our blood does not run blue, men like you—” She stopped. Reconsidered. “Men who think themselves above us . . . they do not hesitate to comment on it. I suppose they think they are clever. And perhaps they are. But it doesn’t feel clever.” She looked up at him. “It feels horrid.”
“I’d like to make each one of them feel horrid.” For a moment, she thought he was telling the truth. Of course, that couldn’t be the case. He wanted nothing to do with her. He paused. “Who’s her scandal?”
Her brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”
“You each have an inappropriate man attached to you. Who is hers?”
Of course, it was the suitor who defined the Soiled S. “Derek Hawkins.”
“He’s a proper ass,” he said, before closing his eyes and leaning back against the seat. “And the fact that he hasn’t married your sister and murdered anyone who notices her shape proves it.”
Though she agreed, she ignored the words. “I don’t have an inappropriate man attached to me.”
He met her gaze pointedly. “You do now.”
Her cheeks warmed, the words summoning the memory of his kiss. She did not know what to say, so she returned to the original subject. “At any rate, Sesily’s predicament makes long drives quite difficult.” She looked about for somewhere to catch his sick, should there be any. Collecting his hat from the seat next to him, she turned it over and held it beneath his chin. “If you’re going to be ill, use this.”
He opened one eye. “You want me to vomit in my hat.”
“I realize that it’s not the best option,” she said, “but desperate times and all that?”
He shook his head and put the hat back on the seat next to him. “I’m not going to be sick. Carriages don’t make me ill. They make me wish I was not inside carriages.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“I am . . . uncomfortable . . . in them.”
“So you don’t travel?”
He raised a brow. “Of course I travel, as you can see.”
“Yes. But long journeys must be difficult.”
There was a pause. “I don’t wish to be difficult.”
She chuckled at that. “You think your aversion to carriages is what makes you difficult?”
He smiled at her jest, a tiny quirk in his otherwise flat mouth. “I think you are what makes me difficult, these days.”
“Surely not,” she teased. “I am easy as church on Sunday.”
He grunted and closed his eyes. “I do not attend church.”
“Shall I pray for your eternal soul, then?”
“Not if you’re looking for someone to listen to you. I’m a lost cause, scoundrel that I am.”
They rode in silence for a long while, King growing progressively more fidgety and unhappy. Finally, Sophie said, “Would you like to ride on the block with the coachman?”
King shook his head. “I’m fine here.”
“Except you made it clear that you dislike traveling companions. You said as much when we were on the road to Sprotbrough.”
“Perhaps I’ve changed my mind.” The carriage bounced and she slid across the seat, knocking her shoulder against the wall of the coach and gasping in pain.
He swore harshly; he reached for her, lifting and turning her as though she weighed nothing, and settled her on the seat next to him. She was caged by his body and his legs before she could even consider what had happened.
She snapped her head around to his, where his eyes remained closed. “Let me go.”
He kept his eyes closed and ignored her, resuming his relaxed position. “Stop moving. It’s bad for your shoulder and for my sanity.”
Well, being so close to him was not good for her sanity.
Not that he seemed to mind.
She closed her own eyes and put him out of her thoughts. It worked for several seconds, until his warmth enveloped her, beginning where their thighs touched and spreading through her until she wanted nothing but to lean into him. Instead, she kept as much distance as she could, and cast about for something to say that was not Kiss me again, please, if you don’t mind so very much.
Although she wondered if he would do just that if she asked very nicely.
She stiffened, as though posture could dispel errant thoughts. “What about your curricle?”
“What about it?” he replied, not looking at her.
“Why not drive that instead of sitting inside this coach?”
“My curricle is dismantled and headed to Lyne Castle.”
Her eyes went wide. “Why?” Surely it was not for her benefit. She enjoyed the company, but he should be enjoying his life.
“It lacks proper wheels,” he said, dryly.
Of course it did. “I am sorry.”
His eyes opened again, surprise in the green depths. “I think you might be.”
She nodded. “Is that surprising?”
“People rarely apologize to me,” he said, simply. “Even fewer do so without artifice.”
She did not know how to reply to that, so she changed the subject, returning to something safer. “I’ve never seen anyone drive a curricle with such recklessness.”