And then a matching, equally well-formed leg was over the sill and the man was climbing down the trellis as though he were highly skilled at such a thing. Considering the look of him, Sophie imagined this was not the first time he’d traveled via rose trellis.
He dropped to the ground in front of her, back to her, and crouched to gather his discarded clothing as a second man popped his head over the windowsill. Sophie’s eyes widened as she stared up at the Earl of Newsom.
“You goddamn bastard! I shall have your head!”
“You shan’t and you know it,” the earthbound man said smartly, coming to his full, impressive height, clothes and one boot in hand, reaching up to extricate his cravat from the trellis. “But I suppose you had to say it anyway.”
The man above sputtered and spewed unintelligible noises before he disappeared.
“Coward,” Sophie’s now-companion muttered, shaking his head and turning his attention to the ground in a search for his second boot.
She beat him to it, leaning down to rescue the discarded item from its place at her feet. When she straightened, it was to find him facing her, his expression part curiosity, part amusement.
She inhaled sharply.
Of course, the man escaping the upper chambers of Liverpool House was the Marquess of Eversley. The man was not called the Royal Rogue for nothing, apparently.
Later, she would attribute her blunt “It’s you,” to the emotional turbulence of the day.
And she would attribute his wide grin, elaborate bow, and subsequent “So it is,” to his notorious, long-standing arrogance.
She clutched his boot closer to her chest. “What did you do?” She lifted her chin to the second floor of the house. “To deserve defenestration?”
His brows rose. “To deserve what?”
She sighed. “Defenestration. The tossing of an object from a window.”
He began to tie his cravat expertly, the long linen strips weaving to and fro. For a moment she was distracted by the fact that he did not seem to require a valet or a looking glass. And then he spoke. “First, I wasn’t tossed. I left of my own volition. And second, any woman who uses a word like defenestration is surely intelligent enough to divine what I was doing before I exited the building.”
He was everything he was purported to be. Scandalous. Sinful. An utter scoundrel. Everything Society vilified, even as it celebrated it. Just like her brother-in-law. And any number of other men and women of the British aristocracy. A fine example of the worst of this world into which he’d been born. And into which she’d been dragged.
She loathed him instantly.
He reached for the boot. She stepped backward, out of reach. “So, what the gossip pages say about you is true.”
He tilted his head. “I make every effort not to read the gossip pages, but I guarantee that whatever they say about me is not true.”
“They say you revel in ruining marriages.”
He straightened his sleeves. “False. I don’t touch married women.”
At that moment, a lady’s coiffed head popped out of the window above. “He’s headed down!”
The warning that his opponent was coming to face him spurred the marquess to motion. “’Tis my cue.” He extended one hand to Sophie. “As lovely as this has been, my lady, I require my boot.”
Sophie clutched the boot closer to her chest, staring up at the lady. “That’s Marcella Latham.”
The Earl of Newsom’s fiancée—now former fiancée, Sophie would wager—waved happily. “Thank you, Eversley!”
He turned up and winked. “My pleasure, darling. Enjoy.”
“I hope you don’t mind my telling my friends?”
“I look forward to hearing from them.”
Lady Marcella disappeared into the window. Sophie thought the entire exchange rather bizarre and . . . collegial . . . for two people caught in a compromising situation by her rich, titled future husband.
“My lady,” the Marquess of Eversley prompted.
Sophie looked to him. “You ended their marriage.”
“Their engagement, really.” He extended his hand. “I require footwear, poppet. Please.”
She ignored the gesture. “So, you only touch betrothed women.”
“Precisely.”
“Very different, I suppose.” Was there not a single member of the aristocracy worthy of knowing? “You’re a scoundrel.”
“So I am told.”
“A rogue.”
“That’s what they say,” he said, watching over her shoulder intently.
“Unscrupulous in every way.”
An idea began to form.
He focused on her, seeming to notice her for the first time. His brows rose. “You look as though you’ve come nose to antennae with a large insect.”
She became aware of her wrinkled nose. Consciously unwrinkled it. “Apologies,” she lied.
“Think nothing of it.”
And there, as she considered him, dressed in his summer finery, missing a boot, she realized that, horrid or not, in that moment, he was precisely what she required. If she could stomach him for the three quarters of an hour it would take to get home. “You are going to have to leave here rather quickly if you don’t want a run-in with Lord Newsom.”
“I’m so happy that you understand. If you’d give me my boot, I could make some haste.” He reached for the footwear. She stepped backward once more, remaining out of reach. “My lady,” he said firmly.
“It seems that you are in a particular position.” She paused. “Or, perhaps it is I who am in a particular position.”