The Rogue Not Taken by Sarah MacLean Page A

the Scot. “Where are they?”
    The duke feigned ignorance. “Where are what?”
    “You know what, you highland imbecile. What did you do with my wheels?”
    “I believe you mean my wheels.” Warnick smiled. “I bought them.”
    “That’s impossible, as I didn’t sell them.”
    “That’s not what your footman said.” The duke paused. “Do we call her a footman? Or something else? Footwoman doesn’t seem right.” Another pause and a wicked smile. “Seems filthy, if you ask me.”
    Goddammit.
    “You don’t call her anything,” he said, fury rising in his throat. “Give me the wheels.”
    The duke shook his head. “No. I paid for them. A pretty penny.”
    “Enough to get her on the next mail coach out, I imagine.”
    Warnick laughed. “Enough to get her on the next hundred mail coaches out. The woman drove a hard bargain.”
    King shook his head. “They weren’t the lady’s to sell and you know it.”
    “Lady, is she?” King felt a keen desire to hit something as the duke climbed into his curricle seat. “Either way, it seems as though it is your problem, Eversley. Not mine. Iexchanged coin for carriage wheels, and that is where the transaction begins and ends for me.”
    “You can’t even use them,” King argued. “They are custom to my curricle.” Every inch of the damn carriage was made to his exact specifications. Warnick couldn’t do a thing with the wheels without the whole vehicle.
    “That’s incidental, really. Indeed, we’ll call it money well spent to keep you out of the race,” Warnick replied before turning to look at the other riders. “All right, lads?”
    A chorus of approval sounded.
    “You aren’t seriously going to leave me here without wheels.”
    “Oh, but I am,” The duke nodded and gathered his reins. “You’ve a lovely coach that will get you to the next posting inn.”
    Dread pooled in King’s stomach at the words. At the thought of the dark, cavernous coach. He blustered. “You’re afraid I’ll win again. That’s why you refuse to help me.”
    Warnick shrugged one large shoulder. “No one ever said we were required to play fair.” And with a mighty “Hyah!” he was in motion, leaving the posting inn like a shot, a half-dozen other racers following him, leaving King in a cloud of dust. With nothing but a broken-down curricle, an empty carriage, and a seething desire for revenge.
    Turning on one heel, King went looking for his coachman.
    As it turned out, he was not through with Lady Sophie Talbot.

MISTREATMENT BY MAIL:
NORTH ROAD? OR NORTH RUDE?
     
    M ail coaches were decidedly uncomfortable.
    Sophie shifted in her seat, doing her best to avoid eye contact with the legions of others piled around her in the once massive, now all-too-small conveyance. Unfortunately, there was very little room to shift, and even less to avoid eye contact.
    The space was filled with women and children, none of whom seemed particularly interested in making conversation, despite the close quarters. Sophie met the gaze of a young woman across the small space between the benches of the coach. The woman looked down at her lap instantly.
    “Oi!” a boy cried out as Sophie accidentally elbowed him, extracting a watch from the inside pocket of her livery.
    “I do apologize,” she said.
    He blinked up at her, then down at her watch. “Wot’s that?”
    She looked down at him, surprised. “It’s a timepiece.”
    “Wot’s it for?”
    She wasn’t quite certain how to answer. “To tell the time?”
    “Why?” This was from a small girl on the floor by Sophie’s feet. She craned to look at the watch face.
    “To know how long it’s been since we left.”
    “Why?”
    Sophie returned her attention to the boy. “To know how close we are to our destination.”
    The girl on the floor looked perplexed. “But won’t we get there when we get there?”
    “Aye,” the boy said, crossing his arms and leaning back in his seat. “Seems a waste of time to think about how long it