Her decision to pout wasn’t his problem. The Rotten Rakes had only asked that he keep her safe, not that he coddle thewoman or provide all the special treatment she was accustomed to.
If he’d known she’d be so stubborn, he might as well have locked her in a stall overnight with bales of hay for a bed. He could have gotten a good night’s sleep in his own damn chamber—one of his favorites along this route.
But although he’d essentially raised himself on the docks, he’d come a long way since then. He wasn’t completely without manners.
“Morning.” The greeting was coarse, but perhaps more than she deserved.
“Good morning.” She didn’t look at him, choosing instead to keep her eyes trained on the floor, but aside from that, her posture was rigidly perfect, with her back straight and her knees pressed together tightly.
It must be bloody exhausting to be a nob—more, perhaps, for ladies than gents.
He’d spent time with his fair share of women, none of them ladies, but he’d never felt particularly sorry for any of them until he met this one.
“It isn’t the end of the world, you know,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. “You didn’t complain at the prospect of missing the Season, but did you change your mind? Is that what’s bothering you?”
She shook her head, barely, her lips a little white.
“Are you ill?” he asked.
No answer this time, frustrating him further.
The coach was moving, however, and they had hours of travel ahead of them. She’d grow bored eventually. No need for him to coax conversation out of her like a blundering suitor.
Nonetheless…
“Did you sleep at all?” he asked.
Her smile was more of a wince. “A little,” she said. “I think.”
Had he gone too far yesterday? He’d wanted her fearful enough to cooperate, but not scared out of her wits.
“I’ve no intention of hurting you,” he told her for what must surely be the fiftieth time.
Upon hearing these words, she finally turned her head and looked at him.
“That woman who came to my chamber, she referred to you as the king. Why would she do that?”
The moniker wasn’t one he’d ever asked for, or even wanted. King of Bond Street, they called him, when he was nothing but a businessman—a bachelor.
“I own a lot,” he admitted. When he’d brought in his first shipments and sold goods at prices people could afford, a few merchants had joked that he took better care of them than the king. As time went on, the ridiculous title had spread. “I take care of my own.”
Staring back at her, he thought he saw something he’d not really seen before. But to imagine this woman could respect someone like him was more than a joke. It was delusional.
“She spoke highly of you…” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. Leopold watched as she inhaled and exhaled a few shallow breaths.
The hairs on the back of his neck pricked up. Something wasn’t right…
A debutante ploy? Something to draw a man’s attention to her breasts.
But proper ladies wouldn’t sink to such tactics, would they? And Lady Amelia was nothing if not a true, proper lady.
So what the devil was she up to?
Despite, out of necessity, having spent days at a time working with a baron, a few earls, and even a marquess, he’d never completely understood their ways.
Malum, who was a duke, didn’t really count. As a man who’d shunned theton, he lived by his own rules. With the others all married now, Leopold imagined he’d see less and less of them. They’d likely cut all ties once they pinned Crossings down.
His own kind might joke about him being “King,” but Leopold was, and always would be, a commoner.
