The Rogue Not Taken

by Sarah MacLean

It was her.

  The realization came with no small amount of discomfort—he did not wish for her to give him pleasure. This journey was not for pleasure, it was for pain. For his father’s pain. He came to watch the old man die. Came to ensure that, finally, he was punished for the way he had manipulated and machinated King’s life.

  Sophie was a means to that end, and nothing else.

  She couldn’t be anything more than that.

  He didn’t have room for her in his life.

  She wasn’t his problem.

  Even if he wished her to be.

  He sighed, leaning back against the seat, frustration and anger coursing through him. He had been an ass. He’d insulted her from the start. She didn’t deserve it. She deserved better than him. The thoughts echoed around him as the carriage began to move, and they drew closer and closer to Lyne Castle.

  She deserved better than this.

  He looked to her, sitting stick-straight on the opposite seat. Minutes crept by as he considered her, wearing that abomination of a gown. He’d summon a seamstress from somewhere. He’d buy her a wardrobe full of frocks.

  Not that there was any kind of seamstress for miles.

  He’d send to Edinburgh. To London if he had to.

  And boots. He’d have a half-dozen pairs made for her. In leather and suede, in all the latest fashions. He’d have a pair made that laced high up her calf.

  He’d like that.

  He shifted in his seat, thinking of unlacing such a boot, and put the thought from his mind. He hadn’t seen her in anything but livery and ill-fitting dresses since they’d met. He imagined that she’d been wearing a legitimate gown when they’d first encountered each other at the Liverpool party, but he’d been so committed to descending the trellis and escaping the events of the afternoon that he hadn’t had a decent look.

  His shifted his attention to the place where her breasts rose over the line of her dress, lifting to trace the long column of her neck, the curve of her jaw, the pink swell of her lips.

  He’d been a fool.

  And apparently more than once. They’d danced at a ball before that, one he could not remember. But it was difficult to imagine that he wouldn’t remember her. That he wouldn’t remember the feel of her, lush and tempting in his arms. That he wouldn’t remember the scent of her, soap and summer sunshine. That he wouldn’t remember her, all clever remarks and cutting retorts and a brave, bold way of facing the world.

  Christ. He’d remember her after this.

  Even after she’d long put him out of her mind and built a new life, all her own. Even after he gave her all the happiness she desired.

  He’d never forget her.

  I am sorry.

  He wanted quite desperately to say the words to her. To begin again. To embrace this wild journey as not a man and a stowaway, a lady and her aide. But as King and Sophie, and whoever . . . whatever . . . they might be.

  It was impossible, of course.

  She hated everything he was, and he would never be good enough for her.

  There was nothing common about her.

  He should tell her that, here. Now. Before they turned down the drive to Lyne Castle and he lost the chance.

  But she was so livid with him, he had no doubt she wouldn’t believe him. And perhaps that was best. Perhaps it was best that he so infuriated her. That she look forward to leaving him. That she desire to put him behind her.

  The carriage turned off the main thoroughfare, and he looked up, keenly aware that they drew ever closer to Lyne Castle, where his past and future held sway.

  Where his father might already be dead.

  He returned his attention to Sophie, suddenly a port in a very turbulent storm. “We are nearly there.”

  She smoothed her skirts. “I shall require a bath and a change of clothes before I meet your father. While I appreciate that this dress might well-suit your desire to infuriate him, I will not meet him in an ill-fitting frock looking like I’ve been driving for hours on end. Even a Talbot daughter knows how to behave around aging dukes.”

  He nodded. “I hope you will sleep as well. You are past due for your herbs.” If he wasn’t so thoroughly transfixed by her, he might not have noticed the way her breath caught. He did, however, and would have offered a small fortune to know what she was thinking. Instead, she turned back to the window as though he wasn’t there.

  The carriage turned once, twice, and Lyne Castle rose from the horizon, setting his heart beating faster and harder as the great grey stones loomed and the coach pulled to a stop in front of the home he’d known for his entire childhood.

  Something edged through him. Something like sadness.

  Tearing his gaze away, he looked to Sophie, wanting to say something. Wanting to tell her that he was sorry.

  Instead, he opened the door, stepping out to face the great behemoth, memories of his time here assaulting him: the scent of the green hills of Cumbria, rolling to the River Esk on one side and to the Scottish border on the other; the remains of Hadrian’s Wall that made his mountain as a child; the warm food and kind words of Agnes, the castle’s housekeeper, the closest thing it had to a mistress and the closest thing he had to a mother; his father, stern and cautious, with a single goal—to raise a future duke.

  And Lorna. Golden-haired and pale skinned, filled with promise. The promise of love. Of a future. Of a life beyond name and propriety.

  Of happiness.

  They’d been so young. Too young for him to realize that none of those things were for him.

  He pushed the memories away, turning to help Sophie down, his hands at her waist. When she was on solid ground, she looked up at the stone walls of the castle and then to him, a question in her eyes. “Are you well?”

  Even now, the echo of her frustration around them, she found room for concern. He released a breath he had not known he held, considering her big blue eyes, the color on her cheeks, the way she thought of him. For a moment, he wondered what would happen if he leaned down and took those full pink lips for the kiss he’d wanted to give her since day had broken. He’d linger there, at the soft skin, reminding himself of her taste. Replacing the memories of his youth here with something else.

  But he knew better than to kiss her here, in this place where memories seemed to etch themselves into the ancient stones.

  Instead, he released her. “As well as can be expected.”

  A shout punctuated the words and King turned to see a great grey horse in the distance, followed by a pack of dogs. He squinted at the rider, tall and grey-haired, ruddy-cheeked and filled with vitality.

  It couldn’t be.

  “Shit,” he whispered.

  “Who is that?” Sophie asked, and her soft words at his shoulder might have pleased him at another time, the way they curled around him, making him a partner in her curiosity.

  He was too livid to find pleasure in anything, however. “That is the Duke of Lyne.”

  “Your father?”

  “The very one.”

  “He doesn’t look to be at death’s door to me,” she said, and he was almost certain he heard pleasure in the observation.

  “The duke requests your company at the evening meal.”

  Sophie stood at the far corner of the room to which she had been assigned, considering the extravagant view. She’d bathed and slept much of the day in the massive, deliciously comfortable bed, and she’d woken to a collection of no doubt borrowed gowns, several of which actually fit.

  A maid helped her dress before leaving her alone to wait there, in the window, considering the labyrinth in the foreground and the rolling green hills of a North Country summer beyond, wondering what was to come next before King rapped on the door and entered without summons. She turned to face him, still full of the anger she’d felt earlier in the day, when he’d made it clear that she was nothing but scandal to him.

  Still attempting not to be hurt by it.

  Still trying to put the evening before—the way he�
�d touched her and kissed her and whispered her name in the darkness—out of her mind.

  She met his gaze, hating the way his presence had her breath quickening. “Mine alone?”

  He leaned against the jamb. “Sadly, no. Ours, together.” His gaze lowered to her bad shoulder. “Are you feeling well?”

  She smiled, a brilliant, false expression that would have made her sisters proud. “I am about to sup with two men who disdain me, so I have, in fact, felt better.”

  He cut her a look. “I meant your shoulder. And I don’t disdain you.”

  She ignored the last. “The herbs and honey are working well.”

  “Did you bathe?”

  Her cheeks warmed. “Not that it is your business, but yes.”

  “It’s my business.”

  “Because if I die you’ll be out your revenge?”

  He narrowed his gaze on her. “I don’t care for your smart mouth.”

  Another smile. “And here I was working so very hard to make you care.” She approached. “Have you told him that you’ve returned with a Dangerous Daughter on your arm?”

  He looked over his shoulder into the hallway and stepped inside the room, quickly closing the door. “I haven’t,” he said quietly, “But he’ll know soon enough.”

  “Do I look enough the part for you?” she asked, knowing she looked as much of a Dangerous Daughter as she could without her sisters’ belongings nearby.

  “You look fine.”

  She made a show of furrowing her brow. “Are you sure? Women like me, we don’t know much about dining with dukes. What with our background.”

  He cursed beneath his breath. “Stop that.”

  She blinked. “Stop what?”

  “Stop condescending to me.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “You would, and you are. You no more think of yourself as less than me than you think you can sprout wings and fly. You know you’re better than all of us.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but closed it, stunned by the unexpected words. Who was this man who so easily insulted her, and at the same time seemed to do the opposite?

  “You deserve better than us, as well,” he grumbled.

  “That, at least, is true.” If only she could convince herself of it. “I have been considering our agreement,” she continued, turning for the looking glass, making a show of pinching her cheeks as she’d watched Sesily do in preparation for her suitors. Men like to feel as though you’ve been dreaming of them, her sister liked to say by way of explanation.

  Ironic, that, as Sophie would do anything to keep King from knowing how she dreamed of him.

  He watched her from the door, his gaze on her in the mirror. She made a show of straightening her neckline, drawing attention to her ample breasts, already near bursting from the gown. He’d asked for a Soiled S. And here she was.

  “Don’t tell me you’re reneging,” he said.

  “I wouldn’t dare,” she said. “A Talbot keeps her word. But it occurs that what with my father’s funds, I don’t require your money so much as something else.”

  His brow furrowed so quickly that she might not have seen it if she weren’t so thoroughly focused on him. “And what is that?”

  She bit her lips once, twice, hard enough for them to go red and slightly swollen. Yes. Sesily would be very proud. “I want you to ruin me.”

  “What in hell does that mean?”

  “You’re such an expert, my lord, I can’t imagine you don’t already know.”

  He came toward her, his voice suddenly lower, darker. “How, precisely, do you wish me to ruin you?”

  “How do you ruin all the others?” She waved a hand when his eyes widened. “It doesn’t matter. We’ve spent the better part of a week together without a chaperone, and last night—”

  “Don’t,” he said.

  She looked to him. Finally looked, for the first time since Mossband. Something in his gaze made her not want to finish her thought about the night before. Made her want to believe it had meant something to him. As it had to her. “Well, the point is, I would appreciate it if you would render me fully unmarriageable. Then I will be able to find myself a new life. I shall get my bookshop somewhere quiet, and live a life. Free.”

  “Free of what?” he asked.

  “Of all of it,” she said, unable to keep the truth from her tone. “Of the gossip. The aristocracy. Of all the things I loathe.”

  “Of me.”

  No.

  She forced a smile. “You know better than anyone how we truly feel about each other.”

  He was silent for a long moment, and Sophie found herself wondering what he was thinking.

  We don’t even like each other, she wanted to remind him.

  To remind herself.

  He broke the silence and did the reminding himself. “Done. I’ll see you publicly ruined if that’s what you want.”

  “It is. I want the freedom that comes with it.”

  He nodded. “Play this game well, Lady Sophie, and we’ll be rid of each other before you even realize we were together.”

  Except she had realized it. She’d realized it the day prior, when they’d raced from the Warbling Wren, and the night prior, when he’d kissed her until she thought she’d go mad from the pleasure. And this morning, when he’d hurt her so thoroughly, and without thought.

  They were together, and somehow, she adored and loathed it all at the same time.

  She shook out her skirts. “Is it time for supper?”

  His gaze flickered to the deep blue fabric, bordering on purple. “That color is beautiful on you.”

  She willed herself not to blush under his compliment. Failed. She looked away. “They call it royal blue.”

  Fit for a King.

  When she returned her attention to him, it was to find him watching her thoughtfully. “It’s beautiful. If slightly too short.”

  Leave it to him to insult her again. “Yes, well, once again, I haven’t much of a choice. And I’m not precisely looking to impress my dinner companions.”

  “I should like to see you in a dress that fits you. You deserve one that fits. That’s all I meant.” There was legitimate surprise in the words, and she hated that he hadn’t meant to hurt her. Hated that the fact warmed her. Hated the words.

  Crossing the room, careful to keep her posture perfect, she faced him, mere inches between them. “You haven’t any idea what I deserve.”

  There was a beat, and he said, “I know you deserve better than this.”

  Her breath caught at the echo of the words, no longer a taunt, now an honest, quiet observation. She willed herself not to allow him access to the part of her that cared what he thought. The part of her that could too easily imagine that he cared for her. That he thought highly of her. He didn’t. The morning had proved it. This afternoon proved it. Now proved it. She pushed past him and opened the door. “The faster we begin our charade, the faster it is complete.”

  He turned, but did not approach, watching her for a long moment before he said, “Full cooperation, Sophie, or no ruination.”

  She smiled her most brilliant smile and agreed. “Full cooperation.”

  They walked through the long, dark hallways of the castle, down several flights of stairs and through a brightly lit landing before they arrived at the dining room, a massive stone space decorated with ancient suits of armor and medieval tapestries, enormous chandeliers lowered over a table that stretched farther than any table Sophie had ever seen. It could seat forty or fifty easily, in the high-backed mahogany chairs that sat heavy and imposing. It was a room designed to overwhelm, and it did. She stilled just inside the door.

  King was there instantly, his fingers on her elbow. Understanding her. “He chose this room for a reason,” he whispered, so softly she barely heard him. “To intimidate. Don’t allow it.”

  For a moment, she imagined that he wished to comfort her. To make her feel valued in this massive, imposing space. But she knew bett
er. He simply didn’t wish his father to win. And he would do whatever it took to ensure that happened, including flattery.

  She smiled and stiffened her shoulders, not caring a bit about what the duke saw—caring only that her discomfort was invisible to King. Softly, she said, “Talbots don’t intimidate easily.”

  At the far end of the table stood the Duke of Lyne, tall and handsome despite the hair that shot silver at his temples and the lines that marked the edges of his eyes. Those eyes, the same brilliant green as King’s, saw everything. He indicated the place settings halfway down the table, where matching footmen held chairs. The duke’s gaze was unwavering. “Welcome. Please sit.”

  There was no request in the words, only command. No ceremonial introduction. Nothing approximating politeness.

  Despite a keen desire to ignore it and leave the house, Sophie approached the table.

  King spoke up. “You’ve no interest in meeting Lady Sophie?”

  “I imagine we will have met after a meal, don’t you?”

  Sophie was already at the chair closest to the door when the duke spoke, his words cool and, at best, unmoved by her presence. At worst, he was rude. Irritation flared, and she swerved around the footman proffering the seat, shocking everyone. The duke’s gaze widened barely. “But why wait, Your Grace?” She gave him her broadest smile, one she’d learned from Seleste—designed to win the crustiest of aristocrats—and extended a hand to him. He had no choice but to take it, and she sank into a perfect curtsy. “Lady Sophie Talbot. Enchanté.”

  No one can resist French, Seleste liked to say.

  It seemed the Duke of Lyne could. He looked down his nose at her. “Well, Aloysius, I imagine you are very proud of the fact that your guest shares your manners.”

  Sophie straightened, willing away the embarrassment at the words. Talbots were not embarrassed. Not one of her sisters would care in the slightest if this man disliked them.

  And besides, nothing about this endeavor had to do with her. It was all to do with King and his father. She was a placeholder. A pawn. She could be invisible and the evening would be no different.

  Ignoring both men, she sat.

  Soup appeared before her, ladled from a porcelain terrine not by a footman, but by a beautiful older woman who, from her dress, appeared to be a housekeeper of sorts.