The Rogue Not Taken

by Sarah MacLean

  “They say Prinny lost a round of faro and gained himself an earl!” Ginny whispered loudly enough for the whole castle to hear.

  Sophie winked, feeling more the Soiled S than ever before here, at this table. Enjoying it. Just as her sisters would. “That is, indeed, what they say.”

  The questions came quickly then, questions about her life, and her sisters, and their suitors, and her father and how they’d become aristocrats. And she answered them all, her plate and tankard always full. The food and the ale made her warm and chatty, and she realized that for the first time in what felt like years, she felt free to respond to questions with the truth instead of carefully crafted replies.

  And then the next question came, from Ginny, who seemed to know everything about her sisters and their lives. “So you pushed the Duke of Haven into the Countess of Liverpool’s pond, and now you’re being courted by the Marquess of Eversley—you’re so very lucky to be so very famous!”

  Sophie’s brow furrowed. “That paper arrived quickly.”

  Ginny smiled. “Today. I read it before supper.”

  “It wasn’t a pond. It was a pool. Barely reached his knees.”

  “Still! You’re the star of the scandal sheets!” Ginny sighed. “You’re so very lucky.”

  She didn’t feel lucky. She felt as though she could never go home. She didn’t even know where home was.

  If it was.

  “How does it feel to be a girl from Mossband, now courted by a marquess?”

  “A handsome marquess,” one of the other girls piped in, setting them to tittering and the men at the table to groaning.

  But Sophie was stuck on the question. How did it feel? It didn’t feel like anything, because it wasn’t really courting. Because it was nothing but an arrangement. Not even a fantasy. She’d never really been headed to live out her days in Mossband. She’d never really expected Robbie to be waiting for her, and if he had, she wouldn’t have wanted him to marry her. And King . . . he’d never been her husband. Never her betrothed. And now, after the disastrous meal they’d barely had . . .

  They didn’t even like each other.

  How many times had they said the words to each other?

  How many times had she tried to convince herself it was true?

  It didn’t matter that there were moments when she came very close to liking him. It didn’t matter that she liked him when he kissed her. When he stood by her side and defended her, even when she knew it was for his own gain. Or that she liked him very much when he’d held her, bleeding, in his carriage. Or when he’d ferreted her away from her father’s men. Or when he’d come through the door at the bakery.

  What mattered was that they weren’t betrothed, and they’d never be married.

  No matter how much she might wish it.

  The thought startled her. She didn’t wish it. Did she? She looked up, grasping on to the part of the question she could answer with certainty. “He is very handsome.”

  “Well, at least I have that.”

  Sophie closed her eyes at the words, wishing that the floor of the Lyne kitchens would open wide and swallow her whole. Of course he was there. Of course he had heard her. She looked down at her lap, embarrassed beyond measure.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt what looks like a lovely meal,” King said to the assembly, who immediately leapt to their feet, reassuring him that no, he hadn’t interrupted at all, and could they fetch him anything at all? Ale? Food?

  “No, thank you,” he said, all grace. “I’m simply hoping for some time with Lady Sophie. May I?”

  She looked up then, finding his handsome face open and amused. She wasn’t certain she should give him time. He certainly didn’t deserve it. He must have sensed her trepidation, because instead of saying more, he turned away to investigate the table of food nearby. He selected two tarts from the top of the tower and set them on a little plate, topping them with fresh cream before turning back, licking his thumb and forefinger.

  “That’s not really behavior befitting an aristocrat,” she said, immediately wondering if, perhaps, the ale was talking.

  One side of his mouth lifted in a small, sheepish smile. “Neither was my behavior earlier in the evening. Forgive me?”

  As apologies went, it wasn’t perfect.

  Nevertheless, her cheeks warmed at the words, even before he extended the plate to her. “These people are not the only ones who can feed you. I have tarts. Can I tempt you to come with me?”

  One of the maids behind her sighed.

  Sophie resisted the urge to do the same.

  She watched the plate of tarts for a long moment. They looked glorious. “I suppose.” She stood and smoothed her skirts. “For the tarts.”

  He smiled and placed a hand to his chest. “Of course. I would imagine nothing more.”

  She took the plate as he guided her to the door, where she remembered to turn back. “Thank you all for a lovely dinner.”

  The servants were surprised by her gratitude, but Agnes replied, “Thank you, my lady. You are welcome at our table any time you like.”

  She followed King through the door. “I like you smiling,” he said quietly, when they were outside the room in the dimly lit corridor. “You don’t do it enough with me.”

  She looked up at him, “I haven’t had much reason to smile since we met.”

  “I should like to change that.”

  She lifted the plate. “Strawberry tarts are a good beginning.”

  His gaze did not leave hers. “I think I can do better.” He turned on one heel and was off, through the darkened maze of hallways, up a flight of stairs and through the massive doors to one of the wings of the castle.

  She followed him, despite not wishing to.

  Or possibly wishing to very much.

  Everything about this man was a confusion.

  “Where are we going?”

  He paused in front of a great set of doors, his back to them. “To have dessert.”

  There was something in the words, in the look in his eyes as he said them, that had Sophie’s heart pounding. This was not the King she’d known.

  “There’s a library here. Would you let me show it to you?”

  She scowled. “You’re bribing me with books.”

  “Is it working?”

  She let her gaze linger on the door behind his shoulder. “Perhaps.”

  His lips lifted in a crooked smile, the dimple in his cheek showing. “Let’s see, shall we?” And he opened the door to reveal the largest, most beautiful library she’d ever seen. The room was cavernous, taking up two stories on all sides, with a glorious wrought-iron balcony that ran the perimeter of the room. In front of them, there were several chaise longues and a massive fireplace a dozen feet high by two dozen wide.

  And all that before the books, stretching for what seemed like miles, shelves and shelves from floor to ceiling, in deep reds and greens and browns and blues. More books than a person could read in a lifetime.

  But she could try.

  She stepped into the room, turning in a slow circle, already wondering how long he would require her attention before he would release her into the room, free to explore. “This is . . .” She trailed off, astounded.

  After a long moment, he prodded. “It is . . . ?”

  She looked to him and grinned. “It is working.”

  He laughed. “Excellent.” He pulled the door closed behind them and moved to sit in a large leather chair at the center of the room, next to a pile of oversized books. Balancing the plate of strawberry tarts on one wide arm of the chair, he waved a hand to indicate the room. “I know you are desperate to explore, love. Feel free.”

  She was off like a shot, climbing the iron staircase without hesitation. “I’ve always wanted a library,” she said, fingers itching to touch the unblemished spines of the books far above.

  “I thought you wanted a bookshop,” he said from below.

  “That, as well. I could imagine my father supporting a books
hop,” she said. “After all, they are an investment.”

  “But a library is not?”

  She shook her head, running her finger over the gold, embossed volume of Milton she’d found. “A library is a luxury,”

  “Your father is rich beyond measure. I should think he could spare you the bookshop and the library.”

  “He’s always happily bought me books, but my mother . . .” She trailed off, then finished with a little shrug. “She doesn’t care for them.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She looked down at him, and for a moment she forgot about the library, drawn to the way his green eyes focused on her, unwavering. “She made me hide them.”

  “Why?”

  “No one likes a female with ideas,” she replied, echoing the words she’d heard dozens of times from her mother. “I suppose she imagined books make for thoughts.”

  “They do. Intelligent ones.”

  “I’m not sure she’d agree with you. Despite all the books I’ve read, I am the only one of her daughters stranded in the North Country with an unmarried marquess, bullet wound in my shoulder.”

  “Nothing about your current circumstance has to do with reading about henges.”

  Sophie laughed, trailing one hand along the long line of leather bindings. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Absolutely. You are better for every book you’ve read.”

  She curled her hands around the lintel of the iron balustrade, leaning over to look down at him. “If you were a Dangerous Daughter, my mother would despair of you. It would be a miracle if we ever saw you married.”

  “What nonsense,” he said, looking up at her. “You’re easily the most marriageable female I’ve ever met.”

  She stilled. “You think so?”

  “Certainly.” He took a bite of tart, as though the statement were utterly normal.

  “Once one learns that I’m not attempting to dupe him into marriage, you mean.”

  “Once that happens, yes,” he said with a smile.

  Something had her feeling slightly light-headed. The ale.

  Most definitely the ale.

  Not him.

  “Why?”

  And it was the ale that had her asking that, the ale and the distance between them, which somehow made her more courageous than she had ever been.

  “Why aren’t you marriageable?” She didn’t reply. “You’re intelligent, clever, brave, and honorable.”

  Excellent, Sophie thought. Like a horse. Or a dog.

  And then he said it. “Not to mention beautiful.”

  “I’m not beautiful,” she said before she could take it back, instead wishing that she could disappear, simply fade into the books behind her and never be seen again.

  No luck. “Yes, you are.”

  She shook her head, hating the way her chest tightened with hot embarrassment at the question. She didn’t want to discuss her beauty or lack thereof. No plain woman wanted to, especially not with a man who was so very handsome.

  Dear God. He’d heard her call him handsome.

  She swallowed, desperate for an end to the moment.

  “Sophie?”

  She looked to him.

  Don’t make me answer.

  Don’t make me think about why you would never be for me.

  It was the ale that had her thinking that. She didn’t care to have him.

  Except, now and then, she thought about it. When he offered her strawberry tarts. And showed her his magical library. And called her beautiful.

  And made her want to believe it.

  Then she cared very much.

  “These tarts are getting eaten. I feel honor-bound to tell you as much.”

  Relief flared, replaced quickly with something much more dangerous. Something that made her wish that they were somewhere else. That they were someone else. That jests about strawberry tarts were all they had to think on.

  She looked down at him sprawled in the leather armchair, lifting the plate up to her like an offering.

  Perhaps tonight strawberry tarts could be enough.

  Her eyes went wide. “You’ve eaten mine!”

  “You didn’t seem to want it.”

  “Of course I wanted it, you tart thief!”

  He smirked. “Then why are you all the way up there?”

  Why indeed.

  She was down the steps in seconds, snatching the plate from his hand. “This is a half-eaten tart.”

  “Better than all-eaten,” he said, making a show of opening the book on the table next to him.

  “Stop!” she gasped.

  He did, turning shocked eyes on her. “What is it?”

  “Your fingers. They’re covered in tart. Don’t touch that book.”

  “One might have thought I were about to murder someone.”

  “Something,” she said. “The book would be tarted forever.”

  He held his hands wide. “Fair enough. God forbid we should tart it.”

  She sat in the chair across from him and took a bite of her remaining dessert, sighing her pleasure at the delicious fruit, cut perfectly with fresh cream. “This is exquisite,” she said, her gaze riveted on the sweet.

  “It is, isn’t it?” His voice was lower than it had been, quieter. Darker.

  She looked up to find him staring at her mouth, and gastronomic pleasure turned to a different kind of pleasure entirely. “Would you like it?”

  “Very much.”

  She was no longer certain that they were discussing dessert. She extended the plate to him, and he shook his head.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Why books?”

  Her brows rose. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why are they your vice?”

  She set her plate down and wiped her hand on her skirts before reaching for the top volume on a stack of small, leather-bound books nearby and extending it to him. “Go on.”

  He took it. “Now what?”

  “Smell it.” He tilted his head. She couldn’t help but smile. “Do it.”

  He lifted it to his nose. Inhaled.

  “Not like that,” she said. “Really give it a smell.”

  He raised one brow, but did as he was told.

  “What do you smell?” Sophie asked.

  “Leather and ink?”

  She shook her head. “Happiness. That’s what books smell like. Happiness. That’s why I always wanted to have a bookshop. What better life than to trade in happiness?”

  He watched her for a long moment, longer than she was comfortable, until she returned to her tart. Once she had, he said, quietly, “You didn’t tell me if you forgive me.”

  The change in topic startled her. “I—beg your pardon?”

  “For the way I treated you. At dinner.”

  She picked at the tart, selecting a strawberry and eating it alone, buying herself time to think about her answer.

  He continued in the silence. “For the way I’ve treated you since Mossband. Since last night. In the carriage.”

  She looked up at him. “You did nothing wrong in the carriage.”

  He laughed, the sound humorless. “I did a hundred wrong things in the carriage, Sophie.”

  “Yes, but those weren’t the things that made me sad.” The words were out before she could think, before she could alter them. Before she could make herself seem less delicate. She set down her plate and stood. “I’m sorry.”

  He shot forward in his chair. “Don’t you dare apologize. I think that’s the first time someone has told me the honest truth in years. I—” He hesitated. “Christ, Sophie. I am sorry.”

  “It’s not—” She shook her head.

  “Stop. It is.” He stood, approaching her. “I’m an ass. You told me so, remember?”

  “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Was I an ass?”

  She met his eyes, grassy green and focused on her. “You were. Quite.”

  He nodded. “I was.”

  “And tonight, you
were even worse.”

  “I know. I wish I wasn’t.”

  “I wanted to throw my soup at you.”

  He raised a brow. “You’re getting the hang of telling me the truth.”

  She smiled. “It’s quite freeing.”

  He laughed, then grew serious. “Forgive me?”

  She watched him for a long while. “Yes.”

  He exhaled, as though he’d been holding his breath for an age, and reached for her surprising them both, his fingertips brushing along her jaw, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

  She swallowed at the feel of him, the heat of his touch.

  “I should never have brought you here,” he said softly, and she hated the way the words felt until he added, “you’re too good for this place. The men it makes.”

  She caught her breath at the words. “I don’t think that’s true.”

  “You don’t know who I am,” he said.

  “Show me,” she offered, wanting desperately for him to agree, to tell her about this place. About the men it made.

  He didn’t, his gaze falling to her mouth instead, his thumb stroking along her jaw. “You’ve cream on your lip.”

  From the tarts. She lifted her hand, but he predicted her move, capturing her wrist before she could brush away the remains of the tart. “No,” he whispered, close, the scent of him overwhelming her, soap and spice. “Let me.”

  She stilled, not quite understanding, but wanting it, whatever he offered. And then he was there, his lips on hers, his tongue licking out to taste the errant cream.

  She’d never in her life experienced anything so scandalous.

  Anything so . . .

  “Mmm,” he murmured, the sound low and soft as he lifted his head. “Exquisite.”

  He hadn’t been talking about the tart earlier.

  She couldn’t stop herself from lifting her hand to his neck, holding him the way he held her, her fingers tangling in his dark hair. “Show me,” she repeated, only this time, she didn’t want him to talk. She wanted him to take.

  Or perhaps it was she who did the taking, turning her face up to his, and capturing his lips with hers.

  Chapter 16