The Rogue Not Taken (18 page)

She nodded. “That sounds like Papa.”

“Go on. You left Asparagus.”

She looked out the window again. “I haven’t thought about that cat in years. She was black. With little white paws. And a white nose.” She shook her head to clear it of the memory. “Anyway, we left and we never came back. There is a country seat in Wales somewhere, but we never go there. My mother was too focused on our making a new, aristocratic life. That meant visiting other, more established country seats filled with aristocratic young women who were supposed to become our friends. Who were to help us find a place for ourselves. To
climb
.

“She swore that in a few years, we’d fit in perfectly. And my sisters do. They somehow realized that their perfect beauty would lead to the gossip pages adoring them, which would lead to the
ton
adoring them. Against its better judgment. They are expert climbers. Except . . .”

She trailed off, and he had to prompt her to finish. “Except?”

“Except I am not. I do not fit in. I am not perfectly
beautiful.” She gave him a half smile. “I am not even beautifully perfect. You’ve said it yourself.”

“When did I say it?” he asked, affronted.

“I’m the plain one. The boring one. The unfun one.” She waved a hand down at her livery, the clothing that had driven him to call her plump. “Certainly not the beautiful one.” He cursed softly, but she raised a hand before he could speak. “Don’t apologize. It’s true. I’ve never felt like I belonged there. I’ve never felt worth the effort. But in Mossband—I felt valued.

“In escaping London, I have become more than I ever was there.” She smiled. “And when those men came looking, when you ferreted me out, I’ve never felt more free.” She paused, then added, softly, “Or more valued. You never would have helped me escape before.”

“That’s nonsense,” he said, and the tone brooked no refusal.

“Is it? You left me standing in a hedge with your boot,” she pointed out.

“That’s not the same. I left you there
because
you had value.”

“No, I had a title. Those aren’t the same thing.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but she stopped him, unable to keep her frustration at bay. “I would not expect you to understand, my lord. You, who have such value to spare. Your name is
King
, for heaven’s sake.”

Her words circled the carriage, fading into heavy silence. And then he said, “Aloysius.”

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Aloysius Archibald Barnaby Kingscote. Marquess of Eversley. Future Duke of Lyne.” He waved his hand in a flourish. “At your service.”

He was joking.

But he did not
appear
to be joking.

“No,” she whispered, playing the name over in her head, and her hand flew to her mouth, desperate to hold in her response. But it was too much. She couldn’t stop herself. She began to laugh.

He raised a brow and leaned back in his seat. “And you are the only person to whom I have ever offered it. This is why, in case you were wondering. Because even I have my limits of supercilious pomposity.”

She caught her breath, unable to stop herself from laughing again before she said, “It’s so—”

“Horrible? Ridiculous? Inane?”

She removed her hand. “Unnecessary.”

He tilted his head in acknowledgment. “That, as well.”

She giggled. “Aloysius.”

“Be careful, my lady.”

“Others don’t know?”

“I imagine they do. It’s there in black and white, in
Burke’s Peerage
, but no one ever brings it up in my company. At least, they haven’t since I was in school and made it clear I did not wish to be called such.”

“The boys at school simply acceded to your request?”

“They acceded to my boxing training.”

She nodded. “I suppose they weren’t expecting you to be very good at that, what with being named Aloysius.”

He put on his best aristocratic tone. “In some circles, it’s very royal.”

“Oh? Which circles are those?”

He grinned. “I’m not certain.”

She matched his grin. “I confess, I would call myself King, as well.”

“You see? Now you should feel sorry for me.”

“Oh, I do!” she said so quickly that they both laughed, and Sophie was suddenly, keenly aware that she liked the sound of his laughter. She liked the look of it, as well.
And then they were not laughing anymore. “You are not uncomfortable,” she said quietly, leaning forward. The motion of the carriage no longer unsettled him.

He seemed startled by the reminder. “I am not. You are a welcome distraction.”

Her cheeks warmed as he, too, leaned forward. She considered retreating, but found she did not wish to. When he lifted his hand to her cheek, she was very grateful for her bravery, his warm hand a welcome temptation. They were so close, his eyes a beautiful green, his lips soft and welcome and just out of reach. She wondered what might happen if she leaned forward. Closed the distance between them. And then he spoke, the words on a whisper. “He doesn’t even know you’re coming, does he?”

She retreated at that, not pretending to misunderstand. “Why do you ask all the questions?”

“Because you answer them,” he replied.

“I should like to ask some.”

He nodded. “I’ll answer yours if you answer this one. Why the baker? I understand the bookshop and the freedom, but the baker—it’s been a decade. Why him, as well?”

She looked away, watching farmland beyond the window, the countryside dotted with sheep and bales of hay. So much simpler than London. So much more free. She opened the book on her lap and closed it. Again and again. And finally, she said, “He was my friend. We made a promise.”

“What kind of promise?”

“That we’d marry.”

“A decade ago.”

What had she done? Where was she going? What would come from this mad adventure? She couldn’t ask him any of that. Didn’t want him to hear it. And so she lifted her gaze to his and said, “A promise is a promise.”

He watched her for a long time, and then said, “You realize that this ends poorly.”

“Not necessarily.”

He stretched his arm across the back of the seat. “How does it end, then?”

She paused, thinking for a long moment about Mossband. About her childhood. About the world into which she’d been born and the world into which she’d been thrust. And then she answered him. “I hope it ends happily.”

He went utterly still, and she had the sudden sense that he was angry with her. When he spoke, there was no mistaking the disdain in his tone. “You think he’s been pining away for the earl’s daughter who left a decade ago?”

“It’s not impossible, you know,” she snapped. Must he always make her feel as though she was less than? “And I wasn’t an earl’s daughter. Well, I was, but not really. I’ve never really been an earl’s daughter. That’s the point. We were friends. We made each other happy.”

“Happiness,” he scoffed. “You haven’t any idea what to do with yourself now that you’re free, do you?”

She scowled. “I don’t care for you.”

“Shall we wager on it?”

“On my not caring for you? Oh, let’s. Please.”

He smirked. “On Robbie’s caring for you.”

She narrowed her gaze on his smug face, ignoring the sting of his words. “What’s the wager?”

“If we get there, and he wants you, you win. I’ll buy you your bookshop. As a wedding present.”

“What an extravagant gift,” she said smartly. “I accept. Though I have a second demand now.”

His brows rose. “More than a bookshop?”

She tilted her head. “Be careful, my lord, I might find reason to believe you are not so certain that you will win.”

“I never lose.”

“Then why not allow a second demand?”

He leaned back, “Go ahead.”

“If I win, you must say something nice about me.”

His brows snapped together. “What does that mean?”

“Only that you have spent the last week telling me all the ways that I fail. My lack of intelligence, my lack of excitement, my lack of proper figure, my lack of beauty, and now, my inability to land a husband.”

“I didn’t say—”

She raised her hand. “And you had better make it exceedingly complimentary.”

There was a long silence, after which he said, in a tone that could only be described as grumbling, “Fine.”

“Excellent. I think I might look forward to that more than to Robbie’s proposal.”

One black brow rose. “A clear indication that marrying the baker is an excellent idea.” He leaned forward, his voice lowering. “But don’t forget, Sophie. If we get there, and it’s a disaster . . .”

Her heart began to pound. “What then?”

“Then
I
win. And you must say something nice about me.”

Before she could retort, the carriage began to slow, and a wild cry came from the coachman. She stiffened, nerves chasing her triumph away. She snapped her gaze to him. “Is it highwaymen?”

“No.” King touched her ankle, the warm skin of his hand against that place that had never been touched by another person making her breath catch. “We are at the next posting inn.”

Her shoulder ached, and she was happy for the stop. “Will we spend the night?”

He shook his head. “We only change horses, and then
press on. We have to put some distance between you and your pursuers.”

And then the door was open and he disappeared into the afternoon’s golden sunlight.

T
hank God they’d arrived when they did.

A quarter of an hour longer, and King would not have been held responsible for what happened between them. Lord deliver him from long carriage rides with impossible, infuriating, remarkable women. How was he supposed to keep from kissing her? From touching her?

Every time the woman opened her mouth, he wanted her more.

And then she’d declared herself less than valued. Told him that only now, as she ran, London and her past at her heels, did she feel free. Proclaimed herself existent.

As though he’d needed a proclamation to notice her.

As though he wasn’t keenly aware of her every movement. Her every word.

Despite knowing that he shouldn’t see her at all.

She had been trouble since the moment he’d met her, at the bottom of the damn trellis at Liverpool House. And still, he seemed to never quite be able to escape her. He was the Minotaur, trapped by her labyrinth.

It was useful to have the break to remind himself of all
the reasons why he didn’t want her. Why he didn’t even enjoy her.

She was the very opposite of women he enjoyed.

Except she wasn’t.

Indeed, he would have no trouble saying something nice about her. When she’d enumerated all the terrible things he’d said until now, he’d felt like a proper ass. He didn’t believe any of those things. Not anymore.

Not ever
.

He began to unhitch the tired horses, quickly and efficiently, as he remained keenly aware of the fact that the men they’d encountered in Sprotbrough might be stupid enough to believe Sophie had been an ordinary footman on an ordinary carriage, but were also smart enough to realize she’d left the inn—and sooner rather than later. There would be no lingering. Which was for the best, because when she’d asked if they would be sleeping here tonight, his entire body had leapt to answer in the affirmative.

In the same room.

In the same bed.

With as little sleeping as possible.

She wanted to be free—he could show her freedom.

He could show her happiness.

Except he couldn’t.

Cursing under his breath, he handed the first of the four horses off to the coachman and made quick work of unhitching the second when she poked her head out of the door. “My lord?” she called, before returning to the shadows of the carriage.

He didn’t wish to think of her. He was too busy thinking of her.

“Bollocks,” he muttered.

Christ. Now he was swearing like her.

“My lord!” She was sounding more panicked.

He passed the second horse to the coachman and returned to her. “What is it?”

“I must go inside.”

“You shouldn’t be seen. You stay here.”

She pressed her lips into a thin line. “I have
necessary requirements
.”

He sighed. Of course she did.

“And I think perhaps I ought to find other clothes. The livery has become somewhat . . . obvious.”

She was right, of course. She looked like a footman who’d been dragged through the muck, shot, and left for dead. Which wasn’t an entirely incorrect assessment of her situation. And with her long brown hair coming out of her cap, she would be discovered in a heartbeat. And when her hunters arrived, a girl dressed as a bedraggled footman would certainly count as something unique enough to mention. He hadn’t a choice.

“You handle your needs. I shall get you a dress.”

He charmed the pub owner with a long-suffering sigh and a handful of coin, and returned to the carriage with a frock and food and a skin of hot water. Opening the door, he found her already returned, and tossed the first two items into the carriage before handing her the water. “For your tea.”

He did not give her a chance to thank him, instead closing the door before returning to help the coachman hitch new horses.

“We’ve two good stretches before we get to Longwood, sir,” said the coachman. “We’ll need another change of horses in the night.”

“And a new coachman. You’ll need to sleep,” King said, triple checking the leather harnesses.

“I can see you through until then.”

King nodded. “Good man, John.”

John smiled. “The night is the best time to ride the roads.”

King knew it keenly. He also knew it was the worst time to ride inside a carriage—the darkness closing in around him, reminding him of the past, which became more and more difficult to ignore as they drew closer to Cumbria.

He opened the door to the carriage with more force than he’d planned, and she squeaked from her seat, hands clutched to her chest. She was wearing the green dress, festooned in little frills of lace and ribbon. “I’m not ready for you, yet,” she said, the words nearly strangling her.

“Why not?”

“Because I am not,” she replied, as though it were a legitimate answer to his question.

He raised a brow and did not move.

“I require another five minutes,” she said, shooing him out of the carriage. With her foot.

It was the foot that tipped him to her concern. His gaze fell, lingering on the hands at her breast, white laces crisscrossing up the bodice of the dress. “Are you having trouble lacing yourself into it?” he asked.

She went crimson, and he had his answer. “Not at all!” she squeaked.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

She scowled at him. “I don’t typically have cause to lie, sir. It is rare that men ask me such . . . ungentlemanly questions.”

“Don’t you mean rapscallionesque?”

“That, as well. Yes.”

He smiled. “Do you require my assistance, my lady?”

“I most certainly do not,” she replied. “It’s simply that the previous owner of this particular garment was somewhat less . . .”

Close the door
, he willed himself.
Don
’t let her finish that thought.

Sadly, his arms forgot how to work.

And then she finished the sentence and his brain did the same.

“. . . ample.”

Christ.

“You have five minutes,” he said, “and then we leave, laced or no.”

He closed the door and returned to the horses, checking the cinches again as he counted to three hundred. By thirty-six, he was imagining her ample breasts. At ninety-four, he was cursing himself for not having a good look at the breasts in question when he had Sophie in hand earlier in the day. By one hundred and seventy, he’d relived the events of earlier in the day, much to the twin emotions of pleasure and guilt. By two hundred twenty-five, he was cursing himself the worst kind of scoundrel, but, truthfully, she was the one who had brought up breasts.

You are the one who is acting like a boy in short pants.

No. Boys in short pants were much more appropriately behaved.

Two hundred ninety-nine.

Three hundred.

He opened the door and climbed in, working very hard not to look at her. She did not squeak, so he supposed that meant she’d finished the task at hand. He rapped on the roof, and the carriage took off.

They traveled in silence for long minutes—twenty or so—before she broke the silence. “Do you remember me?”

He looked at her then.

Mistake
.

She was beautiful. The dress was shabby and too small for her, and he could see why she’d had trouble. It had to
be laced as tightly as possible up her midline to cage her breasts, which spilled out of the top, as though they were desperate to be free.

Just as he was quite desperate to free them.

He dragged his gaze to meet her eyes. “I was not gone very long.”

She smiled at that, and he warmed at the sign of her entertainment. Good God. It felt like he
was
a boy in short pants, eager for her approval. “I did not mean from earlier today. I meant from earlier in our life.”

“Remember you from where?”

The smile faltered a touch. “We danced once. At a ball.”

His brows rose. “I would remember that.”

“It was a quadrille. At the Beaufetheringstone Ball.”

He shook his head. “You’re mistaken.”

She gave a little huff of laughter. “My lord, I believe that I would remember you more than you would remember me.”

She was doing it again. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop believing whatever everyone has said about you for all these years. There’s nothing about you that is unmemorable. The last week has been the most memorable of my life, for Chrissakes. Because of you. Stop imagining that you’re something you’re not.”

Her eyes went wide, and King immediately felt like an idiot.

“What does that mean?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t want to answer. He’d made enough of a fool of himself. So instead he said, “I’m simply saying that I should remember that we danced.” She went silent, and for a long moment, he thought she might be hurt that he didn’t remember. “I will remember you now.”

It was an understatement in the extreme.

And then she said, “May I still have my question?”

The question he’d promised her before they stopped. Before he’d almost kissed her. Before he’d noticed her breasts. Well. Before he’d noticed her breasts, today.

This evening.

“Yes.”

“You said you were going to your father to tell him something before he died.”

“I did.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

The feel of the carriage returned, as did his awareness of the waning light. Darkness was coming, and with it, memory. And demons. And this woman was not going to let him ignore them. “Fifteen years ago.”

“How old were you?”

“Eighteen.”

“And why haven’t you ever come back?”

He exhaled on a long breath and leaned back against the seat, wishing she were next to him again. He’d liked that, the time when she’d been next to him, her thigh against his, as she’d read her excruciating book on stones. “I don’t wish to see him.”

“Was he very cruel?”

He did not answer, and she eventually added, “I apologize. I should not have asked such a thing.”

Silence fell once more, and he reached down to the basket he’d placed on the floor of the carriage when they’d stopped to change the horses. Opening it, he extracted a bottle of wine, bread, and cheese. He tore her a piece of bread and offered it with some of the cheese. She took it with a quiet “Thank you.”

The Duke of Lyne had been as good a father as an aristocrat could be. Where other fathers had spent their time in London, machinating at their clubs and pretend
ing their families did not exist, King’s had prioritized the country estate and his time with King.

“He was not cruel. Not with me.”

“Then why—?” She stopped, clearly aware that she trod a strange, fine line.

King drank deep of the wine, willing it to stay the memories she awakened. “How is your shoulder?”

“Tolerably sore,” she said before taking a deep breath and diving in. “Why don’t you wish to see him?”

He should have known she wouldn’t be able to stop herself. “You’re like a dog with a bone.”

“You’re calling me a dog again?”

He smiled, but with little humor. “Cruelty is not the only way fathers ruin their sons. Expectations can do the same damage.”

“What did yours expect?”

“For me to marry well.”

She cut him a look and spoke dryly. “What a horrible thing for a father to desire.” When he did not reply, she continued, “Why not marry one of the women you’ve ruined?”

None of them had wanted to marry him, but he didn’t tell her that. Instead, he told her the truth. “I’ll never marry.”

“You’re a man with a title. Isn’t that your only purpose?”

He cut her a look. “Is that what women think?”

She smiled, small and clever. “Isn’t that what men think of women?”

“It’s not my purpose. Despite my father’s keen desire. The Dukedom of Lyne has passed from generation to generation of pure, unadulterated aristocracy. Every Duchess of Lyne has been perfectly bred to be just that, a duchess. Blue blood, pristine manners, and beauty beyond the pale.”

“I’ve never heard anything about your mother,” she said. “Not even when we lived in Mossband.”

He looked out the window at that, taking in the sky, streaking pink and red in the west, heralding the night. “That’s because she died in childbirth. It killed my father.”

“Did he love her very much?”

It was so preposterous that King laughed. “No. He was upset because it meant he wouldn’t get his spare.”