The Rogue Not Taken (26 page)

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 bookshop,” 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.”

“Some
thing
,” 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.”