The Rogue Not Taken (35 page)

Somehow, the foul language made the entire moment more perfect, and she lowered her lips again, taking him into her mouth, licking at him, sucking tentatively, glorying in the way he moved against her, showing her what he liked, chanting her name like a prayer. “Sophie . . . love . . . yes . . .”

She continued, learning the taste and feel of him, loving the pleasure she gave him. Loving the fact that she could give him this pleasure, here, now, once, before she left. She put all her love into the caress, wanting him to know the truth—that there would never be anyone else for her.

After too short a time, he thrust his hands into her hair and lifted her from him. “Stop,” he said, sitting up, his strong arms pulling her up to straddle him as he stole her lips in a long, wicked kiss. He released her with a gasping breath and repeated himself. “Stop.”

“Did you not . . .”

He rolled her down onto her back, finding his way between her thighs, his hands coming to her hair, holding her still for another kiss. “I did. Christ. I’ve never enjoyed anything like I did that.” He pressed his forehead to hers, his eyes closed. “You must go back to your room, love. We cannot do this.”

No.

She didn’t want to leave him.

She put her hand to his cheek. “King.”

He shook his head. “I stood on this side of the damn door for an age, trying to convince myself that you are not mine. That I can’t have you. If we do this, Sophie . . .”

He trailed off, and she heard a myriad of finishes of the sentence.

If we do this, I’ll never forgive myself.

If we do this, you’ll be ruined.

If we do this, you’ll still be alone tomorrow.

She reached up and kissed him softly. “I don’t care. I want it.”

“You want me.”

“I love you,” she vowed. “I’ll only ever love you.”

“How am I to deny you anything after that?”

She lifted her hips against his, testing the power of her movement, loving the way his eyes darkened at her touch. “You aren’t to deny me.”

“Sophie,” he whispered, shifting, the hard length of him finding the wet heart of her, the tip of him teasing at the place where she wanted him quite desperately. Pleasure shot through her.

He repeated the motion.

Good Lord.

“King, don’t stop.”

He didn’t, instead pressing deeper, rocking into her, stretching her gently before he stopped and said her name. Her gaze flew to his. “You’re so tight, love. Is it all right?”

It was strange and unsettling, and somehow wicked and wonderful. She nodded. “Is there more?”

He laughed, catching her lips in a long kiss. “There is.”

“More, please.”

And he gave it to her, rocking deeper and deeper until she was filled beyond anything she’d ever experienced. And he was so close to her. They were together for this one moment, for this one night. She’d never forget this moment. When she took her last breath, it would be this moment she remembered. The moment when King was hers. Forever.

Tears came, unbidden, and he stilled. “No. Christ. No.” He began to pull out of her. “Sophie, love. I’m sorry.”

“No!” she cried, tightening her thighs around him. “No. Don’t stop.”

“I’m hurting you.”

“You’re not.” There was nothing near pain in the way he touched her. Nothing close to it.

“Love, I can see it,” he said. “I can see the tears.”

She shook her head. “You’re not hurting me. It feels rather wonderful.”

He kissed her, holding her still, staring deep into her eyes. “What then?”

This hurts me. This moment. The truth of it.

That this is all I’
ll ever have of you.

She couldn’t tell him any of that, of course. So, instead, she told him the only thing that mattered. “I love you.”

He kissed her again, reaching between them, stroking the tender, sensitive spot above the place where they were joined. “I could listen to you say that forever,” he said, running his thumb around and around the straining part of her. “I am going to make you say it tonight, again and again. I am going to make you say it when you come. I am going to watch the words on your lips as you fall apart in my arms, and as I put you back together.”

She would tell him whenever he liked. The words had freed her, and she whispered them over and over like a prayer as he lifted himself over her, rocking against her, long and slow, wreaking havoc on her body and mind. His thumb moved faster and faster in small tight circles, playing over that glorious place, sensation building, making good on all his promises. She was drawn tight as a bow, desperate for release, and she opened her eyes, meeting his, aching for the pleasure only he could give her.

“I love you,” she whispered, and the words rocketed through them both, tipping her over the edge as his movements came deeper, faster, more powerful, making her forget everything but his name, but the feel of him against her, but the way she loved him.

“Look at me, Sophie. I want to see it.”

She did, crying out as the crest came again, and she threw herself into the pleasure, the sound of her name on his lips, as he tumbled into it with her.

It was magnificent.

He rolled away from her, clutching her to him, careful of her bandage, his fingers trailing over her good shoulder. “Sophie . . .” he said, letting her name trail off, curl around them in this warm, dark room.

He was magnificent.

She sighed, curling closer to him, and he kissed the top of her head, the soft caress tempting her nearly as much as the rest of the interlude had.

They were magnificent together.

But they would never be together.

And with that insidious thought, she was returned to reality, to the arms of the man she loved, who would never love her. Who had another plan for his life. A plan that did not include love.

Perhaps she could have lived without love before tonight. Before her confession. Before knowing that she’d never be able to be with him without quite desperately wanting him to love her in return.

But she couldn’t. And so she would leave. Tonight. Escape in the dark, and hang her family and their wild plan to trap the Marquess of Eversley into marriage. She didn’t want him trapped.

The only way she wanted to marry the Marquess of Eversley was in a love match. And that would never
happen. So she would find her way away from here and spend her life with the memory of tonight.

With the memory of his pleasure when she told him the truth.

When she confessed her love.

The memory would be enough.

What a lie that was.

She slid out of his arms, to the edge of the bed.

It would be enough
, she told herself, ignoring the truth.

It had to be.

H
e was going to marry her.

Indeed, he likely should have told her so before he made love to her, here in his bed. Before he ruined her, quite thoroughly. But there was something tremendous about making love to her, knowing that she was willing to give everything to him, without the promise of a title.

Knowing she didn’t care about the promise of a title.

Knowing she wanted him for him, and not his name, and not his fortune.

Knowing she loved him.

She loved him
.

The moment she’d said it, he’d known their fate. He’d known that he would take her here, in this bed, against the cool linen sheets where he’d fought to find sleep and instead found visions of her. He’d known he’d take her virginity, and with it, her future.

He’d known they would marry.

She loved him.

He wanted her to say it again, as though she hadn’t said it a dozen times already. He didn’t think he’d ever tire of hearing her say the words. Of knowing the truth of them. Sophie Talbot loved him.

Her love made him want her thoroughly, without hesitation.

Even if he could never find a way to love her in return. He knew it was selfish and arrogant and the worst kind of greed, but he’d tasted the honesty in her words, and seen it in her eyes, and felt it in her touch.

And he wanted it for himself.

Forever.

So he’d taken her without hesitation. Without telling her the truth—that if she let him take her, they would marry. He’d been afraid she’d stop him if she’d known, afraid she would demand his love in return for her hand in marriage.

And so he’d resorted to the worst kind of trick.

She’d have to marry him now, as she was well and truly ruined. And, despite the fact that her ruination had been part of their ever-evolving agreement, there was no way on earth he was allowing her to leave him.

Ever.

It occurred to him, as they lay quietly in his bed, drenched in candlelight and shadows, her skin soft against his touch, her breath slowing, pleasure threading through them both, her profession of love still lingering in the heavy air, that he should tell her what was to come next.

He should propose.

She deserved a proposal.

He could manage a proposal—a summer fair in the Mossband town square, a masquerade ball, jewels, and public declarations of his intention.

Except Sophie wouldn’t want anything so extravagant.

She sighed in his arms, cuddling closer to him, and he kissed the top of her head.

He’d take her to the center of the labyrinth again. With a plateful of Agnes’s strawberry tarts and a soft wool
blanket. He’d go to Mossband and fetch a basketful of sugar buns from Robbie the baker. King smiled in the darkness. His lady had a sweet tooth. He’d feed it for the rest of his life, with pleasure.

Just as soon as he took her to the labyrinth and told her the truth—that even as his past made it impossible for him to promise her love, he wished to promise her the rest. That he would do his best to make her happy.

As meager an offer it was, she loved him, and she would say yes. She would say yes, and they would eat sweets, and then he would lower her to the blanket and strip her bare and lick the sugar from her lips with only the sky and the sun as witness.

It wasn’t a fair in the Mossband town square, but it had the benefit of being quick. He’d take her over the border and marry her in Scotland. They could be wed by this time tomorrow.

And she’d be his. Forever.

She stiffened in his arms, pulling away from him, moving to the edge of the bed. Where was she going? It was the man who was destined to skulk off in the dead of night, was it not? He had plans for her. They involved more kissing. More touching. More of her telling him she loved him.

And she was leaving him.

He reached for her, catching her hand before she could escape. “Where are you going?”

She reached down for her dressing gown, lifting it up and covering herself. “I . . .”

“You don’t need the gown, Sophie,” he said, letting all his desire into his tone. “I shall keep you warm.”

She dipped her head, embarrassed by the words. He’d take great joy in teaching her not to be ashamed of desire. Someday, she’d come naked to his bed. The thought had him instantly hard again.

“Sophie,” he said, “come back to bed.”

“I cannot,” she said, standing and pulling the gown back on, tying the belt haphazardly. “We mustn’t be caught.”

“We shan’t be caught,” he said, moving across the bed, reaching for her, pulling her back to him as he knelt before her. It didn’t matter if they were caught, anyway. He was going to marry her.

He tucked a strand of glorious brown hair behind her ear, running his thumb over the high arc of one cheek. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Stay,” he whispered, leaning in and stealing a kiss, long and lush, reveling in the way her tongue matched his stroke for stroke until they were both gasping for breath. He pulled her close, worrying the soft skin of her ear with his teeth and tongue. “Stay, love. There’s so much more to explore.”

She sighed at the words, but stepped back nonetheless. “I cannot,” she said, the words catching in her throat as she backed away. “We agreed—one night.”

That was before, of course. Before she’d loved him.

Before he’d made love to her.

She couldn’t imagine he’d let her go now—she couldn’t imagine one night would ever be enough. And yet, she was leaving him. Cold realization threaded through him. “Where are you going?”

She met his gaze. “Away. Away from here.”

Away from him.

“And if I wish you to stay? What then?”

She shook her head. “I can’t. It’s too much.”

There was something in the words, something soft and raw and sad, and he realized that she was leaving him because she wanted to stay. Because she thought he wouldn’t give her what she desired.

And perhaps he wouldn’t, in the long run.

Perhaps he’d never be the man she deserved.

But damned if he wasn’t going to try.

Damned if he didn’t want to spend his whole life trying to make her happy.

He came off the bed then, following her as she made for the adjoining door. “Sophie,” he said. “Wait.”

She shook her head, and he could have sworn there were tears there, in her eyes, as she turned away, making a run for the door. His plans changed. He wasn’t going to propose tomorrow. He was going to propose now. He couldn’t bear her sadness, even for a moment.

He loved her.

Good Lord.

He stopped short at the realization, so clear as he considered the possibility that he might have hurt her.
He loved her.
He never wanted her hurt again. He’d do anything to stop it. He’d do anything for her.

Forever.

And he wanted her to know it. Immediately.

“Sophie, wait,” he said, unable to keep the laughter from his tone as she tore the door open, desperate to be rid of him. He was going to catch her and take her back to bed and tell her how much he loved her. Again and again, until he’d professed it as much as she had.

Until she believed him as he believed her.

He was going to propose to her, and capture her pretty agreement with his lips and make love to her until the sun rose and painted her with gold.

She loved him.

Except she’d gone still, her gaze fixated on something in her bedchamber, horror on her face. King stopped as well, dread twisting in his gut as she shook her head. “No,” she whispered, her hand clutching the edge of the door. “No,” she said again, louder. “I changed my mind.”

Changed her mind
.

Jack Talbot stepped through the doorway, his gaze finding the bed and sliding back to where King stood. Naked.

The earl’s brow rose. “Eversley.”

King looked only at Sophie. “You changed your mind about what?”

“You’ve ruined her,” her father said.

Understanding flared, clear and angry, on a wave of pain he would not acknowledge. King spat his reply. “Except it seems she had quite a hand in the ruination.”

Pain flashed in her blue eyes, and he almost believed it. “King—I don’t want this.”

“You did, though, didn’t you? You wanted to trap me.”

Betrayed by the woman he loved.

She shook her head. “I didn’t. I swear.”

“You wanted to trap me,” he repeated, hating the way his throat tightened around the words. They way they reminded him of another woman. Another time. Another love that wasn’t love at all. “You wanted to be a duchess.”

“No,” she said. “I was leaving.” He could hear the distress in her voice. It sounded so honest. “I told you, I was leaving!”

“You were leaving to be caught,” he said. “So
I
could be caught.”

“No!” she cried.

“You lied to me.”

She wasn’t leaving.

She hadn’t planned one final night.

She didn’t love him.

It was the last that destroyed him. He met her gaze. “You lied to me.”

Her eyes went wide at the words, at the anger in them. “I didn’t,” she said, coming toward him, reaching for him.

He stepped back. If she touched him he did not know what he would do. He’d never felt so broken. Not even the night Lorna had died.

He’d never loved Lorna like he loved Sophie.

The realization stung worse than any blow.

“You wanted to marry me.”

She swallowed. “No,” she said.

He heard the lie and it wrecked him. He was unable to keep himself from thundering, “Stop lying to me!”

Her father stepped between them. “Shout at her again and you won’t be alive to marry her.”

“You arrange to trap
another
duke using your daughter as bait, and now you rush to protect her?” King did not have a chance to punctuate the question with a fist into his future father-in-law’s face, however, as Sophie was shouting herself, now.

“Fine! I did want to marry you!”

He shouldn’t have been shocked, but he was.

He shouldn’t have been devastated, but he was.

Even as he’d heard the lie, he’d hoped it was true.

I wished to say that I love you.

What an idiot he’d been. He’d never in his life wanted to believe something as much as he wanted to believe that she did love him. But he couldn’t. She’d betrayed him, Ariadne and the Minotaur in the labyrinth. And like the goddamn monster, he never saw it coming.

“I wanted to marry you. Yes. No woman in her right mind wouldn’t want to marry you. You’re . . .” She paused, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “You’re perfect.” She was destroying him with her simple words, with the way she spoke them, her voice rising just slightly, as though she couldn’t quite believe them herself. “You don’t have to marry me. Think of all the others—you never married them.”

He hadn’t ruined the others. He’d never touched them. He’d never known the feel of their soft skin or the way their hair fell across his bedsheets or the way their lips looked, red and lush, covered in strawberry tart and kisses.

He hadn’t loved the others.

He considered her for a long moment, hating her for her tears, for the way they clawed at him even as he dealt with her lies. Hating her for making him love again. For making him love her. For making him hate loving her.

“You might not be the prettiest or the most interesting, but you’re the most dangerous of all the daughters, aren’t you, Sophie?” he said, hating himself for the words as she went rail straight.

He imagined he’d be hating himself a great deal over the course of this marriage.

He wanted to punish her as she had punished him. To give her everything she’d ever wanted, and then snatch it all away.

King looked to his future father-in-law. “You’ll have your wedding,” he said, before turning away, stalking to his desk, extracting paper and pen. “Now get out.”

K
ing summoned her to the drive of Lyne Castle the next afternoon.

Sophie arrived coiffed and dressed in a deep, beautiful purple that Seleste had provided—her sister had sworn that the gown—tighter than Sophie might like—would be flattering enough to draw King’s attention. It was a stunning gown, all lush satin skirts and low necklines, with slippers to match.

They, too, were too tight, but Sophie was willing to do anything necessary for a chance to convince King that she hadn’t lied, so it seemed that being trussed into a new
frock and uncomfortable shoes was a small price to pay for it. Perhaps, if he found the dress attractive, he’d allow her to explain what had happened. Why she’d come to him in the night. Why she’d left.