The Rogue Not Taken

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.

Perhaps he’d let her go.

Let her walk away, and free him of her. Give him a chance to find another woman. One whom he believed.

He waited for her on the riding block of his curricle, two perfectly matched handsome black horses stomping in the dirt. She looked up at him, jaw set, hat low over his brow, reins in hand. “Your curricle is returned.”

“Not the wheels,” he replied without looking at her.

Guilt flared. “I am sorry.”

“I find your apologies rather vacant, Lady Sophie,” he said casually, setting the reins for driving. “Come on then, we haven’t much daylight.”

It was three in the afternoon. “Where are we going?”

He turned to her then, his gaze cool and unmoved and . . . un-King-like. “In, my lady.”

This man, this tone, none of it was familiar. Sadness consumed her, along with no small amount of frustration, She looked for a block to climb up. There wasn’t one. He did not reach over to help her in.

She met his gaze, and he raised a brow in challenge.

She wouldn’t back down. Not now. Instead, she lifted her skirts high—higher than any proper lady should—revealing her legs and knees, and taking hold of the massive curricle wheel, hauling herself up next to him.

He said nothing about her movement, instead flicking the reins expertly and setting them on course. After long minutes of silence, Sophie decided that this was a perfectly reasonable time to explain herself. “I’m sorry.”

He did not reply.

“I never intended for this to happen. I didn’t care that you were a marquess. Or that you were to be a duke.” She paused, but he gave no indication that he had even heard her. “I realize you don’t believe me, but everything I told you was the truth. I never wanted to return to London. I never wanted to marry an aristocrat.”

And then I fell in love with you.

She wanted to say that to him. But she couldn’t bear his disbelief.

She couldn’t blame him for not believing her, either.

“I ruined my family,” she said. “Seraphina has been exiled from Haven’s house, with child. None of my other sisters has a suitor worth his salt. My father’s lost the titled investors for his mines. Because I acted rashly. Yes. For a moment, I considered trapping you into marriage. But only because I wanted you so desperately. It never had to do with the title. Never with my family. Never for any reason but that I wanted you.” She paused, and whispered the last. “Forever.”

“Don’t ever say that word to me again.” The reply was cold and angry. “We do not have a forever. Neither of us deserves it.”

The words stung, but she refused to cry. Instead, she watched the road, rising and falling before them. “When I knocked on the door last night—”

I only wished to tell you I love you.

She didn’t say it. “—I’d already changed my mind. I don’t wish to marry you,” she said, instead, not knowing if the words were true or false. “I don’t wish for you to be saddled with me.”

“I shan’t be,” he said, the words cold and distant. “You needn’t worry.”

She did not care for the certainty in his words. “Where are we going?”

He did not reply, instead turning off the road and onto a smaller road, and then a drive that wound up to a great stone castle that rose up out of the landscape like something out of the Knights of the Round Table.

Outside the keep was a coach and six, hitched and ready, as though someone had just arrived. King pulled the curricle to a stop behind the coach and leapt down to bang on the door to the keep. Seconds later, the door opened to reveal the Duke of Warnick and a young woman draped in a green and black plaid.

Warnick stepped out of the keep with a smile, clapping King on the back heartily before turning to her. “Lady Sophie,” he said, coming forward to help her down, “Your husband-to-be is already neglecting you, I see.”

Sophie blinked. “Husband-to-be?”

Warnick tilted his head to one side, watching her with curiosity before turning back to King. “You haven’t asked her? A little late for that, no?”

King did not look at her. “She knows we’re to be married. She’s simply playing coy.”

Sophie forced a smile at the words. “Of course,” she said, attempting to hide her confusion. “I simply did not know that you knew, Your Grace.”

He laughed. “We have lax rules in Scotland, my lady, but the ones governing witnesses to weddings are fairly firm. I know, as your officiant.”

Sophie blinked. “Our officiant.”

“Yes! Don’t worry, I’ve been to several weddings. I shall take today seriously.”

“Today,” she said.

“Yes.”

“We’re to be married, today.”

“Aye,” the massive Scot said with a smile. “Else why would King have ferreted you away to Scotland?”