The Rogue Not Taken

Setting her basket at her feet, she smoothed her skirts, asking, “How do I look?”

“As though you’ve been riding in that carriage for twenty-four hours.”

She scowled up at him before collecting the basket and standing straight. “I shouldn’t have asked you.”

He stepped forward and raised a hand to her face, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear, the touch sending a thrill through her. A thrill she tried to ignore, even when his thumb stroked over her cheek, wiping away some invisible mark. The tips of his fingers lingered at her jaw, tilting her face up to his, and she felt her cheeks warm under his unwavering gaze.

They stood that way for a long moment, long enough for her to wonder if he might kiss her again. Long enough for her to wish he would kiss her again. There, next to the Mossband town greensward in full view of anyone who cared to look.

“Do not forget to keep your wound clean.”

If she’d wagered a thousand pounds, she would not have guessed that he’d say that. Her breath caught in her chest at the strange, caring instruction. “I shan’t.” She lifted the basket as unnecessary proof. He nodded and stepped away, and she felt the loss of his touch keenly. Disliked it. Grasped for something else to say, unready to be rid of him.

“I never intended to trap you into marriage, you know.” It was an odd thing to say, but true, and that was what mattered, she supposed.

“I know that now,” he said, a little smile on his handsome face. There was a dimple there, in the dark stubble of his unshaved beard. She itched to touch it.

Instead, she said, “Thank you. For everything.”

“You’re welcome, Sophie.”

And that was that. She nodded once. “Good-bye, then,” she said, disliking the words.

“Good luck,” he replied. She disliked those words more.

With a deep breath, she crossed the street to the bakery, telling herself that the discomfort in her stomach was nothing more than nerves. Nothing at all to do with turning her back on Kingscote, Marquess of Eversley. The man with whom she’d spent the better part of the last week.

After all, they didn’t even like each other.

She pushed the door to the bakery open, a little bell above the door tinkling happily, announcing the heat of the ovens, and the smell of cinnamon and honey making her mouth water. The counters were empty of food, as it was too early for passersby, and it took her a moment in the dim light.

“I’m sorry, miss, we haven’t anything for sale just yet—” Robbie began, coming to his full height at the great mouth of the brick oven that sat at the center of the room. He met her eyes, his already warm and kind and gentle—exactly as she remembered. “Sophie?”

He remembered her.

Her chest constricted with an emotion she could not immediately identify. She smiled. “Robbie.” The name felt strange on her tongue. Unfamiliar. Incorrect.

He came out from around the counter, tall and broad in his shirtsleeves, his still-blond hair tied back in a queue, his brown eyes filled with laughter. “We didn’t know what became of you! I mean, we read the papers, but you never returned!”

He reached for her then, and she stepped back, surprised by his forwardness. He stilled, sensing the awkwardness. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I forget that you’re a lady now.”

The words placed distance between them. Immediately setting her apart. She shook her head. “No,” she said. “It’s only—you surprised me.”

“I’m the one who is surprised, I assure you.” He looked around the shop, searching for something and not finding it. “I don’t have a coat.”

He was embarrassed of his shirtsleeves, and she hated herself for making him feel that way. She lifted a hand. “No, don’t worry about that.”

He looked away, and silence fell between them. “It’s the crack of dawn,” he said.

“I just arrived.”

“From London?”

She nodded.

“Are your sisters here, as well?”

“No. I came alone.”

His brow furrowed. “Why?”

She thought for a long moment, and then settled on, “I wanted to come home.” She paused, and when he did not speak, she said, “To a place I knew. To people I cared for.”

I wanted to be happy.

He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

She searched for more, settling on “I hate London.”

He nodded as though the words made sense, but she had the distinct impression that they did not. “All right.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, his suspenders pulling tight, and he rocked up on his toes, then back, peering about the room before his attention finally settled on the basket on one table. “Buns are still cooling, but are you hungry? Would you like a biscuit? They’re from yesterday, but still good.”

And that’s when she knew.

This ends poorly.

King had said those very words to her, before they’d made their foolish wager. And she’d known they were true, even as she’d denied it. This did end poorly. And not because Robbie Lander was not to be her husband.

It ended poorly because ten years had made this place different.

Or perhaps it had made her different.

But, either way, Mossband was not her home.

The universe underscored her thoughts with the ringing of the bell above the door. “Papa!”

A little girl pushed past her, and Robbie bent down to catch her in his large arms, lifting her high. “Good morning, moppet. Give me a kiss.”