The Rogue Not Taken

His shifted his attention to the place where her breasts rose over the line of her dress, lifting to trace the long column of her neck, the curve of her jaw, the pink swell of her lips.

He’d been a fool.

And apparently more than once. They’d danced at a ball before that, one he could not remember. But it was difficult to imagine that he wouldn’t remember her. That he wouldn’t remember the feel of her, lush and tempting in his arms. That he wouldn’t remember the scent of her, soap and summer sunshine. That he wouldn’t remember her, all clever remarks and cutting retorts and a brave, bold way of facing the world.

Christ. He’d remember her after this.

Even after she’d long put him out of her mind and built a new life, all her own. Even after he gave her all the happiness she desired.

He’d never forget her.

I am sorry.

He wanted quite desperately to say the words to her. To begin again. To embrace this wild journey as not a man and a stowaway, a lady and her aide. But as King and Sophie, and whoever . . . whatever . . . they might be.

It was impossible, of course.

She hated everything he was, and he would never be good enough for her.

There was nothing common about her.

He should tell her that, here. Now. Before they turned down the drive to Lyne Castle and he lost the chance.

But she was so livid with him, he had no doubt she wouldn’t believe him. And perhaps that was best. Perhaps it was best that he so infuriated her. That she look forward to leaving him. That she desire to put him behind her.

The carriage turned off the main thoroughfare, and he looked up, keenly aware that they drew ever closer to Lyne Castle, where his past and future held sway.

Where his father might already be dead.

He returned his attention to Sophie, suddenly a port in a very turbulent storm. “We are nearly there.”

She smoothed her skirts. “I shall require a bath and a change of clothes before I meet your father. While I appreciate that this dress might well-suit your desire to infuriate him, I will not meet him in an ill-fitting frock looking like I’ve been driving for hours on end. Even a Talbot daughter knows how to behave around aging dukes.”

He nodded. “I hope you will sleep as well. You are past due for your herbs.” If he wasn’t so thoroughly transfixed by her, he might not have noticed the way her breath caught. He did, however, and would have offered a small fortune to know what she was thinking. Instead, she turned back to the window as though he wasn’t there.

The carriage turned once, twice, and Lyne Castle rose from the horizon, setting his heart beating faster and harder as the great grey stones loomed and the coach pulled to a stop in front of the home he’d known for his entire childhood.

Something edged through him. Something like sadness.

Tearing his gaze away, he looked to Sophie, wanting to say something. Wanting to tell her that he was sorry.

Instead, he opened the door, stepping out to face the great behemoth, memories of his time here assaulting him: the scent of the green hills of Cumbria, rolling to the River Esk on one side and to the Scottish border on the other; the remains of Hadrian’s Wall that made his mountain as a child; the warm food and kind words of Agnes, the castle’s housekeeper, the closest thing it had to a mistress and the closest thing he had to a mother; his father, stern and cautious, with a single goal—to raise a future duke.

And Lorna. Golden-haired and pale skinned, filled with promise. The promise of love. Of a future. Of a life beyond name and propriety.

Of happiness.

They’d been so young. Too young for him to realize that none of those things were for him.

He pushed the memories away, turning to help Sophie down, his hands at her waist. When she was on solid ground, she looked up at the stone walls of the castle and then to him, a question in her eyes. “Are you well?”

Even now, the echo of her frustration around them, she found room for concern. He released a breath he had not known he held, considering her big blue eyes, the color on her cheeks, the way she thought of him. For a moment, he wondered what would happen if he leaned down and took those full pink lips for the kiss he’d wanted to give her since day had broken. He’d linger there, at the soft skin, reminding himself of her taste. Replacing the memories of his youth here with something else.

But he knew better than to kiss her here, in this place where memories seemed to etch themselves into the ancient stones.

Instead, he released her. “As well as can be expected.”

A shout punctuated the words and King turned to see a great grey horse in the distance, followed by a pack of dogs. He squinted at the rider, tall and grey-haired, ruddy-cheeked and filled with vitality.

It couldn’t be.

“Shit,” he whispered.

“Who is that?” Sophie asked, and her soft words at his shoulder might have pleased him at another time, the way they curled around him, making him a partner in her curiosity.

He was too livid to find pleasure in anything, however. “That is the Duke of Lyne.”

“Your father?”

“The very one.”

“He doesn’t look to be at death’s door to me,” she said, and he was almost certain he heard pleasure in the observation.

“The duke requests your company at the evening meal.”

Sophie stood at the far corner of the room to which she had been assigned, considering the extravagant view. She’d bathed and slept much of the day in the massive, deliciously comfortable bed, and she’d woken to a collection of no doubt borrowed gowns, several of which actually fit.

A maid helped her dress before leaving her alone to wait there, in the window, considering the labyrinth in the foreground and the rolling green hills of a North Country summer beyond, wondering what was to come next before King rapped on the door and entered without summons. She turned to face him, still full of the anger she’d felt earlier in the day, when he’d made it clear that she was nothing but scandal to him.