The Rogue Not Taken

“He has a knack for finding coal,” the duke said sharply, drawing Sophie’s attention. He spoke of her father still.

“I’m not certain it is a knack,” she said. “He simply works harder than most men I have known.”

Not that hard work was a worthy endeavor for aristocrats—something she’d witnessed again and again as a child. A memory flashed, of her father at a ball several years earlier, a group of aristocratic ladies tittering at his “crass hands,” weathered and calloused. “He should wear gloves when in London,” one woman had protested. “He shouldn’t be anywhere near London, with or without gloves,” someone had replied, and the whole group had laughed.

Sophie had hated them for the words. For their insult. For the way they valued appearance over work. For the way they valued snobbery over honor.

“He has a knack for coal,” the duke repeated. “And a knack for climbing.” He paused. “As do his daughters, apparently.” Sophie looked to King, finding his gaze on her as the duke added, “You could have sent word that you were not coming alone.”

King drank deep from his wineglass. “You could have sent word that you weren’t dying.”

The duke turned a cool gaze on him. “And disappoint you?”

Sophie looked from one man to the other, noting the resemblance in the stubborn set of their jaws as King gave a little huff of laughter. “I should have known, of course. Disappointment has ever been part and parcel of being heir to your throne.”

Sophie’s gaze widened at the stinging words.

The duke remained unmoved. “I imagined that if you were told I was near the end, you would return. We’ve things to discuss. It’s time for that, at least.”

King toasted his father. “Well, I have returned. Prodigal son.” He looked to Sophie. “And daughter.”

A gasp sounded in the darkness behind Sophie, and she looked back to find the housekeeper watching the meal wide-eyed.

The duke sat back in his chair. “So you are married.”

“Betrothed,” Sophie corrected immediately. There was no way she would allow these two men to send her farther down this garden path.

King turned a winning smile on Sophie. “For now.”

The duke drank, savoring the wine for a long moment. “So this is your plan, is it? To return home with a Soiled S in tow?”

Sophie set down her soup spoon. She should not have been surprised by the words, by the moniker, and still she was. This duke seemed not to stand on the same ceremony as the rest of the aristocracy. And despite her loathing the man’s words, and the man himself, she had to admit that there was something rather refreshing about them spoken aloud, in public, without shame.

Or, rather, with shame, but lacking in the secret pleasure that so often accompanied the name.

King stiffened on the other side of the table, no doubt surprised and irritated that his idiot plan was discovered within minutes of his return. Sophie would be lying if she were to say she did not find a modicum of pleasure in his failure, for certainly someone with as much arrogance as the Marquess of Eversley deserved to be taken down a notch now and then. If they were discovered, she’d no longer be beholden to their agreement, and she could go on her way. She’d happily bear the weight of her sisters and their reputation if it meant being able to witness the demise of King’s plan.

He slammed one hand onto the table, the force of it sending the plates rattling. Her attention flew to him, unprepared for him to redouble his efforts to present her as a woman for whom he cared. “Call her that again and I will not be responsible for what I do.” She certainly had not been prepared for that. “I won’t let you do it again,” he said. “I won’t let you drive another away.”

Another.

Sophie inhaled sharply.

“And we get to the heart of it,” the duke said, waving a footman forward for more wine. “Your precious love.” He turned to her. “Not you, of course.”

She did not look away from King who, despite his silence, revealed more than he should have. She wondered at the way he’d spoken of love a few evenings earlier: It is not the stuff of poems and fairy tales.

And while she’d kept from asking if the duke had hurt the girl he’d once loved, he’d answered her nonetheless. As though he’d held a pistol to her head.

Good Lord.

Oblivious to her thoughts, the duke continued, goading his son. “And this one?” he prompted, waving a hand in Sophie’s direction, “Do you love her as well?”

This was a mistake.

She stiffened with silent realization. She didn’t want this. Any of it. She didn’t want him to fabricate a love, didn’t want to playact it. She looked to King, recognizing the silent fury on his face, knowing that he cared not a bit for her. Knowing that this entire journey, all the little moments of laughter and caring and strange, undeniable interest, paled in comparison to his interest in another, long gone.

Knowing that his desire for Sophie paled in comparison to his desire for vengeance.

She willed him to tell the truth.

To release them both from the lies that bound them.

To let her free.

Perhaps if he let her go, she might still find happiness.

But she knew he would not and, somehow, she couldn’t entirely blame him. This place must be filled with memories of that horrible past. She hated him for what he’d done to her, for forcing her to be a part of this mad play, but at the same time . . . she understood him.

Sophie knew better than most what desperation drove one to do.