The Rogue Not Taken

He exhaled, as though he’d been holding his breath for an age, and reached for her surprising them both, his fingertips brushing along her jaw, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

She swallowed at the feel of him, the heat of his touch.

“I should never have brought you here,” he said softly, and she hated the way the words felt until he added, “you’re too good for this place. The men it makes.”

She caught her breath at the words. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“You don’t know who I am,” he said.

“Show me,” she offered, wanting desperately for him to agree, to tell her about this place. About the men it made.

He didn’t, his gaze falling to her mouth instead, his thumb stroking along her jaw. “You’ve cream on your lip.”

From the tarts. She lifted her hand, but he predicted her move, capturing her wrist before she could brush away the remains of the tart. “No,” he whispered, close, the scent of him overwhelming her, soap and spice. “Let me.”

She stilled, not quite understanding, but wanting it, whatever he offered. And then he was there, his lips on hers, his tongue licking out to taste the errant cream.

She’d never in her life experienced anything so scandalous.

Anything so . . .

“Mmm,” he murmured, the sound low and soft as he lifted his head. “Exquisite.”

He hadn’t been talking about the tart earlier.

She couldn’t stop herself from lifting her hand to his neck, holding him the way he held her, her fingers tangling in his dark hair. “Show me,” she repeated, only this time, she didn’t want him to talk. She wanted him to take.

Or perhaps it was she who did the taking, turning her face up to his, and capturing his lips with hers.

Chapter 16

LYNE LIBRARY LASCIVIOUSNESS!

She kissed him.

He might have been able to stop himself from anything more than the single kiss, just enough to remind him of her taste without causing more scandal, if she hadn’t kissed him, lifting her face, drawing his head down, tempting him with her little, quiet whisper.

But he was a man, after all.

And no man on earth could resist this woman.

And so he’d kissed her back, deepening the caress, his arms coming around her, lifting her high against him, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned into the caress.

The first time he’d kissed her, it had been with one ear on the damn taproom at the Warbling Wren. The second time, he hadn’t been able to see her.

He’d be damned if he was going to miss a moment of the third time.

She was soft and sweet and she gasped against him, eyes wide, when he lifted her in his arms without breaking the kiss and returned to the large leather chair where he’d been sitting earlier, watching her high above, trying not to catch a glimpse up her too-short skirts. Trying desperately to catch a glimpse. Trying not to notice her too much, unable to resist noticing her as he told her she was beautiful and she— Christ. She didn’t believe him.

Suddenly, it was critical she believe him. He sat, gathering her in his lap, and broke the kiss. Sophie sighed her disappointment, and King stole another kiss. She matched him perfectly, following his lead, opening for him, sliding and stroking and proving that she wanted this as much as he did.

He wanted this with everything he had.

But there was something else. Something more important than what he wanted. He tore his lips from hers. “Sophie . . .”

She opened her eyes, their blue deeper and darker than it had been earlier in the evening. Changed by his touch. His kiss. Him.

She made him feel more powerful than he’d ever felt, no longer a title, a fortune, an heir. She made him feel more. He wasn’t gong to make love to her. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t ruin her. She deserved a better man. A man who could love. A man who would marry her.

For once in his life, King would do the right thing.

For this woman who had done so many right things herself.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, knowing the words revealed too much. That they were too reverent. He sounded like a schoolboy. He felt like one. She made him feel that way.

What was she doing to him?

She stiffened in his arms, pulling away from him, and he captured her, blocking her escape. “Where are you going, love? We’re not done here.”

She shook her head and pushed him away. “Stop.”

He released her, and she stood. He captured her hand, and she let him, despite keeping her head down, averting her gaze. “Sophie—” he started, wanting to say the right thing.

“I’m not one of the other women you’ve had. I’m not like them,” she said.

“The other women?” He didn’t like those words. Not at all.

She stared down at their hands, fingers entwined. “You needn’t lie to me.”

Except it hadn’t been a lie. He didn’t want to lie to her. He wanted her to hear the truth. “It’s not—”

She sighed. “Stop. King. You think I do not hear the things they say about me? That the beauty ran out by the time I was born? That my sisters are the pretty ones? The pleasant ones? The talented ones?” She looked to him. “I’m not beautiful. You know it. You’ve said it before.”

What an ass he’d been then. What a blind, horrid ass.

She continued. “You’re kind to say so now, and I suppose I understand the impulse, but lying about it won’t make me enjoy”—she waved one hand between them—“this more. In fact, it will make me enjoy it less.” She released his hand. “It makes me enjoy it less.”