The Rogue Not Taken

She had not planned for this moment. Ever. She’d never planned to want someone so much, or to wish that her future entwined with his, or to wish to see his face every day, for the rest of time.

She’d planned to be happy, yes. To marry, to have a family, to live a quiet, peaceful life. But she’d never planned to want someone so much that his refusal actually pained her.

She’d never planned for a single, inaccessible path to be the only one she could imagine having.

She’d never planned to love.

Vaguely, it occurred to her that other people found love to be a pleasurable experience, filled with roses and doves and sweets and whatever else. Those people were obviously cabbageheads. Because she loved the Marquess of Eversley quite desperately, and there wasn’t anything remotely pleasurable about it.

She cleared her throat and straightened, pushing her skirts down her legs, trapping his hands beneath them for one excruciating moment as she tried to escape his touch. “I see.”

His fingers trailed along her ankle and she shot to her feet at the sensation, the touch breaking something inside her, making her at once wish to leap into the fountain to wash it from her and toss herself into his arms and beg him to continue. She did neither, thankfully, stepping away from him as though the events of the afternoon were perfectly ordinary. As though she weren’t rushing to protect herself from the pain he seemed to be able to exact without so much as a thought. “I see,” she said again, hating the repetition. Willing herself to remain silent.

She backed away from him. Why was he still kneeling on the ground? Why wasn’t he on his feet? Why was he still here?

Why hadn’t the statue of the Minotaur sprung to life and gobbled them both up?

He rose, spreading his hands wide and coming toward her. She put one hand up. Oh, dear. He on his feet was worse by far. “Sophie, let me explain.”

Dear God. The very last thing she wanted him to do was explain why he did not wish to make love to her. She backed away from him, eyeing the exit to the maze, beyond his shoulder.

And then he was close enough to block it from her view, forcing her to consider that shoulder in entirety. That broad, beautiful shoulder.

Enough, she admonished herself. Normal women do not care about gentlemen’s shoulders.

Normal women were in the wrong.

“Sophie, I won’t ruin you,” he said, approaching, giving her nowhere to go but backward.

“I see,” she said, fairly tripping over herself to get away from him. “I see.”

Good Lord. Could she say nothing else?

“I don’t think you do see,” he said. “You don’t see that you deserve more.” Her back came up against the hedge, prickly and uncomfortable and damn inconvenient. And still he drew closer. Close enough to raise his hand and tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear and make her quite desperate for him when he spoke, soft and lovely. “You don’t see that you deserve someone who will marry you.”

She closed her eyes at the words, as though if she couldn’t see him, he hadn’t said them. She’d known he wouldn’t marry her. She wasn’t a fool. But still, the words smarted.

He didn’t have to point it out. Did he?

“I see,” she said.

Apparently, that was all she would ever say again. Excellent. He’d turned her into an imbecile.

He swore roundly, making her wish that she’d been left with a fouler phrase than the one she seemed doomed to repeat for eternity. “Christ, Sophie. Stop saying that. You deserve someone who can love you.”

She had to leave this labyrinth. This estate. This man.

Now.

Before she said, “I see” one more time.

Or worse, before she couldn’t even say that anymore.

She nodded, crossing her arms, and pushed past him, heading for the path of the maze without a word. At another time, she might have been proud of her straight shoulders and purposeful walk. At this time, however, she couldn’t see past the tears to think about such trivial matters as posture.

He swore again, this time at her back.

She stopped, but did not turn back. She couldn’t. Not without risking telling him everything and making a wretched fool of herself. So she gathered the last shred of her pride and said, “I should like to return to Mossband.”

There was a long pause before he spoke. “When?”

“As soon as possible,” she said.

He nodded. “We shall purchase your bookshop tomorrow. I’ll connect you with my father’s solicitor. You’ll have all the money you require to live happily here.”

She didn’t care about the bookshop. She didn’t care about Mossband. Indeed, Mossband was absolutely not her future. She couldn’t be so near to this place and its memories. She couldn’t be so near to him. She took a deep breath. “I don’t think I can wait until tomorrow.”

“Sophie,” he said softly, closer than she would like, and she hated the sound of her name on his lips. “Look at me.”

She turned to face him, unable to deny him. He was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, his dark hair and his green eyes and his lips, firm and magnificent. He was far too beautiful for her. Far too perfect.

She swallowed around the thought. “I must leave. Now,” she said. “Today.”

He watched her for a long moment, and she thought he might kiss her again. She wanted him to kiss her again. She loathed the idea of him kissing her again.

Instead, he reached out, offering her his hand, warm and bronzed from the sun.

She stared at that hand for a long moment, unable to keep the tears from brimming over, hating them and then somehow loving them when he lifted that strong, perfect hand to brush them away. She let him touch her, adoring the feel of him, memorizing it until she couldn’t bear it and she moved to push him away.