The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel #1)(111)

“Look at me, Sophie. I want to see it.”

She did, crying out as the crest came again, and she threw herself into the pleasure, the sound of her name on his lips, as he tumbled into it with her.

It was magnificent.

He rolled away from her, clutching her to him, careful of her bandage, his fingers trailing over her good shoulder. “Sophie . . .” he said, letting her name trail off, curl around them in this warm, dark room.

He was magnificent.

She sighed, curling closer to him, and he kissed the top of her head, the soft caress tempting her nearly as much as the rest of the interlude had.

They were magnificent together.

But they would never be together.

And with that insidious thought, she was returned to reality, to the arms of the man she loved, who would never love her. Who had another plan for his life. A plan that did not include love.

Perhaps she could have lived without love before tonight. Before her confession. Before knowing that she’d never be able to be with him without quite desperately wanting him to love her in return.

But she couldn’t. And so she would leave. Tonight. Escape in the dark, and hang her family and their wild plan to trap the Marquess of Eversley into marriage. She didn’t want him trapped.

The only way she wanted to marry the Marquess of Eversley was in a love match. And that would never happen. So she would find her way away from here and spend her life with the memory of tonight.

With the memory of his pleasure when she told him the truth.

When she confessed her love.

The memory would be enough.

What a lie that was.

She slid out of his arms, to the edge of the bed.

It would be enough, she told herself, ignoring the truth.

It had to be.

Chapter 20

KING CONQUERED!

He was going to marry her.

Indeed, he likely should have told her so before he made love to her, here in his bed. Before he ruined her, quite thoroughly. But there was something tremendous about making love to her, knowing that she was willing to give everything to him, without the promise of a title.

Knowing she didn’t care about the promise of a title.

Knowing she wanted him for him, and not his name, and not his fortune.

Knowing she loved him.

She loved him.

The moment she’d said it, he’d known their fate. He’d known that he would take her here, in this bed, against the cool linen sheets where he’d fought to find sleep and instead found visions of her. He’d known he’d take her virginity, and with it, her future.

He’d known they would marry.

She loved him.

He wanted her to say it again, as though she hadn’t said it a dozen times already. He didn’t think he’d ever tire of hearing her say the words. Of knowing the truth of them. Sophie Talbot loved him.

Her love made him want her thoroughly, without hesitation.

Even if he could never find a way to love her in return. He knew it was selfish and arrogant and the worst kind of greed, but he’d tasted the honesty in her words, and seen it in her eyes, and felt it in her touch.

And he wanted it for himself.

Forever.

So he’d taken her without hesitation. Without telling her the truth—that if she let him take her, they would marry. He’d been afraid she’d stop him if she’d known, afraid she would demand his love in return for her hand in marriage.

And so he’d resorted to the worst kind of trick.

She’d have to marry him now, as she was well and truly ruined. And, despite the fact that her ruination had been part of their ever-evolving agreement, there was no way on earth he was allowing her to leave him.

Ever.

It occurred to him, as they lay quietly in his bed, drenched in candlelight and shadows, her skin soft against his touch, her breath slowing, pleasure threading through them both, her profession of love still lingering in the heavy air, that he should tell her what was to come next.

He should propose.

She deserved a proposal.

He could manage a proposal—a summer fair in the Mossband town square, a masquerade ball, jewels, and public declarations of his intention.

Except Sophie wouldn’t want anything so extravagant.

She sighed in his arms, cuddling closer to him, and he kissed the top of her head.

He’d take her to the center of the labyrinth again. With a plateful of Agnes’s strawberry tarts and a soft wool blanket. He’d go to Mossband and fetch a basketful of sugar buns from Robbie the baker. King smiled in the darkness. His lady had a sweet tooth. He’d feed it for the rest of his life, with pleasure.

Just as soon as he took her to the labyrinth and told her the truth—that even as his past made it impossible for him to promise her love, he wished to promise her the rest. That he would do his best to make her happy.

As meager an offer it was, she loved him, and she would say yes. She would say yes, and they would eat sweets, and then he would lower her to the blanket and strip her bare and lick the sugar from her lips with only the sky and the sun as witness.

It wasn’t a fair in the Mossband town square, but it had the benefit of being quick. He’d take her over the border and marry her in Scotland. They could be wed by this time tomorrow.

And she’d be his. Forever.

She stiffened in his arms, pulling away from him, moving to the edge of the bed. Where was she going? It was the man who was destined to skulk off in the dead of night, was it not? He had plans for her. They involved more kissing. More touching. More of her telling him she loved him.