The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel #1)(113)

She wasn’t leaving.

She hadn’t planned one final night.

She didn’t love him.

It was the last that destroyed him. He met her gaze. “You lied to me.”

Her eyes went wide at the words, at the anger in them. “I didn’t,” she said, coming toward him, reaching for him.

He stepped back. If she touched him he did not know what he would do. He’d never felt so broken. Not even the night Lorna had died.

He’d never loved Lorna like he loved Sophie.

The realization stung worse than any blow.

“You wanted to marry me.”

She swallowed. “No,” she said.

He heard the lie and it wrecked him. He was unable to keep himself from thundering, “Stop lying to me!”

Her father stepped between them. “Shout at her again and you won’t be alive to marry her.”

“You arrange to trap another duke using your daughter as bait, and now you rush to protect her?” King did not have a chance to punctuate the question with a fist into his future father-in-law’s face, however, as Sophie was shouting herself, now.

“Fine! I did want to marry you!”

He shouldn’t have been shocked, but he was.

He shouldn’t have been devastated, but he was.

Even as he’d heard the lie, he’d hoped it was true.

I wished to say that I love you.

What an idiot he’d been. He’d never in his life wanted to believe something as much as he wanted to believe that she did love him. But he couldn’t. She’d betrayed him, Ariadne and the Minotaur in the labyrinth. And like the goddamn monster, he never saw it coming.

“I wanted to marry you. Yes. No woman in her right mind wouldn’t want to marry you. You’re . . .” She paused, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “You’re perfect.” She was destroying him with her simple words, with the way she spoke them, her voice rising just slightly, as though she couldn’t quite believe them herself. “You don’t have to marry me. Think of all the others—you never married them.”

He hadn’t ruined the others. He’d never touched them. He’d never known the feel of their soft skin or the way their hair fell across his bedsheets or the way their lips looked, red and lush, covered in strawberry tart and kisses.

He hadn’t loved the others.

He considered her for a long moment, hating her for her tears, for the way they clawed at him even as he dealt with her lies. Hating her for making him love again. For making him love her. For making him hate loving her.

“You might not be the prettiest or the most interesting, but you’re the most dangerous of all the daughters, aren’t you, Sophie?” he said, hating himself for the words as she went rail straight.

He imagined he’d be hating himself a great deal over the course of this marriage.

He wanted to punish her as she had punished him. To give her everything she’d ever wanted, and then snatch it all away.

King looked to his future father-in-law. “You’ll have your wedding,” he said, before turning away, stalking to his desk, extracting paper and pen. “Now get out.”

King summoned her to the drive of Lyne Castle the next afternoon.

Sophie arrived coiffed and dressed in a deep, beautiful purple that Seleste had provided—her sister had sworn that the gown—tighter than Sophie might like—would be flattering enough to draw King’s attention. It was a stunning gown, all lush satin skirts and low necklines, with slippers to match.

They, too, were too tight, but Sophie was willing to do anything necessary for a chance to convince King that she hadn’t lied, so it seemed that being trussed into a new frock and uncomfortable shoes was a small price to pay for it. Perhaps, if he found the dress attractive, he’d allow her to explain what had happened. Why she’d come to him in the night. Why she’d left.

Perhaps he’d let her go.

Let her walk away, and free him of her. Give him a chance to find another woman. One whom he believed.

He waited for her on the riding block of his curricle, two perfectly matched handsome black horses stomping in the dirt. She looked up at him, jaw set, hat low over his brow, reins in hand. “Your curricle is returned.”

“Not the wheels,” he replied without looking at her.

Guilt flared. “I am sorry.”

“I find your apologies rather vacant, Lady Sophie,” he said casually, setting the reins for driving. “Come on then, we haven’t much daylight.”

It was three in the afternoon. “Where are we going?”

He turned to her then, his gaze cool and unmoved and . . . un-King-like. “In, my lady.”

This man, this tone, none of it was familiar. Sadness consumed her, along with no small amount of frustration, She looked for a block to climb up. There wasn’t one. He did not reach over to help her in.

She met his gaze, and he raised a brow in challenge.

She wouldn’t back down. Not now. Instead, she lifted her skirts high—higher than any proper lady should—revealing her legs and knees, and taking hold of the massive curricle wheel, hauling herself up next to him.

He said nothing about her movement, instead flicking the reins expertly and setting them on course. After long minutes of silence, Sophie decided that this was a perfectly reasonable time to explain herself. “I’m sorry.”