The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel #1)(119)

Agnes finished the sentence. “. . . so like him. The two of you, so proud, so obstinate, so unwilling to listen.”

King watched his father, finally seeing the cracks in the great Duke of Lyne. Recognizing them, the way they broke the cool, unmoved façade, and made a man.

The duke looked to him. “You brought Lady Sophie to anger me. So I gave you what you wished. Because it is easier to be the man you wish me to be than the man I wish to attempt to be.” He looked to Agnes. “But I don’t think she’s after your title.”

Agnes smiled. “I’d wager all I have on her being after something much more valuable.”

I only wished to love you.

And he’d packed her in a carriage and sent her away.

He looked to his father. “I married her.”

His father nodded. “I spoke to the father today. He told me the girl had lost him quite a bit of investment. Something about Haven and a lake?”

“It was a fishpond.”

“Either way. He said he forced the marriage.”

Except he hadn’t. Not really. Sophie had said it herself; King could have refused. They were scandalous enough—she was scandalous enough—for no one to have questioned his decision.

But he’d wanted to marry her.

Even as he’d wanted to punish her, he’d wanted her for himself.

Forever.

“She didn’t want it.”

“Smart girl,” Agnes said, looking to his father.

She was smart. He didn’t deserve her. And she deserved infinitely better. “I forced it.”

“Smart boy,” his father said, meeting her gaze. “Perhaps I should post banns without your approval. Then you’d have to marry me.”

King set his glass down. “Scotland is faster.”

The duke raised a brow. “Gretna Green?”

“Warnick’s drive.” He closed his eyes. “We didn’t even say vows.”

It wasn’t true. She’d said them. She’d looked him straight in the eye, proud and strong and braver than he by half. And she’d said, loud enough for all to hear, “I do.”

And he’d never been so angry in all his life. What an ass he’d been.

His father grew serious. “Have you made a mess of it?”

She was alone in a carriage on her wedding night. When she should be with him. “I have.”

“Does she love you?”

“Yes.” He’d closed the door on the words, too busy pretending he could live a life without her now that he’d lived it with her. Pretending he could live a day without her. He looked to his father, and said the only thing that mattered. “I love her.”

The Duke of Lyne nodded to the door. “Then you’d best go repair what you’ve broken.”

King was already moving.

He tore through the empty night roads, stopping at inn after inn, finding no sign of Sophie. With each successive stop, he grew more frustrated, hope dwindling as he considered the mistakes he had made, desperate to find her and put them right.

How does it end?

I hope it ends happily.

It would. He’d make it end so. He’d find her. He’d sent her away, crying, and he would not stop until he found her, and made certain she never cried again. He’d ride straight to London without stopping if he had to. He’d meet her in Mayfair.

He’d do anything he could to make sure she never cried again.

He leaned into his steed and allowed himself, for the first time since he realized he loved her, to imagine what it would be to have her. Fully.

Forever.

He imagined her in his arms and in his bed and in his home, filling it with books and banter and babies. With babies. The line would not end with him any longer. He’d give her children—sweet-faced little girls with a penchant for adventure, just like their mother, who was the most adventurous woman he’d ever known.

From the moment he’d climbed down the Liverpool trellis, Sophie Talbot had led him on an adventure.

Sophie Talbot no longer.

Sophie, Marchioness of Eversley.

His wife.

His love.

Goddammit, would he never catch up to her?

The thought had barely formed when he came upon a sharp turn in the road and saw a coach several hundred yards ahead, exterior lanterns swinging in the dark. It was large enough to be the one he sought, and as he drew closer, he heard the thundering of hoofbeats, loud enough to be from six matched horses.

It was she.

He nudged his mount on, eager to reach her. To win her back.

To love her.

He’d get her a cat. Black. With white paws and a white nose. Perhaps then she’d forgive him.

Two hundred yards halved, and halved again, and again, and he could see that it was the right carriage as it approached the next turn in the road. Sophie’s carriage, emblazoned with the crest of Warnick’s clan on the back.

He couldn’t stop himself from calling out her name as the coach turned, “Sophie!” he called, pushing his horse harder, faster. He’d be alongside it in no time, and then he’d have her again.

If she’d have him.

The thought stung.

She would have him. He’d do whatever it took to win her back. He’d resort to any actions—he’d stop this carriage and hie her away on his horse, like a highwayman of yore. He’d take her somewhere beautiful and secluded, and right all his wrongs. He’d prove to her how well he could love her—better than anyone ever could.