The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel #1)(66)

Perhaps it was the darkness that kept the shame away. Because she should have been ashamed, shouldn’t she? Ladies did not behave in such a manner. But somehow, she did not feel ashamed, even as he lifted his mouth from her, lifted his touch from her. Restored her skirts and resumed his place on the seat beside her.

Somehow, it was easy to be without shame with him.

She yawned as he wrapped her in his arms and whispered, “Did you like them?”

The bits and pieces.

She curled into his heat, ignoring the little twinge in her shoulder—she hadn’t thought of her wound in hours—and told the truth. “Very, very much.”

They changed horses in the dead of night at the next posting inn, and King left Sophie sleeping as he left the carriage to fetch wine, food, and hot water for her tea.

He could not deny the guilt that coursed through him as he crossed the courtyard of the inn; he was keenly aware that he pushed them both, and that forcing her to travel so far and without quarter—her shoulder only just having begun to heal—was ungentlemanly at best and irresponsible at worst.

There were three ways to travel to Cumbria, and he was willing to bet her father’s men were taking the straightest path rather than this one, which was the fastest. At this point, he and Sophie were far enough from Sprotbrough that they could have stopped for the night. She could have slept a few hours on a proper bed. Had a proper bath.

But he did not wish to think of her in a bath. The vision was too clear and far too tempting.

And as for a proper bed, after how easily he’d taken advantage her in the furthest possible thing from a proper bed, he should not think of her against crisp sheets, hair spread across white pillows, skirts raised, bodice lowered, his hands on her skin.

Bollocks.

If they moved quickly, they could be at Lyne Castle by morning. Because, of course, he wasn’t leaving her in Mossband, baker and silly dreams or no. He was taking her to Lyne, where he would keep her safe until her father came to get her.

But not a moment longer.

He was not a monster, after all, but he was also not in the market for Sophie Talbot. He reminded himself of that as he returned with his spoils, heading for the carriage where she lay asleep, her bodice open and her skirts wrinkled, beckoning him for a repeat of the events immediately prior.

Of course, it would have been significantly more gentlemanly if he’d reminded himself of the fact before he’d nearly had her in his carriage.

But he was only human. Made of flesh, just like her.

What glorious flesh it was. If only he was in the market for it.

He set the food and water inside the door quietly, leaving it ajar to avoid waking her with its closing, and went to assist in hitching the new horses. No, he was in the market for facing his father and telling him the truth—that when King died, the dukedom died with him. That he’d never marry. Never carry on the name.

He had spent more than a decade imagining his father’s response—the way the promise would break him.

The duke had asked for it, had he not? He’d said the words himself—proclaiming a preference for the death of his line than King’s marriage for love. And that’s what the duke would get. The end of the dukedom.

He would die with it on his head, and finally, King would win.

Were you ever happy?

Sophie’s words echoed through him.

There was something charming in her naiveté, even as she knew that happiness was no guarantee. Her sister was in the most loveless marriage of them all, and still Sophie seemed to believe in the fairy tale—that love might, in fact, triumph.

That she held even a sliver of wistful memory for the baker boy she’d last seen a decade ago was proof that he should be rid of Lady Sophie Talbot, and quickly.

Then why didn’t he leave her?

He was saved from having to consider the question fully by an unwelcome greeting. “I must say, even without your curricle, you’ve made terrible time.”

King stiffened, quickly counting the days before turning to face the smug Duke of Warnick, sauntering across the courtyard, cheroot in his hand, gleam in his eye. King scowled. “You were supposed to be here three nights ago,” King said. “You should be at your drafty keep by now.”

“I found I liked it here,” the duke said.

“You found you liked a woman here, if I had to wager.”

The Scot grinned, spreading his hands wide. “She likes me, and who am I to disappoint the lassies? And you? What’s kept you?”

King did not answer, instead accepting the harness for a second horse from the new coachman and focusing on hitching the beast to the coach.

“Secret reasons?”

King tightened the cinch.

Warnick pressed on. “Did you find you liked a woman, as well?”

“No.” The word was out before King could stop himself.

“Well,” the duke drawled, “that sounds like a lie.”

King shot him a look. “You question my honor?”

“I do, rather, but I’m not in the market for a duel, so don’t be throwing your glove to the ground or whatever it is you English idiots do.”

There was nothing in the wide world worse than an arrogant Scot.

“This isn’t your coach,” Warnick said.

“You’re very perceptive.”

“Why are you in a coach that’s not your own?”