The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel #1)(70)

After all, they didn’t even like each other.

She pushed the door to the bakery open, a little bell above the door tinkling happily, announcing the heat of the ovens, and the smell of cinnamon and honey making her mouth water. The counters were empty of food, as it was too early for passersby, and it took her a moment in the dim light.

“I’m sorry, miss, we haven’t anything for sale just yet—” Robbie began, coming to his full height at the great mouth of the brick oven that sat at the center of the room. He met her eyes, his already warm and kind and gentle—exactly as she remembered. “Sophie?”

He remembered her.

Her chest constricted with an emotion she could not immediately identify. She smiled. “Robbie.” The name felt strange on her tongue. Unfamiliar. Incorrect.

He came out from around the counter, tall and broad in his shirtsleeves, his still-blond hair tied back in a queue, his brown eyes filled with laughter. “We didn’t know what became of you! I mean, we read the papers, but you never returned!”

He reached for her then, and she stepped back, surprised by his forwardness. He stilled, sensing the awkwardness. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I forget that you’re a lady now.”

The words placed distance between them. Immediately setting her apart. She shook her head. “No,” she said. “It’s only—you surprised me.”

“I’m the one who is surprised, I assure you.” He looked around the shop, searching for something and not finding it. “I don’t have a coat.”

He was embarrassed of his shirtsleeves, and she hated herself for making him feel that way. She lifted a hand. “No, don’t worry about that.”

He looked away, and silence fell between them. “It’s the crack of dawn,” he said.

“I just arrived.”

“From London?”

She nodded.

“Are your sisters here, as well?”

“No. I came alone.”

His brow furrowed. “Why?”

She thought for a long moment, and then settled on, “I wanted to come home.” She paused, and when he did not speak, she said, “To a place I knew. To people I cared for.”

I wanted to be happy.

He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

She searched for more, settling on “I hate London.”

He nodded as though the words made sense, but she had the distinct impression that they did not. “All right.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, his suspenders pulling tight, and he rocked up on his toes, then back, peering about the room before his attention finally settled on the basket on one table. “Buns are still cooling, but are you hungry? Would you like a biscuit? They’re from yesterday, but still good.”

And that’s when she knew.

This ends poorly.

King had said those very words to her, before they’d made their foolish wager. And she’d known they were true, even as she’d denied it. This did end poorly. And not because Robbie Lander was not to be her husband.

It ended poorly because ten years had made this place different.

Or perhaps it had made her different.

But, either way, Mossband was not her home.

The universe underscored her thoughts with the ringing of the bell above the door. “Papa!”

A little girl pushed past her, and Robbie bent down to catch her in his large arms, lifting her high. “Good morning, moppet. Give me a kiss.”

Sophie watched as the child did just that, pressing her face to Robbie’s without hesitation before pulling back and saying, “Mama said I could have two buns today.”

“Did she?” Robbie replied, his gaze sliding past Sophie to the door. “Two?”

“One promises what one must to make little girls wear shoes.” The words came from behind Sophie, and she spun to find a pretty, brown-haired, pink-cheeked woman there, dandling a baby on one hip. The baby had Robbie’s brown eyes and a fat, happy look that Sophie recognized from their childhood.

This was his family.

You think he’s been pining away for the earl’s daughter who left a decade ago?

She hadn’t, of course. But still, staring at this woman, this baby, Sophie couldn’t help but feel . . . envious.

He had a home here. He’d stayed in Mossband, and here he was with his happy life. His happy wife. His happy family.

And it was all so foreign to Sophie.

His wife met Sophie’s gaze with a welcoming smile. “Good morning.”

Sophie found a matching smile despite her wild thoughts. “Good morning.”

“Jane, this is Lady Sophie, daughter of the Earl of Wight,” Robbie said, setting his daughter down and moving a tray of sticky buns to the counter.

Jane’s eyes widened and she dropped into a curtsy, the baby laughing at the surprising change in altitude. “My lady, welcome!”

“Oh, please don’t, Mrs. Lander,” Sophie said, hating the honorific. “Please call me Sophie. I’ve known your husband since we were”—she looked to the little girl—“your age.” She leaned down. “What is your name?”

“Alice,” said the little girl, riveted by the tray of sweets. Her little throat moved as she swallowed in anticipation.

“I remember those buns from when I was a little girl,” Sophie said, the memory coming swift and sad, her throat closing around the words. When she’d been sure of herself. She stood quickly, willing away the tears that threatened without warning. Willing away the sadness that this little girl, this little family wrought.