The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel #1)(78)

Fit for a King.

When she returned her attention to him, it was to find him watching her thoughtfully. “It’s beautiful. If slightly too short.”

Leave it to him to insult her again. “Yes, well, once again, I haven’t much of a choice. And I’m not precisely looking to impress my dinner companions.”

“I should like to see you in a dress that fits you. You deserve one that fits. That’s all I meant.” There was legitimate surprise in the words, and she hated that he hadn’t meant to hurt her. Hated that the fact warmed her. Hated the words.

Crossing the room, careful to keep her posture perfect, she faced him, mere inches between them. “You haven’t any idea what I deserve.”

There was a beat, and he said, “I know you deserve better than this.”

Her breath caught at the echo of the words, no longer a taunt, now an honest, quiet observation. She willed herself not to allow him access to the part of her that cared what he thought. The part of her that could too easily imagine that he cared for her. That he thought highly of her. He didn’t. The morning had proved it. This afternoon proved it. Now proved it. She pushed past him and opened the door. “The faster we begin our charade, the faster it is complete.”

He turned, but did not approach, watching her for a long moment before he said, “Full cooperation, Sophie, or no ruination.”

She smiled her most brilliant smile and agreed. “Full cooperation.”

They walked through the long, dark hallways of the castle, down several flights of stairs and through a brightly lit landing before they arrived at the dining room, a massive stone space decorated with ancient suits of armor and medieval tapestries, enormous chandeliers lowered over a table that stretched farther than any table Sophie had ever seen. It could seat forty or fifty easily, in the high-backed mahogany chairs that sat heavy and imposing. It was a room designed to overwhelm, and it did. She stilled just inside the door.

King was there instantly, his fingers on her elbow. Understanding her. “He chose this room for a reason,” he whispered, so softly she barely heard him. “To intimidate. Don’t allow it.”

For a moment, she imagined that he wished to comfort her. To make her feel valued in this massive, imposing space. But she knew better. He simply didn’t wish his father to win. And he would do whatever it took to ensure that happened, including flattery.

She smiled and stiffened her shoulders, not caring a bit about what the duke saw—caring only that her discomfort was invisible to King. Softly, she said, “Talbots don’t intimidate easily.”

At the far end of the table stood the Duke of Lyne, tall and handsome despite the hair that shot silver at his temples and the lines that marked the edges of his eyes. Those eyes, the same brilliant green as King’s, saw everything. He indicated the place settings halfway down the table, where matching footmen held chairs. The duke’s gaze was unwavering. “Welcome. Please sit.”

There was no request in the words, only command. No ceremonial introduction. Nothing approximating politeness.

Despite a keen desire to ignore it and leave the house, Sophie approached the table.

King spoke up. “You’ve no interest in meeting Lady Sophie?”

“I imagine we will have met after a meal, don’t you?”

Sophie was already at the chair closest to the door when the duke spoke, his words cool and, at best, unmoved by her presence. At worst, he was rude. Irritation flared, and she swerved around the footman proffering the seat, shocking everyone. The duke’s gaze widened barely. “But why wait, Your Grace?” She gave him her broadest smile, one she’d learned from Seleste—designed to win the crustiest of aristocrats—and extended a hand to him. He had no choice but to take it, and she sank into a perfect curtsy. “Lady Sophie Talbot. Enchanté.”

No one can resist French, Seleste liked to say.

It seemed the Duke of Lyne could. He looked down his nose at her. “Well, Aloysius, I imagine you are very proud of the fact that your guest shares your manners.”

Sophie straightened, willing away the embarrassment at the words. Talbots were not embarrassed. Not one of her sisters would care in the slightest if this man disliked them.

And besides, nothing about this endeavor had to do with her. It was all to do with King and his father. She was a placeholder. A pawn. She could be invisible and the evening would be no different.

Ignoring both men, she sat.

Soup appeared before her, ladled from a porcelain terrine not by a footman, but by a beautiful older woman who, from her dress, appeared to be a housekeeper of sorts.

The duke turned on his heel and took the seat at the head of the table, his cool gaze falling to Sophie. “Talbot. I suppose I knew your father.”

“Many in Cumbria did,” she said.

The woman had made her way to the other side of the table, where she served King.

“Hello, Agnes,” he said to her.

She smiled warmly at him. “Welcome home, my lord.”

King matched the smile, the expression one of the few honest ones Sophie had seen in the last day. “You, at least, have the feel of home.”

She put her hand to his shoulder so quickly that Sophie wasn’t entirely certain the touch had happened.

“He has a knack for finding coal,” the duke said sharply, drawing Sophie’s attention. He spoke of her father still.