The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel #1)(83)

“That’s not really behavior befitting an aristocrat,” she said, immediately wondering if, perhaps, the ale was talking.

One side of his mouth lifted in a small, sheepish smile. “Neither was my behavior earlier in the evening. Forgive me?”

As apologies went, it wasn’t perfect.

Nevertheless, her cheeks warmed at the words, even before he extended the plate to her. “These people are not the only ones who can feed you. I have tarts. Can I tempt you to come with me?”

One of the maids behind her sighed.

Sophie resisted the urge to do the same.

She watched the plate of tarts for a long moment. They looked glorious. “I suppose.” She stood and smoothed her skirts. “For the tarts.”

He smiled and placed a hand to his chest. “Of course. I would imagine nothing more.”

She took the plate as he guided her to the door, where she remembered to turn back. “Thank you all for a lovely dinner.”

The servants were surprised by her gratitude, but Agnes replied, “Thank you, my lady. You are welcome at our table any time you like.”

She followed King through the door. “I like you smiling,” he said quietly, when they were outside the room in the dimly lit corridor. “You don’t do it enough with me.”

She looked up at him, “I haven’t had much reason to smile since we met.”

“I should like to change that.”

She lifted the plate. “Strawberry tarts are a good beginning.”

His gaze did not leave hers. “I think I can do better.” He turned on one heel and was off, through the darkened maze of hallways, up a flight of stairs and through the massive doors to one of the wings of the castle.

She followed him, despite not wishing to.

Or possibly wishing to very much.

Everything about this man was a confusion.

“Where are we going?”

He paused in front of a great set of doors, his back to them. “To have dessert.”

There was something in the words, in the look in his eyes as he said them, that had Sophie’s heart pounding. This was not the King she’d known.

“There’s a library here. Would you let me show it to you?”

She scowled. “You’re bribing me with books.”

“Is it working?”

She let her gaze linger on the door behind his shoulder. “Perhaps.”

His lips lifted in a crooked smile, the dimple in his cheek showing. “Let’s see, shall we?” And he opened the door to reveal the largest, most beautiful library she’d ever seen. The room was cavernous, taking up two stories on all sides, with a glorious wrought-iron balcony that ran the perimeter of the room. In front of them, there were several chaise longues and a massive fireplace a dozen feet high by two dozen wide.

And all that before the books, stretching for what seemed like miles, shelves and shelves from floor to ceiling, in deep reds and greens and browns and blues. More books than a person could read in a lifetime.

But she could try.

She stepped into the room, turning in a slow circle, already wondering how long he would require her attention before he would release her into the room, free to explore. “This is . . .” She trailed off, astounded.

After a long moment, he prodded. “It is . . . ?”

She looked to him and grinned. “It is working.”

He laughed. “Excellent.” He pulled the door closed behind them and moved to sit in a large leather chair at the center of the room, next to a pile of oversized books. Balancing the plate of strawberry tarts on one wide arm of the chair, he waved a hand to indicate the room. “I know you are desperate to explore, love. Feel free.”

She was off like a shot, climbing the iron staircase without hesitation. “I’ve always wanted a library,” she said, fingers itching to touch the unblemished spines of the books far above.

“I thought you wanted a bookshop,” he said from below.

“That, as well. I could imagine my father supporting a bookshop,” she said. “After all, they are an investment.”

“But a library is not?”

She shook her head, running her finger over the gold, embossed volume of Milton she’d found. “A library is a luxury,”

“Your father is rich beyond measure. I should think he could spare you the bookshop and the library.”

“He’s always happily bought me books, but my mother . . .” She trailed off, then finished with a little shrug. “She doesn’t care for them.”

“What does that mean?”

She looked down at him, and for a moment she forgot about the library, drawn to the way his green eyes focused on her, unwavering. “She made me hide them.”

“Why?”

“No one likes a female with ideas,” she replied, echoing the words she’d heard dozens of times from her mother. “I suppose she imagined books make for thoughts.”

“They do. Intelligent ones.”

“I’m not sure she’d agree with you. Despite all the books I’ve read, I am the only one of her daughters stranded in the North Country with an unmarried marquess, bullet wound in my shoulder.”

“Nothing about your current circumstance has to do with reading about henges.”

Sophie laughed, trailing one hand along the long line of leather bindings. “Are you sure about that?”