The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel #1)(90)

All the bits and pieces. Even if they were just bits and pieces. She would take them.

He closed his eyes. “Fuck.” The curse came soft and shocking, and Sophie stilled as he sat up, his hands no longer lingering, no longer holding, now pulling her bodice up around her.

What had she done?

“King?” she asked, his hands at the laces of her gown, pulling them tight, making her panic. Had she done something wrong? “What’s happened?” Once it was done and she was dressed, he lifted his eyes to hers, and she relaxed, recognizing the desire there, restrained, but clear as the North Country sky. “Why did you stop?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low and dark and full of want.

“For stopping?” She stared down at him, more confused than she’d ever been in her life. “You don’t owe me an apology.”

“But I do. For all of it,” he said. “For the things I’ve done and said to you. For bringing you here. For this.”

“I was quite enjoying it.”

He exhaled, the sound harsh in their close quarters. “That’s the problem.”

Her eyes widened. “It is?”

He stood, guiding her feet to the floor. “No. Of course I want you to enjoy it. But this . . .” He paused and cursed again, low and wicked in the quiet library. “Christ. I was enjoying it, too. Too much. I can’t enjoy it, Sophie. I can’t enjoy you. And you shouldn’t enjoy me.”

Too late.

Her brow furrowed. “Why not?” She cast about for a way to protect herself. “You promised you’d ruin me, didn’t you? This is it, isn’t it?”

He looked at her then, his green eyes glittering with anger and frustration and something near sorrow. And then he broke her heart.

“I’ve no intention of making love to you, Sophie. Not tonight. Not ever.”

Chapter 17

KING ONCE, DUKE TO BE

He spent the next day roaming about the castle, half avoiding Sophie and half hoping he’d find her. Half hoping that seeing her might restore the incredible relief he’d felt once he’d told her the truth about Lorna and she hadn’t run screaming from the room—a relief that had been consumed by guilt at her disappointment when he’d told her he wouldn’t make love to her.

By afternoon, he’d found himself in the library once more, deep into the scotch, seated in the chair where he’d had her the night before, torturing himself with the memory of her exploring the massive room with exhilarating pleasure, eating her tart with the same. It occurred to him that he would think of her that way now, laughing with the servants, sighing over pasties, facing him in the dining room.

He’d think of her with passion.

She was all passion and strength and perfection, and stopping himself from taking her there, in that chair, on the floor, against the shelves of the library, again and again until neither of them remembered anything but each other, had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done.

But leaving her had been far more difficult.

And that terrified him.

As a gentleman, he should not have felt guilt. He did not ruin her, despite their idiotic agreement. That was the point of it, no? It was his role as a decent man to protect her virtue, was it not? But guilty he was, and it had nothing to do with not taking her to bed.

It had to do with the fact that he could not be what she wanted.

He could not give her the love she desired. The love she deserved. And the best thing in the world he could do for her at this point was to pack her back to the inn in Mossband and pretend as though they’d never met.

As though he would forget her.

He drank deep, guilt turning to frustration. What a damn fool he was to have brought Sophie here, to have introduced her to his demons. To have tempted them both with what could never be.

Because even if he did marry her—he could never love her.

He’d done that once. And look where it had landed him. Alone. Drunk. In the library.

“My lord?”

King turned his attention to the door, where Agnes stood. Agnes, who had been by his side from childhood, more mother than housekeeper, more friend than servant. She was the only person in the world who could look at him with such equal parts adoration and disdain. “Come in, Agnes,” he said, waving a hand to the chair opposite. “Sit and tell me tales of the last decade.”

She drew closer, but did not sit. “Are you drunk?”

He looked up at her. “I’m working on it.”

She considered him for a long moment and then said, “Your father wishes to see you.”

“I do not wish to see him.”

“You don’t have a choice, Aloysius.”

“No one calls me that,” he said.

“Well, I am most definitely not going to call you King,” Agnes said, dry and certain. “I already have one of them.”

“And a monarch in London, as well,” King quipped.

“That’s the drink talking, or I’d take a switch to you for rudeness.”

He looked up into her pretty face. The years had been kind to her, despite the fact that he imagined his father was anything but. “I’m too old for switches, Nessie. And I’m well past the age where I mustn’t disrespect the pater.”

She narrowed her brown eyes on him. “You may disrespect your father all you like. I won’t have you disrespecting me. Drunk or otherwise.”