The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel #1)(95)

It took a moment for her to remember that she was holding a book. She clutched it more tightly and said with a forced smile, “Do you care for another reading?”

He didn’t return the expression. “Believe it or not, not even henges could capture my attention at this moment.”

She looked down at her book. “It’s not about henges.”

“What is it?”

She couldn’t remember. She looked down. “It’s the Greek myths.”

“Is it interesting?”

“It’s filled with rakes and cads and every sort of scoundrel.”

“Sounds fascinating.”

“If you enjoy ruiners of women.”

“And do you?”

Yes.

She paused, considering the question. Its answer. She met his gaze. “Well, I like you.”

“I thought we did not like each other?”

She shook her head. “I find that I’ve changed my mind.” He stood then, moving toward her, and she finished. “Even though I shouldn’t.”

He sat next to her on the edge of the fountain, raising a hand and tucking one long lock behind her ear. “You shouldn’t,” he agreed softly. “I won’t ruin you, Sophie.”

“That was the arrangement,” she said.

“So we have both reneged.”

“You take excellent care of me,” she replied, and his brow furrowed in confusion before she clarified. “Something nice about you,” she said. “As agreed. I have not reneged.”

He closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, they glittered brilliant green. “I still renege. I won’t destroy your reputation.”

Her brow furrowed. “Why not? You don’t hesitate with the others.” He paused, and she pressed him. “You didn’t hesitate with Marcella.” Something bothered her about his silence, something that had bothered her that afternoon at the Liverpool soiree. Marcella waving happily from the window above, as though she were perfectly satisfied with King leaving her to pick up the pieces of her ruination.

“You don’t ruin them, do you?”

He raised a brow. “Why would you think that?”

She was flooded with memories. “Because I saw Marcella’s face when you left. When she looked out the window and thanked you.”

He looked down to the water, dragging his fingers across the surface. “Perhaps she enjoyed our tryst.”

Sophie’s gaze narrowed. “I don’t think so.”

“Well. That’s a bit hurtful.”

She ignored the attempt to dodge the point. “I don’t think there was a tryst. Was there?”

He inclined his head. “There was not.”

Her brow furrowed. “Then why the mad escape? Why enrage the earl?” She paused, realization dawning. “I see. Marcella will marry another.”

He nodded. “The owner of Hoff and Chawton menswear, if I recall. He’s promised me cravats any time I require them.”

“Marcella’s father won’t be able to argue the match.”

“I imagine he’ll be grateful for someone to happily marry his daughter. And Mr. Hoff is very wealthy.”

Sophie laughed. “You gave her the marriage she’d never have been able to have.”

“She swore it was a love match.”

“And the others?” Sophie asked. “Did they vow love matches as well?”

“Every one.”

She thought back on the other women, the ones she’d envied during their discussion in the carriage. “You ruin them so they can be happy.”

She would be happy, ruined by him.

“I give them the push they require.”

“I should have seen it,” she said. “If there was something between you, they wouldn’t have—” She stopped. She couldn’t tell him that.

“Wouldn’t have been what?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh, no, Lady Sophie,” he said. “It was just becoming interesting.”

She exhaled sharply, tired of lying. So she told him the truth. “If there were something between you, they wouldn’t have been so quick to tell you good-bye.” He stilled at the words. “Marcella wouldn’t have been able to do it so easily.” He lifted his hand from the fountain, touching her cheek with his cool, wet fingertips. She closed her eyes at the sensation. “It’s very difficult to tell you good-bye,” she whispered.

Silence fell for a yawning stretch of time before he said, quietly, “Is that what you want? To tell me good-bye?”

No.

Never.

King looked to the statue behind them. “What do you know about the Minotaur?”

The question set her back. She followed his gaze to the beautiful stretch of marble—a naked man with the head of a bull. “I know he was trapped in the labyrinth.”

“He was kept at the center of an impossible labyrinth, the solution to which was known only by one person.”

“Ariadne,” she said.

He raised a brow.

She blushed. “I know some of it.”

He took her hand in his, turning it so her palm was open to the air. He dipped a finger into the water and painted the center of her hand with cool drops, the sensations thrumming through her with visceral pleasure. “As the only one who knew the secrets to the labyrinth, Ariadne was tasked with leading the virgin sacrifices to the Minotaur each year to keep the gods happy.”