The Rogue Not Taken (24 page)

“Do I look enough the part for you?” she asked, knowing she looked as much of a Dangerous Daughter as she could without her sisters’ belongings nearby.

“You look fine.”

She made a show of furrowing her brow. “Are you sure? Women like me, we don’t know much about dining with dukes. What with our background.”

He cursed beneath his breath. “Stop that.”

She blinked. “Stop what?”

“Stop condescending to me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You would, and you are. You no more think of yourself as less than me than you think you can sprout wings and fly. You know you’re better than all of us.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but closed it, stunned by the unexpected words. Who was this man who so easily insulted her, and at the same time seemed to do the opposite?

“You deserve better than us, as well,” he grumbled.

“That, at least, is true.” If only she could convince herself of it. “I have been considering our agreement,” she continued, turning for the looking glass, making a show of pinching her cheeks as she’d watched Sesily do in preparation for her suitors.
Men like to feel as though you’ve been dreaming of them
, her sister liked to say by way of explanation.

Ironic, that, as Sophie would do anything to keep King from knowing how she dreamed of him.

He watched her from the door, his gaze on her in the mirror. She made a show of straightening her neckline, drawing attention to her ample breasts, already near bursting from the gown. He’d asked for a Soiled S. And here she was.

“Don’t tell me you’re reneging,” he said.

“I wouldn’t dare,” she said. “A Talbot keeps her word. But it occurs that what with my father’s funds, I don’t require your money so much as something else.”

His brow furrowed so quickly that she might not have seen it if she weren’t so thoroughly focused on him. “And what is that?”

She bit her lips once, twice, hard enough for them to go red and slightly swollen. Yes. Sesily would be very proud. “I want you to ruin me.”

“What in hell does that mean?”

“You’re such an expert, my lord, I can’t imagine you don’t already know.”

He came toward her, his voice suddenly lower, darker. “How, precisely, do you wish me to ruin you?”

“How do you ruin all the others?” She waved a hand when his eyes widened. “It doesn’t matter. We’ve spent the better part of a week together without a chaperone, and last night—”

“Don’t,” he said.

She looked to him. Finally looked, for the first time since Mossband. Something in his gaze made her not want to finish her thought about the night before. Made her want to believe it had meant something to him. As it had to her. “Well, the point is, I would appreciate it if you would render me fully unmarriageable. Then I will be able to find myself a new life. I shall get my bookshop somewhere quiet, and live a life. Free.”

“Free of what?” he asked.

“Of all of it,” she said, unable to keep the truth from her tone. “Of the gossip. The aristocracy. Of all the things I loathe.”

“Of me.”

No.

She forced a smile. “You know better than anyone how we truly feel about each other.”

He was silent for a long moment, and Sophie found herself wondering what he was thinking.

We don
’t even like each other
, she wanted to remind him.

To remind herself.

He broke the silence and did the reminding himself. “Done. I’ll see you publicly ruined if that’s what you want.”

“It is. I want the freedom that comes with it.”

He nodded. “Play this game well, Lady Sophie, and we’ll be rid of each other before you even realize we were together.”

Except she had realized it. She’d realized it the day prior, when they’d raced from the Warbling Wren, and the night prior, when he’d kissed her until she thought she’d go mad from the pleasure. And this morning, when he’d hurt her so thoroughly, and without thought.

They were together, and somehow, she adored and loathed it all at the same time.

She shook out her skirts. “Is it time for supper?”

His gaze flickered to the deep blue fabric, bordering on purple. “That color is beautiful on you.”

She willed herself not to blush under his compliment. Failed. She looked away. “They call it royal blue.”

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.

“I’m not certain it is a knack,” she said. “He simply works harder than most men I have known.”

Not that hard work was a worthy endeavor for aristocrats—something she’d witnessed again and again as a child. A memory flashed, of her father at a ball several years earlier, a group of aristocratic ladies tittering at his “crass hands,” weathered and calloused. “He should wear gloves when in London,” one woman had protested. “He shouldn’t be anywhere near London, with or without gloves,” someone had replied, and the whole group had laughed.

Sophie had hated them for the words. For their insult. For the way they valued appearance over work. For the way they valued snobbery over honor.

“He has a knack for coal,” the duke repeated. “And a knack for climbing.” He paused. “As do his daughters, apparently.” Sophie looked to King, finding his gaze on her as the duke added, “You could have sent word that you were not coming alone.”

King drank deep from his wineglass. “You could have sent word that you weren’t dying.”

The duke turned a cool gaze on him. “And disappoint you?”

Sophie looked from one man to the other, noting the resemblance in the stubborn set of their jaws as King gave a little huff of laughter. “I should have known, of course. Disappointment has ever been part and parcel of being heir to your throne.”

Sophie’s gaze widened at the stinging words.

The duke remained unmoved. “I imagined that if you were told I was near the end, you would return. We’ve things to discuss. It’s time for that, at least.”

King toasted his father. “Well, I have returned. Prodigal son.” He looked to Sophie. “And daughter.”

A gasp sounded in the darkness behind Sophie, and she looked back to find the housekeeper watching the meal wide-eyed.

The duke sat back in his chair. “So you are married.”

“Betrothed,” Sophie corrected immediately. There was no way she would allow these two men to send her farther down this garden path.

King turned a winning smile on Sophie. “For now.”

The duke drank, savoring the wine for a long moment. “So this is your plan, is it? To return home with a Soiled S in tow?”

Sophie set down her soup spoon. She should not have been surprised by the words, by the moniker, and still she was. This duke seemed not to stand on the same ceremony as the rest of the aristocracy. And despite her loathing the man’s words, and the man himself, she had to admit that there was something rather refreshing about them spoken aloud, in public, without shame.

Or, rather, with shame, but lacking in the secret pleasure that so often accompanied the name.

King stiffened on the other side of the table, no doubt surprised and irritated that his idiot plan was discovered within minutes of his return. Sophie would be lying if she were to say she did not find a modicum of pleasure in his failure, for certainly someone with as much arrogance as the Marquess of Eversley deserved to be taken down a notch now and then. If they were discovered, she’d no longer be beholden to their agreement, and she could go on her way. She’d happily bear the weight of her sisters
and their reputation if it meant being able to witness the demise of King’s plan.

He slammed one hand onto the table, the force of it sending the plates rattling. Her attention flew to him, unprepared for him to redouble his efforts to present her as a woman for whom he cared. “Call her that again and I will not be responsible for what I do.” She certainly had not been prepared for
that
. “I won’t let you do it again,” he said. “I won’t let you drive another away.”