The Rogue Not Taken

ROGUE’S REIGN OF RAVISHMENT RESURGES

She shouldn’t allow it.

The man was a legendary scoundrel. An expert ruiner of young ladies. And he’d never once been punished for it. Perhaps because he was so very good at it. It seemed a shame to punish someone for what was clearly a remarkable skill.

But still, she shouldn’t allow it. She should tell him to stop . . . stop the way his fingers threaded through her hair . . . the way they played gently over her skin and the too-tight fabric of her dress . . . the way his lips pressed soft, lingering kisses along her neck as he made his wicked promises to show her the bits and pieces of love.

Of course, it wasn’t love he promised. It was the rest—the unsettling, carnal bit. The bit she’d been imagining since the night of her bath, when he’d stood mere feet away from her, his back turned, his shoulders wide, and she’d washed herself, wishing, strangely, that it had been he washing her.

The bit she’d wanted even more once he’d kissed her in false passion in the Warbling Wren. She’d wanted that kiss to last forever and ever.

But he’d never indicated that he desired such a thing—not until tonight, when darkness had fallen and their conversation had become somehow more honest and clandestine. And he’d told her his secrets and she’d accidentally touched him.

It hadn’t been an accident, though.

She’d wanted to touch him. She’d wanted him to touch her.

And then he had, and it was glorious.

She didn’t care that she shouldn’t allow it.

He lifted his lips from where they played at the place where her neck met her shoulder and placed them at her ear, speaking, the words low and dark and full of wicked intent. “Tell me.”

He sucked the lobe of her ear and made everything worse. Or better. She wasn’t sure. It was difficult to form thought. “Tell you?”

“Would you like me to show you this bit?”

Yes. Yes yes yes.

She swallowed, knowing instinctively that if she said no, he would stop. But she did not wish to say no. She wished to say yes. Most definitely. Without question. If ever there were a time when she wanted something, it was now. He scraped his teeth over her skin, sending a shiver of delight through her. She gasped her answer, “Please.”

She could hear the grin in his reply. “So polite.”

She pulled away from him. “I’m grateful for the offer.”

He laughed then, the sound a promise of something wonderful and wicked. “It is I who should be grateful, my lady.” And then his lips were on hers once more, and she was lost, the darkness making everything more illicit and somehow more acceptable, as though no one would ever discover their actions. As though this place, this night, this journey was nothing more than a dream that would disappear with the light of day.

And it would. The Marquess of Eversley was not for girls like Sophie. Uninteresting, unbeautiful. But in the darkness, she could pretend otherwise. And this night would keep her in memories for an eternity.

“What bits, in particular, Sophie?” He was at her ear again, his fingers stroking at the edge of her bodice, where her breasts strained for release against the too-tight lacing. “What has you curious?”

Her cheeks should have been flaming at the question, but the darkness made her bold. “All of it,” she said.

He laughed at the words. “No,” he said, moving his hand away, teasing her. “That’s not enough. Tell me, specifically.”

“I don’t know,” she said, the words coming on a wave of frustration. “Touch me again.”

“Where?”

Everywhere.

“Sophie,” he beckoned, like the devil at the door to hell.

She fought for thought. “A few years ago, I saw . . .” She trailed off, shocked by what she was about to tell him.

He stilled against her. “Don’t stop there, darling. What did you see?”

“I stumbled upon a stable hand. And a maid.”

“Go on.”

She shook her head.

“Where were you?”

“Looking for a place to read.”

“Where?”

“It was raining, and cold. And my sisters were talking about balls and gowns and gossip . . . and the mews were warm and quiet.”

“What did you find there?” He kissed down her neck, long, lingering sucks that made it difficult to think.

“I was in the hayloft.”

“And the stable hand was there? With the maid?” There was something in his tone that she’d never heard in a man’s voice before. Something breathless. Like . . . excitement? The thought made her excited, as well. More excited. As though such a thing were possible.

“No,” she confessed. “They were in a stall.”

“And you looked?” His tongue swirled at the crest of her good shoulder.

“I didn’t mean to. I was only looking for a quiet place to read.”

“I do not judge you.” He licked—licked!—the skin between shoulder and dress, and she thought her breasts might break free of their bindings. “I simply want to imagine the full scenario. What did you see?”

“At first nothing,” she said. “I didn’t know they were there. If I had—”

“You never would have stayed. You’re too good a girl.”

“But once I heard them . . .”

He filled her silence. “Once you heard them, you couldn’t stop yourself.”

“Even girls get curious,” she defended herself.

“What did you see, Sophie?” His hand was moving now, over her thigh, toward her knee, the sound of it on the fabric of her skirts unsettling.

“I couldn’t see much at first. I was looking down over the edge of the hayloft. I saw the tops of their heads. They were kissing.”

His lips settled on hers, immediately lifting, leaving her quite desperate. “Like that?”

She shook her head in the darkness. “No.”

“How, then?”

“You know how.”

“I wasn’t there,” he said, and the teasing in his tone made her even more aware of him. “Show me.”

God knew how she had the courage to do as she was told, but she did, running her hand up his arm, over his shoulder, to the back of his neck, pulling him to her. “Like this.” And then she kissed him, letting her tongue slide over his lips and into his mouth, where he tasted like wine, hoping that she was doing it right.

He groaned and gathered her closer, careful of her shoulder, turning her so that her thighs draped over his lap, his hand finding the hem of her skirts and sliding to her ankle, the touch warm and wonderful.

She was doing it right.

After a moment, he broke the kiss. “Is that all you saw?”

No. “It became more . . .” She trailed off, hoping he would fill in the descriptor so that she did not have to. He did not. “. . . erotic.”

The sound he made was best described as a growl. “There are few things I like more than that word on your lips.”

“Erotic?”

He kissed her quickly, his tongue stroking deep before releasing her and leaving her breathless. “What was so erotic, Sophie?”

She was lost in the memory again, in the hope that she might relive it now. Here. With him. “He opened her dress.”

“Christ,” King said. “I was hoping he would do that.”

And then the bodice of her dress loosened, the too-tight lacing coming easily undone, and her breasts were free. She gasped, the sensation welcome, but somehow not enough. For he did not touch her. His hands were around her hips for some unknown reason. She squirmed, aching for his touch. “King,” she whispered.

The growl came again, softer, more breath than sound. “Then what did he do?”

“He touched her.”

One finger found the curved underside of her breast, and it was so unexpected and so desired that she nearly leapt from her skin. He ran that single, remarkable finger in a long, slow circle around her breast, leaving fire and aching desire in its wake. “Here?”

“No.”

The circle became tighter. Closer to where she wanted him. Closer to where she’d only imagined anyone ever touching her in the dead of night, alone.

It was the dead of night, but she was no longer alone.

“Here?”

She shook her head. He might not have been able to see it, but he knew. The circle tightened, and she thought she might die from the wait. “Here?”

“No.”

He stopped moving. “Where? Show me.”

She barely believed it when she did as he asked, clasping his hand in hers and placing it where she wanted him. He immediately gave her what she asked for, stroking and plucking at the straining tip until she sighed her pleasure, pressing against him, aching for—

“What did he do next?” The words sounded like carriage wheels on stone.

“He kissed her,” she whispered. “There.”

“Smart man,” he said, and set his lips to where his fingers were, sucking gently, as though he had an eternity to explore her, and perhaps he did. Perhaps she would let him explore her for as long as he wished.

But he did not remain gentle, soon running his teeth across the hardened nipple in a wicked caress that had her crying out and sliding her fingers into his hair to hold him there. But King did not give her what she wished, instead lifting his mouth at her touch and blowing cool air across her flushed skin before lavishing similar attention on her other breast.

It went on and on, back and forth, until she was straining for more of his touch, for more of his lovely mouth, for more of him. And he gave it to her, the hand at her ankle sliding farther beneath her skirts along the length of her leg, higher and higher, until it stilled, at the soft skin of her thigh, fingers stroking softly as he lifted his head and spoke in the sinful dark. “And what did you think of it?”

“I thought—” She stopped, embarrassed of the memory.

He kissed the soft skin of her neck in a long, lingering caress. “Did you wish it was you?”

“No . . .” she said, and it was true. “I wished . . .”

She wished his hand would move.

“I wished I could feel it, though. I wished someone would worship me like that. I wished I could command that kind of attention.”

He kissed her again, long and slow and deep. “This kind?”

She sighed. “Yes. And then he—”

In her silence, those fingers stroked and stroked, slow and deliberate, as though he had nothing more to do ever. She couldn’t tell him. Could she?

But it was dark, and they were cloaked in secrets anyway, and when they got to Mossband, they would part ways. Why not tell him?

“Then he lifted her skirts.”

The fingers stilled for barely any time. A tiny hiccup that she might not have noticed if she weren’t so busy noticing him. And suddenly, she felt very, very powerful. And the words broke free. The words she’d never imagined saying out loud. The memory she barely allowed herself to remember. “And then he got to his knees.”

His whispered curse came out part blasphemy, part benediction. “And what did he do?”

“I imagine you know,” she said, drunk on the way the moment consumed her.

“I know what I would like to do.”

And then he was dropping her feet to the floor of the carriage, and lowering himself to his knees, and Sophie was grateful for the darkness of the carriage, because she wasn’t certain she would ever be able to look at this man again. Cool air kissed her legs as he raised her skirts, folding them back onto her lap before pulling her to the edge of her seat and spreading her legs wide.

Her cheeks flamed; she wore no undergarments, as they had not fit beneath the livery she’d worn earlier. Belatedly, she tried to close her thighs, but he held her open. “Sophie?” he asked, and the world was wrapped up in her name.

“Yes?”

He pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee, and she jumped at the unexpected touch. He laughed, low and liquid in the space, then spoke to the sensitive skin there. “Do you want me to show you this bit?”

All the bits and pieces.

“I can smell you, and I want quite desperately to taste you. To show you just what that stable hand did to that maid.” His fingers moved, and she stiffened as they touched her, barely, a whisper of him over the hair at the apex of her thighs. “You’re so warm. And I’m betting wet, as well. But I won’t do it until you tell me yes. Until you give me permission.”

Yes. Yes.

“Do you . . .” She trailed off. Regrouped. “Do you wish to? Show me?”

He exhaled, hot and lovely against her. “I am not certain I have ever wanted to do anything in my life so much as I want to do this.” Her stomach clenched, along with somewhere lower, deeper, more secret.

“He made her scream,” Sophie whispered, the story helping to keep her wits about her.

That lovely laugh again. “I hope he did. And I would very much like to do the same to you. But you must stay quiet, love, lest we give the coachman a show.” He inhaled, long and deep, and exhaled before he said, “You are slowly torturing me. Tell me you want it, and I’ll give it to you. Everything you desire. More.”

Yes. Yes.

She stood on a precipice, feeling as though this decision, more than all the others of the past week, would change everything. But there was no question. She wanted this bit. This piece.

And she wanted it from him.

“Yes,” she said. And before the word gave way to silence, he was there, his fingers pressing, parting the folds where she wanted him most, exploring in delicious strokes and slides.

He groaned. “So wet,” he said in between kisses to the soft skin of her inner thighs. “Were you wet then?” he asked, wickedly. “In the hayloft?”

“I don’t know,” she replied.

“No?” he said, stilling, torturing her with the lack of his touch. Punishing her for her lie.

“Yes,” she said. “I was wet.”

He spread her wide and she closed her eyes at the touch—lewd and lascivious and lovely—at once thankful for the darkness and quite desperate for the light. “Did you touch yourself?”

She shook her head, her hands searching for him. Finding his soft hair. “No.” He stopped again and her fingers curled against him. “It’s true. I didn’t. But—”

He blew softly on the exposed center of her. “But?”

She inhaled, the breath ragged and not enough, and though it was he who knelt, it was she who confessed. “But I wanted to.”

He rewarded the honesty with his mouth, consuming her like fire, his tongue stroking in long, slow licks, curling in a slick promise at the hard center of her pleasure, and she lifted her hips to meet his remarkable mouth, not caring that the action could be called nothing but wanton. She did want.

She needed.

And he gave without purchase. The fingers of one hand holding her wide as those of the other explored, pressing deep, curling, finding a spot that made her writhe without care for anything but him and his wonderful touch. “King,” she whispered, and he lifted his mouth from her.

“Tell me what you like.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

He licked, long and slow and devastating. “You do, though.” He set his tongue to the hard bud at the top of her, working until she gasped his name again. “You like that.”

“I do,” she groaned. “More.”

He laughed, the sound like sin in the dark. Like the devil himself. “As you demand, my lady.” And he set his mouth to her again.

She soon became a master at telling him what she liked, even as she discovered it herself, using words she’d never thought she’d say—words that would ruin her in polite company forever.

But she did not care about polite company. She cared about his company, this glorious man who showed her more in the darkness than she had ever known in the light.

And as he did her bidding, his touch accompanied by a low, rumbling growl, she came closer and closer to the edge he had promised. Her sighs grew louder, and she cried out his name.

He stopped.

She sprang forward, sitting up straight in protest. “No!”

He pressed her back against the seat and whispered, “What did I say about you being quiet?” He lowered his head and kissed her gently, openmouthed, teasing. “You must be quiet, Sophie. We mustn’t be heard.”

The words had a wicked impact, sending desire flooding through her. He was asking the impossible. “Should we stop?” she asked, hating the question.

“Dear God. No. We shouldn’t stop.”

Sophie gave a little sigh of relief that became a gasp when he kissed her again. “I quite desperately want you to scream, Sophie,” he said between idle, unbearable licks. “I want to stop this carriage, lay you down beneath the stars, and make you scream again, and again, and again.”

She stifled a cry at the words and his touch, stiffening. Clenching her fingers in his hair. “Please, King.”

“Shhhh.” He spoke directly to the core of her, the rush of air making her wild. “Be careful.” And then his fingers moved again, joining in her torture, sliding deep, stroking and curling again and again. “He might hear us.”

The words did nothing but excite her further, and it grew worse as he teased and tempted with his fingers, reminding her to be quiet in that wicked voice, all enjoyment, as though he knew he was slowly destroying her, making her want him more than she’d ever wanted anything in her twenty-one years.

“He might hear us,” he repeated to the core of her, his warm breath making her ache as his fingers worked against her. “He might hear you, your little cries, the way you call my name, like sin and sex in the darkness.”

She wasn’t sin and sex, though. He was.

But when he set his mouth to her, she widened her thighs and lifted herself to him, proving him right. Biting back the cries that came again and again as he pressed more firmly, rubbed more deliberately, giving her everything she desired.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Please, King. Don’t stop.”

He didn’t, not even as the tension built with no purchase, with no release, when she fell into the darkness, victim to his tongue and lips and touch, taking everything he offered without hesitation.

She rocked against him as the carriage rocked beneath them. And then the tension released, in glorious, wicked sensation, and she forgot everything but him, his dark growls and his strong grip and his wonderful mouth.

When the pleasure crested, breaking over her, breaking her, it was King who held her together, letting her explore all the corners of pleasure without hesitation. Without embarrassment. Without shame.

Perhaps it was the darkness that kept the shame away. Because she should have been ashamed, shouldn’t she? Ladies did not behave in such a manner. But somehow, she did not feel ashamed, even as he lifted his mouth from her, lifted his touch from her. Restored her skirts and resumed his place on the seat beside her.

Somehow, it was easy to be without shame with him.

She yawned as he wrapped her in his arms and whispered, “Did you like them?”

The bits and pieces.

She curled into his heat, ignoring the little twinge in her shoulder—she hadn’t thought of her wound in hours—and told the truth. “Very, very much.”

They changed horses in the dead of night at the next posting inn, and King left Sophie sleeping as he left the carriage to fetch wine, food, and hot water for her tea.

He could not deny the guilt that coursed through him as he crossed the courtyard of the inn; he was keenly aware that he pushed them both, and that forcing her to travel so far and without quarter—her shoulder only just having begun to heal—was ungentlemanly at best and irresponsible at worst.

There were three ways to travel to Cumbria, and he was willing to bet her father’s men were taking the straightest path rather than this one, which was the fastest. At this point, he and Sophie were far enough from Sprotbrough that they could have stopped for the night. She could have slept a few hours on a proper bed. Had a proper bath.

But he did not wish to think of her in a bath. The vision was too clear and far too tempting.

And as for a proper bed, after how easily he’d taken advantage her in the furthest possible thing from a proper bed, he should not think of her against crisp sheets, hair spread across white pillows, skirts raised, bodice lowered, his hands on her skin.

Bollocks.

If they moved quickly, they could be at Lyne Castle by morning. Because, of course, he wasn’t leaving her in Mossband, baker and silly dreams or no. He was taking her to Lyne, where he would keep her safe until her father came to get her.

But not a moment longer.

He was not a monster, after all, but he was also not in the market for Sophie Talbot. He reminded himself of that as he returned with his spoils, heading for the carriage where she lay asleep, her bodice open and her skirts wrinkled, beckoning him for a repeat of the events immediately prior.

Of course, it would have been significantly more gentlemanly if he’d reminded himself of the fact before he’d nearly had her in his carriage.

But he was only human. Made of flesh, just like her.

What glorious flesh it was. If only he was in the market for it.

He set the food and water inside the door quietly, leaving it ajar to avoid waking her with its closing, and went to assist in hitching the new horses. No, he was in the market for facing his father and telling him the truth—that when King died, the dukedom died with him. That he’d never marry. Never carry on the name.

He had spent more than a decade imagining his father’s response—the way the promise would break him.

The duke had asked for it, had he not? He’d said the words himself—proclaiming a preference for the death of his line than King’s marriage for love. And that’s what the duke would get. The end of the dukedom.

He would die with it on his head, and finally, King would win.

Were you ever happy?

Sophie’s words echoed through him.

There was something charming in her naiveté, even as she knew that happiness was no guarantee. Her sister was in the most loveless marriage of them all, and still Sophie seemed to believe in the fairy tale—that love might, in fact, triumph.

That she held even a sliver of wistful memory for the baker boy she’d last seen a decade ago was proof that he should be rid of Lady Sophie Talbot, and quickly.

Then why didn’t he leave her?

He was saved from having to consider the question fully by an unwelcome greeting. “I must say, even without your curricle, you’ve made terrible time.”

King stiffened, quickly counting the days before turning to face the smug Duke of Warnick, sauntering across the courtyard, cheroot in his hand, gleam in his eye. King scowled. “You were supposed to be here three nights ago,” King said. “You should be at your drafty keep by now.”

“I found I liked it here,” the duke said.

“You found you liked a woman here, if I had to wager.”

The Scot grinned, spreading his hands wide. “She likes me, and who am I to disappoint the lassies? And you? What’s kept you?”

King did not answer, instead accepting the harness for a second horse from the new coachman and focusing on hitching the beast to the coach.

“Secret reasons?”

King tightened the cinch.

Warnick pressed on. “Did you find you liked a woman, as well?”

“No.” The word was out before King could stop himself.

“Well,” the duke drawled, “that sounds like a lie.”

King shot him a look. “You question my honor?”

“I do, rather, but I’m not in the market for a duel, so don’t be throwing your glove to the ground or whatever it is you English idiots do.”

There was nothing in the wide world worse than an arrogant Scot.

“This isn’t your coach,” Warnick said.

“You’re very perceptive.”

“Why are you in a coach that’s not your own?”

King sighed and turned to face the duke, feet away, arms crossed, one shoulder leaning against the vehicle. “When did you become a Bow Street Runner?”

Warnick raised a brow and took a long drag on his cheroot before dropping it to the ground and stomping it with his massive black boot. “I don’t suppose you’d have room to hie me home?”

“I do not,” King said through clenched teeth, knowing that Warnick had no interest in passage over the border.

“Och,” scoffed the Scot. “It’s a few hours. You shan’t even require new horses to do it.”

“No room,” King said.

“Of course there is. I’ve all your wheels, so you’ve nothing but space. And I’m wee.”

Aside from being irritating as hell, the Scot was twenty stone if he was a pound. “You are nothing like wee.”

“Nevertheless . . .” Without warning, Warnick opened the carriage door.

King should have seen it coming. With a wicked curse, he dropped the hitch he was working on and went for him. “Close it.”

Warnick did, so quickly that it was almost as though it had never been open to begin with. He turned a knowing smile on King. “So, you did find a woman.”

“She’s not a woman.”

Warnick’s brows rose. “No? Because her bodice is undone, and things seem fairly clear on that front.”

King looked away for a heartbeat, frustration and fury making it impossible for him not to look back and plant his fist squarely in the center of the arrogant Scot’s face. “That’s for looking at her bodice.”

The duke put a hand to his face, blood spilling freely from his nose. “Dammit, King. Was that really necessary?”

King thought it rather was. He reached into his pocket and extracted a handkerchief, wiping his hand. He’d need to get a blanket for her. To cover her while she slept. He handed the square of linen to his friend. “I like you better when you’re over the border.”

“I like you better when I’m over the border,” the duke said, holding the white linen to his wound. “I’ve never seen you so wound up. Is it your father? Or the girl?”

It was both, no doubt. “Neither.”

Warnick made a sound that indicated he knew better. “There’s a curricle here. Buy it. Race me home. Send some of that anger packing before you face your dying father.”

He’d never heard an offer he so desperately wanted to take. He ached for the freedom of the curricle. For its promise. He wanted to feel as though he was on the edge of danger, knowing that it was his strength and skill and nothing else that kept him from losing everything. He wanted the reminder that he held his life in his hands. That he controlled it.

But for the first time in all the time he’d raced, it wasn’t the past he sought to escape. It wasn’t his memories he wished to control. It wasn’t the coach he wanted to avoid, but its contents. And the things those contents made him desire. Without realizing it, he looked to the carriage.

The duke realized it. “Send the girl back to where she came from.”

“I cannot.”

“Why not?”

I can’t leave her.

He did not reply.

Warnick watched him carefully. “Ah.”

Anger flared. “What’s that to mean?”

The duke shrugged a shoulder. “You care for your little footman.”

He did no such thing. “How did you know—”

Warnick smiled. “I might have been slow on the discovery, but once it’s seen—it can’t be unseen.”

“Do your best to unsee it, you ass.” King turned away, ignoring the other man, returning to the horse.

“Where are you taking her?”

He was taking her to Lyne Castle, until her father turned up to take her back to London. What other choice did he have? If he left her here, she could well end up in the clutches of someone like Warnick.

King thought of her at the castle, at the base of the ancient stone façade in her ridiculous borrowed frock, looking nothing like the lady she was.

I’d rather you never marry at all than marry some cheap trollop in it only for the money.

He stilled.

“Who is she?” Warnick asked.

She’s the youngest of the Dangerous Daughters.

“Because she’s too clever by half for you. Which means that she’s more trouble than anything else,” Warnick continued, oblivious to the fact that King was lost in his own thoughts, his own words echoing through him. “You shouldn’t dally with clever women. You’ll never outsmart them, and before you know where you are, you’re married to them.”

King looked up at the words.

You shan’t trap me into marriage, he’d promised her when he’d believed she wanted nothing but his title. He no longer believed it. It wasn’t in her to connive. But she remained a Talbot sister.

And others would have no trouble believing it.

His father would have no trouble believing it.

It would mean he had to win his wager with Sophie—prove that her perfect baker was nothing more than fantasy. And then he would have to keep her close. He ignored the thread of pleasure that curled through him at the thought.

Keeping Sophie close was not ideal. They did not even enjoy each other’s company.

You enjoyed her company a great deal over the last few hours.

He pushed the thought away, tested the strength of the harness, and turned to his new coachman. “Mossband, as quickly as we can get there.”

The coachman climbed up and took the reins.

Warnick was gingerly exploring the bridge of his nose. “I’m fairly certain it’s broken,” the Scot said.

“I wouldn’t worry. It can only be an improvement for your craggy face.”

The duke scowled at him. “I rarely get complaints.”

“Because women are scared silent at the look of you.” King put a hand to the door. “Will you linger here?”

The duke looked up to the second story of the inn, before shrugging his shoulders. “A day or two. She’s a welcoming piece.” He tilted his head in the direction of the carriage. “You don’t think I ought to have another look?” King scowled and the Scot laughed, big and burly, before he grew serious. “Take some advice, King. Be rid of her, before you find you can’t be.”

King nodded, even as something in the words did not set correctly. “I shall be,” he replied, opening the door with renewed vigor. “Just as soon as she’s served her purpose.”