The Rogue Not Taken

BAKER’S DOZEN? OR BAKER DOESN’T?

The carriage smelled like fresh-baked bread.

The scent curled through her, hunger and desire coming on its heels. It felt like it had been an age since she’d eaten a full, warm meal, and perhaps it had been. Between her escape from the Liverpool estate, the gunshot wound, and the running from her father’s pursuers, eating well had not been paramount.

And last night, when King had delivered a basket of hearty food to the dark interior of the carriage, she hadn’t had much time to enjoy it, as she’d been too distracted by its messenger. Memory of the evening’s events had her sitting up in her seat, keenly aware of her state of disarray, a blanket she did not remember pulling to her chin falling to her lap.

King must have covered her. She ignored the warmth that came with the thought and sat up, quickly pulling the laces on her borrowed frock tight, covering herself as well as she could with the too-small dress. Once the most pressing task was complete, she looked up, simultaneously noticing three things: the whisper of grey light that filled the carriage, indicating that it was barely dawn; the fact that King was not on the seat opposite her; and the fact that the carriage was not moving.

She peered out the window, somehow already knowing the truth, but the little brick buildings all in a row, mere feet away, confirmed it.

They were in Mossband.

It was all still there, the haberdasher, the butcher, and, yes, the baker.

Already awake. Already baking.

Opening the door to the carriage, Sophie stepped out onto the block that was already there, sitting as though it had been waiting for her along with this little town and all the memories that came with it. She faced the little greensward at the center of town, marked by a massive stone, bigger than a small house and unable to be moved, and so left as a marker, moss climbing its north side, giving the town its name.

She took a deep breath, inhaling the light and the air and the early morning.

“Is it all you remembered?” The words were quiet in the predawn silence. She turned to find him close to her, leaning against the coach, closer than she expected. Close enough to smell him, to see the dark stubble that shadowed his chin. They’d been traveling without quarter, and he hadn’t shaved. Her fingers itched to touch it.

It’s not yours to touch.

Not by the light of day. Not here, at the end of their journey, when they were about to end their acquaintance. An acquaintance that had become far too close than any acquaintance should be.

She cleared her throat and found speech. “It is exactly the same.” She looked down the row of buildings, drinking in this place she’d dreamed of for years; there was a tea room now where there hadn’t been when she was younger, just on the crest of the little slope that curved round behind the pub. “Except for the tea shop.”

He was looking at the pub. “The Weasel and the Woodpecker? Really?”

She laughed at his surprise. “I think it’s creative.”

“I think it’s ridiculous.”

She shook her head, pointing to the rock at the center of the greensward. “Seleste climbed that once.” She noticed the question in his gaze. “My sister.”

“The one we haven’t discussed.”

He did not mention her suitor, and Sophie noticed. She nodded. “She climbed up—couldn’t have been older than eight or ten—and once up there, she became terrified. She couldn’t get herself down.”

“What happened?”

“My father came to save her,” she said, the long-forgotten memory returned with utter clarity. “He told her to jump into his arms.”

“Did she?”

Sophie couldn’t hold back the laugh. “She toppled them both to the ground.”

He laughed with her, the sound deep and soft in the early-morning light. “Did she learn her lesson?”

Sophie shook her head. “No. In fact, we all wanted to climb the rock and play with Papa after that.”

The words came on a thread of sadness, something she didn’t entirely understand, and she shook her head, willing the emotion away. Turning, she found King staring at her. “Did you climb the rock?”

She pushed past him, rounding the corner of the carriage. “Yes.”

He followed. “And did you jump?”

She stopped. Looked down at her feet. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because . . .” She paused, not wanting to say the words out loud. Not wanting him to hear them. Not that it mattered what he thought of her. They were through today. After this, they’d never see each other again.

“Sophie?”

She turned, loving the sound of her name on his lips. The way it wrapped around her in the cool, grey morning air. The way it made her remember the night before. The way he’d sounded in the dark.

She shouldn’t think of that. Of course, she would, but she shouldn’t think of it here in public. In daylight. In the presence of him, and all of Mossband.

“Sophie.”

She shook her head, staring over his shoulder at the rock in question. “I was too afraid to jump.”

Silence fell and she imagined him judging her. She wasn’t much different now, was she? Still afraid. Still uninteresting. Still unfun. She braced herself for his retort.

“Until now.”

She blinked, returning her gaze to his, beautiful and green and unwavering. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re not afraid to jump now. Isn’t that why we’re here? Why you stowed away in my carriage? Why you stole my wheels and got yourself shot? Isn’t that why we escaped your father’s men? All so that you could be here, now? So you could jump?”

She didn’t know what to say, his words so pointed they almost goaded. And then they did goad. “So you could win your wager? With happiness?”

She looked to the bakery, its chimney spouting happy smoke, keenly aware of the fact that the wager was ridiculous. She’d never win it. But he was driving her to its logical conclusion. She would enter the bakery, see Robbie, and return to Mossband. She would be free of London.

Everything would change.

It would begin again.

She would be free.

“Or do you forfeit?”

She was grateful for the teasing in the words. The way they brought her back to the moment. The way they reminded her of the woman she had promised herself she would become. The life she had promised herself she would have.

Without titles or pretension.

Without London.

Without him.

Not that she wanted him. She didn’t even like him. And he certainly didn’t like her.

Now was the time. She was here, in this place where she knew no one, had nothing. She’d found her way here. She’d made her wager and she would follow it through. Yes, she might fail, but she could not return to London. And she could not rely on King’s help forever.

He wasn’t for her.

I was too afraid to jump.

Until now.

It was not the seeing of Robbie that mattered, but the proving to herself that she was brave enough to do this. Alone. The proving to King. Because he would leave her, and she wanted him to think her brave.

To value her.

To see her. One final time.

She pasted a bright smile on her face. “Why would I forfeit when I am so very close to my bookshop?” Triumph flared at his surprise. He didn’t think she would do it, and so she returned to the open door of the carriage, reaching in to collect her paltry things.

Setting her basket at her feet, she smoothed her skirts, asking, “How do I look?”

“As though you’ve been riding in that carriage for twenty-four hours.”

She scowled up at him before collecting the basket and standing straight. “I shouldn’t have asked you.”

He stepped forward and raised a hand to her face, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear, the touch sending a thrill through her. A thrill she tried to ignore, even when his thumb stroked over her cheek, wiping away some invisible mark. The tips of his fingers lingered at her jaw, tilting her face up to his, and she felt her cheeks warm under his unwavering gaze.

They stood that way for a long moment, long enough for her to wonder if he might kiss her again. Long enough for her to wish he would kiss her again. There, next to the Mossband town greensward in full view of anyone who cared to look.

“Do not forget to keep your wound clean.”

If she’d wagered a thousand pounds, she would not have guessed that he’d say that. Her breath caught in her chest at the strange, caring instruction. “I shan’t.” She lifted the basket as unnecessary proof. He nodded and stepped away, and she felt the loss of his touch keenly. Disliked it. Grasped for something else to say, unready to be rid of him.

“I never intended to trap you into marriage, you know.” It was an odd thing to say, but true, and that was what mattered, she supposed.

“I know that now,” he said, a little smile on his handsome face. There was a dimple there, in the dark stubble of his unshaved beard. She itched to touch it.

Instead, she said, “Thank you. For everything.”

“You’re welcome, Sophie.”

And that was that. She nodded once. “Good-bye, then,” she said, disliking the words.

“Good luck,” he replied. She disliked those words more.

With a deep breath, she crossed the street to the bakery, telling herself that the discomfort in her stomach was nothing more than nerves. Nothing at all to do with turning her back on Kingscote, Marquess of Eversley. The man with whom she’d spent the better part of the last week.

After all, they didn’t even like each other.

She pushed the door to the bakery open, a little bell above the door tinkling happily, announcing the heat of the ovens, and the smell of cinnamon and honey making her mouth water. The counters were empty of food, as it was too early for passersby, and it took her a moment in the dim light.

“I’m sorry, miss, we haven’t anything for sale just yet—” Robbie began, coming to his full height at the great mouth of the brick oven that sat at the center of the room. He met her eyes, his already warm and kind and gentle—exactly as she remembered. “Sophie?”

He remembered her.

Her chest constricted with an emotion she could not immediately identify. She smiled. “Robbie.” The name felt strange on her tongue. Unfamiliar. Incorrect.

He came out from around the counter, tall and broad in his shirtsleeves, his still-blond hair tied back in a queue, his brown eyes filled with laughter. “We didn’t know what became of you! I mean, we read the papers, but you never returned!”

He reached for her then, and she stepped back, surprised by his forwardness. He stilled, sensing the awkwardness. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I forget that you’re a lady now.”

The words placed distance between them. Immediately setting her apart. She shook her head. “No,” she said. “It’s only—you surprised me.”

“I’m the one who is surprised, I assure you.” He looked around the shop, searching for something and not finding it. “I don’t have a coat.”

He was embarrassed of his shirtsleeves, and she hated herself for making him feel that way. She lifted a hand. “No, don’t worry about that.”

He looked away, and silence fell between them. “It’s the crack of dawn,” he said.

“I just arrived.”

“From London?”

She nodded.

“Are your sisters here, as well?”

“No. I came alone.”

His brow furrowed. “Why?”

She thought for a long moment, and then settled on, “I wanted to come home.” She paused, and when he did not speak, she said, “To a place I knew. To people I cared for.”

I wanted to be happy.

He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

She searched for more, settling on “I hate London.”

He nodded as though the words made sense, but she had the distinct impression that they did not. “All right.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, his suspenders pulling tight, and he rocked up on his toes, then back, peering about the room before his attention finally settled on the basket on one table. “Buns are still cooling, but are you hungry? Would you like a biscuit? They’re from yesterday, but still good.”

And that’s when she knew.

This ends poorly.

King had said those very words to her, before they’d made their foolish wager. And she’d known they were true, even as she’d denied it. This did end poorly. And not because Robbie Lander was not to be her husband.

It ended poorly because ten years had made this place different.

Or perhaps it had made her different.

But, either way, Mossband was not her home.

The universe underscored her thoughts with the ringing of the bell above the door. “Papa!”

A little girl pushed past her, and Robbie bent down to catch her in his large arms, lifting her high. “Good morning, moppet. Give me a kiss.”

Sophie watched as the child did just that, pressing her face to Robbie’s without hesitation before pulling back and saying, “Mama said I could have two buns today.”

“Did she?” Robbie replied, his gaze sliding past Sophie to the door. “Two?”

“One promises what one must to make little girls wear shoes.” The words came from behind Sophie, and she spun to find a pretty, brown-haired, pink-cheeked woman there, dandling a baby on one hip. The baby had Robbie’s brown eyes and a fat, happy look that Sophie recognized from their childhood.

This was his family.

You think he’s been pining away for the earl’s daughter who left a decade ago?

She hadn’t, of course. But still, staring at this woman, this baby, Sophie couldn’t help but feel . . . envious.

He had a home here. He’d stayed in Mossband, and here he was with his happy life. His happy wife. His happy family.

And it was all so foreign to Sophie.

His wife met Sophie’s gaze with a welcoming smile. “Good morning.”

Sophie found a matching smile despite her wild thoughts. “Good morning.”

“Jane, this is Lady Sophie, daughter of the Earl of Wight,” Robbie said, setting his daughter down and moving a tray of sticky buns to the counter.

Jane’s eyes widened and she dropped into a curtsy, the baby laughing at the surprising change in altitude. “My lady, welcome!”

“Oh, please don’t, Mrs. Lander,” Sophie said, hating the honorific. “Please call me Sophie. I’ve known your husband since we were”—she looked to the little girl—“your age.” She leaned down. “What is your name?”

“Alice,” said the little girl, riveted by the tray of sweets. Her little throat moved as she swallowed in anticipation.

“I remember those buns from when I was a little girl,” Sophie said, the memory coming swift and sad, her throat closing around the words. When she’d been sure of herself. She stood quickly, willing away the tears that threatened without warning. Willing away the sadness that this little girl, this little family wrought.

She’d imagined many things about returning to Mossband, but never sadness. Never this sense of loneliness. “What a fine family, Robbie.” She corrected herself. “Mr. Lander.”

“It is, isn’t it?” He laughed.

It was perfect. A perfect life.

“Lady Sophie and I were playmates when we were young,” he explained to his wife, who turned an interested gaze on Sophie.

“Oh?”

Sophie nodded, the weight of the moment heavy in the room. “It’s true.”

Silence fell, awkward, and Sophie wondered how quickly she might leave. Where she might go. What came next.

“Papa,” said the little girl, unaffected by the arrival of the newcomer. “Mama promised buns.”

Robbie looked to his daughter. “Well. A promise is a promise.”

A promise is a promise.

She’d said those words to King days ago, hated the memory of his smug assurance that this situation would never end happily. She’d known she wouldn’t leave it as Robbie’s wife. But she’d never imagined she’d leave it with such doubt for her own future.

Her heart began to pound. She clutched her basket to her skirts and took a deep breath. “You’ve things to do. I must . . . take my leave.”

Robbie met her gaze as he lifted a hot bun from a tray by the oven. “Will we see you again?”

The simple question threatened to break her, reminding her that there was nothing for her here in Mossband—just as there was nothing for her in London.

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Jane’s brow furrowed. “Are you in town?”

“I am . . .” She trailed off, realizing that she did not know where she was. Where she would be.

“Are you in rooms at the pub?” Robbie’s brilliant wife offered.

“Yes,” Sophie lied, grasping at the solution. She had to sleep somewhere. “At the pub.”

“Excellent,” Robbie said. “Then we will see you again.”

“For buns,” Sophie replied.

“Take one now? For breakfast?” Jane offered, holding one out to Sophie.

She hated those buns then, their warm temptation. Their promise of happiness and memory and restoration. She didn’t want the bun. She didn’t want the strange emotions that came with it. Or the strange emotions that came with not accepting it.

And so she stood there in the center of the bakery, staring at that outstretched pastry, wondering just how on earth it was that the smartest of the Talbot sisters had become such a proper imbecile, and what, precisely, she was going to do with the rest of her life—the life that would begin when she left this place and faced a great, yawning future.

How does it end?

King’s question echoed through her on a wave of uncertainty.

She had no idea how it ended. But not here.

What had she done?

“Any chance we might leave with two?”

The words were punctuated by the happy bell above the door, and then King was inside the bakery, and Sophie knew that something could, in fact, make matters worse. The Marquess of Eversley, all smiles, playing smug, arrogant witness to her uncertainty.

Jane’s eyes widened and her mouth turned into a perfect O. Sophie could not blame her, as King seemed to overtake every space he entered—taprooms, bedchambers, carriages. Why not bakeries?

“We don’t need two,” Sophie said.

“Of course we do, darling.”

The darling attracted her attention. And Jane’s. And Robbie’s, for that matter. Sophie turned to him. “We don’t.”

He ignored her, turning his brilliant, beautiful smile on Jane. “My lady adores these buns. She’s done nothing but talk about them since we left London.”

Good Lord. He was ruining her all over again. She was not Mrs. Matthew to these people, she was Lady Sophie Talbot. They knew her. And they would not hesitate to gossip about her.

“My lord,” she began, not entirely certain of what she would say.

He ignored her, instead reaching a hand to Robbie. “You must be the famous Robbie.”

Robbie looked terribly confused. “I am.”

King grinned. “Eversley. Marquess of.”

Robbie’s eyes were round as plates. “Marquess!” He looked to Sophie. “Are you—”

“Not yet,” King laughed, answering the question before it was finished. “Sadly, she wanted to return to Cumbria before she married me. But she swears it will be done just as soon as we’ve seen my father, the Duke of Lyne.” He lifted her hand to his lips, staring deeply into her eyes as he kissed her knuckles. “I didn’t need her to stand on such ceremony, frankly. I’d have married her in a hedge on the day we met. Isn’t that right, love?”

Sophie ignored the flip of her heart at his outrageously romantic words. He was an actor worthy of the London stage. But what was he doing? What would happen to her when they didn’t marry? When she was left in discarded ruin—unwanted by the Marquess of Eversley?

She was not one of the other ladies, with copious offers of marriage. Her only other option for marriage was here. And it was married to Jane. Making sugar buns.

It hadn’t been an option at all, if she was honest with herself.

She should be more honest with herself.

She supposed he thought she would be grateful for his arrival. But instead, it embarrassed her quite thoroughly. She didn’t want him to see that this had turned into such a disaster. She didn’t want him to see that she was alone. Without a home. Without a purpose.

She didn’t want him to gloat.

She didn’t want him to judge her.

Embarrassment flared hot and unwelcome.

She wanted him to leave.

He stayed, sadly, turning back to starry-eyed Jane, and said, “But she was so eager to see her old friend”—he leaned in conspiratorially—“and, between us, to have one of these legendary buns, that she forgot to ask for one for me.” He looked to Robbie. “Of course, we’ve been traveling for days, so I forgive her. Exhaustion takes a toll on such a delicate lady.” Sophie resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

“Of course, my lord,” Robbie said, reaching for a second bun and a length of cotton in which to wrap them.

“Are you a lord?” Alice asked, the arrival of an aristocrat apparently more interesting than breakfast.

“I am indeed.” King bent down to meet her. “How do you do, Miss—”

Alice did not understand the prompt, so Sophie interjected. “Alice.”

“Alice is a lovely name. For a lovely young lady.”

Alice laughed. “I’m not a lady.” She looked to Sophie. “But she is.”

“She is,” Jane replied. “She’s to be a marchioness. And then a duchess.”

Alice’s eyes went wide. “Cor!”

“Alice!” Jane hushed her, turning an apologetic gaze on Sophie. “She doesn’t meet many aristocrats.”

Sophie smiled down at King, hating the way seeing him with little Alice made her feel as though she’d like to see him with other children. With his own. She pushed the thought out of her mind. “I rather wish I met fewer aristocrats myself.”

King laughed and stood, looking to all the world like a doting suitor.

Sophie wanted to kick him in the shin, and might have if Robbie hadn’t interrupted, extending a package of pastry to King. “Two buns, my lord.”

“Thank you. Is there any way you might spare a third?” King asked, smiling down at Sophie, obviously enjoying the part he played, “The coachman will no doubt be peckish.”

“No doubt.” Sophie said, barely containing her irritation. Was he never planning to leave this place? “You are very kind.”

He leaned close, his words whispering at her ear, loud enough for the whole town to overhear. “Only when I am with you.”

Still, she blushed, hating herself for it. For wishing it was true.

Hating him for it.

He was making everything worse.

“Thank you,” he said to Jane as she packed the buns and finished the transaction, slathering on the outrageous. “You both must come to the wedding brunch. As Sophie’s friends and my guests.”

Embarrassment and uncertainty were instantly replaced with fury. It was one thing to tease her, quite another to extravagantly, boldly lie. There would be no wedding brunch. Indeed, in minutes, they would part ways. Forever.

“We really must take our leave, my lord. Mr. and Mrs. Lander are just starting their day.”

“And me!” Alice said.

“Alice, as well,” Sophie said, grateful for the additional assist.

King crouched down to speak to Alice, as though it were thoroughly normal for a marquess to attend to a child. “I apologize for interrupting your very busy day, Miss Alice.”

The little girl nodded. “Mama said I could have two buns.”

He smiled, and Sophie hated the way her heart constricted. Surely, she would respond to any man’s kindness to children. It was a lovely tableau.

Made lovelier by him.

Nonsense.

“My lord,” she said.

He stood. “Lead the way, my lady.”

And so it was that she did lead the way, across the street and around to the far side of the carriage, before she turned and found him immediately behind her. She drew closer, toe to toe, nose to nose. Narrowing her gaze, she said, “I suppose you think that was amusing?”

His brows rose in feigned innocence. “I don’t know what you mean.”

She narrowed her gaze and spoke in a low whisper, keenly aware of the coachman halfway across the greensward. “You know precisely what I mean. You marched yourself into that bakery and saw me thoroughly humiliated.”

“Humiliated? I saw you engaged to a marquess. I saw you made a future duchess!”

She blinked. He was mad. It was the only explanation. Either that, or he was simply cruel. “Except I am no such thing! What will happen when you don’t marry me? When I am nothing but the woman the Marquess of Eversley tossed over? I realize you’ve ruined a fair number of women in your day, you scoundrel, but that doesn’t give you the right to ruin me, as well.”

“If we want to be specific, you were ruined the moment you donned livery and stowed away in my carriage.”

He was right of course. “I don’t want to be specific.”

He smirked. “I don’t suppose you do.”

“I imagine you are enjoying this? Your perfect win—one more to add to a lifetime of successes?” He opened his mouth to reply, but she continued, furious. “Of course you are enjoying it, because you have enjoyed every one of my errors since the beginning of our acquaintance. You have spent the last few days mocking me, so why not add another, final opportunity?” She stepped away, spreading her arms wide. “Don’t stop now, Your Highness. Isn’t this what you live for? To tell me how wrong I’ve been from the start? How right you’ve been? To make me feel a dozen times a fool?”

“No.”

She didn’t care about the reply. “You needn’t have worked so hard, charming the child, smiling your handsome smile for the wife, chumming about with Robbie. I was already feeling the fool. You think I do not realize that I have been wrong? That I should have stayed in Mayfair? That Society’s censure was at least a known outcome? Or is it that you wish me to say it? You won,” she spat. “You get your forfeit. Congratulations. Sadly, I’ve nothing nice to say about you. Not today. Not ever. I renege.”

With a huff of anger, she turned to leave, to find the pub. To rent a room. To be rid of him forever.

“Don’t blame me for this,” he said, and she stopped in her tracks, turning back as he continued. “I’ve done nothing but follow your directives as long as we’ve been together.” He approached. “You are the one who wanted to leave London. Who wanted to come to Mossband, as though this were a life you would ever be able to have again, as though a decade in London wealthy and titled could be erased with a damn sticky bun.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” she lied.

“I know you fabricated that boy.”

Her brows shot up. “Fabricated him! You saw him, my lord, flesh and blood.”

“You fabricated everything about him, your perfect baker, pining away for you. And for what I don’t know, because he was never for you and you knew it. Hell, I knew it, and I didn’t even know the boy.”

“I wanted—” She stopped herself.

He came closer, and they were toe to toe. “Finish it. What did you want, Sophie?”

“Nothing.”

He watched her for a long moment, so close that she could see the little specks of silver grey in his brilliant green eyes. And then he said, “Liar.”

“Better a liar than an ass,” she said. “You simply had to prove yourself right. Couldn’t leave well enough alone. Couldn’t leave me alone. You had to prove that I was wrong. That I wouldn’t find the home I thought I would.”

“I wanted to be sure you were all right,” he said, the words clipped and irritated. “I thought you might be grateful for the chance to show Robbie that your life turned out well. Better than expected.”

“Oh, yes. Very well indeed. I’m stuck in Mossband with no money and absolutely no idea of what I’m going to do with myself.” She paused, then said, softly, “I thought I would be welcomed. I thought I would be . . .”

She trailed off, and he wouldn’t allow it. “What?”

“I thought I would be happy.” Except, instead of happy, she felt more alone than she’d ever felt in her life. “I thought I would finally be home. And I would be free.” She shook her head. “But it’s not home. I’m not sure what is.”

“I’m sorry, Sophie.”

She snapped her gaze to his. “Don’t. Don’t lie to me. I may be rash and I may be stupid, but you haven’t lied to me yet, and at least there’s that.” The tears came then, and without hesitation, he reached for her, pulling her into his arms, not seeming to care than they stood on a public road in the center of a public town.

She didn’t care, either.

She leaned into his warmth and let the tears come, filled with disappointment and frustration and the knowledge that she’d ruined everything and she might never be able to right it.

He let her cry, murmuring softly, soothing her, promising her all would be well. And she let herself believe, for a heartbeat of time, that his comfort was more than fleeting. He was so warm. So warm and so welcome, if she didn’t know better, she’d think he felt like home.

Until she remembered that he wasn’t. That he’d never be.

She pulled back, straightening and wiping the tears from her eyes. When she looked up at him, it was to discover that he looked as uncomfortable as she felt. “I’ve relied too much upon you, my lord. You’ve really been a remarkable guard through this adventure. But it is over now. I shall rent a room at the inn. When my father’s men find me, I’ll return with them. This entire journey was a mistake.”

“Bollocks,” he said softly, surprising her. “This was a dream. It was the life you thought you’d have. And now it’s not the life you will have. But that doesn’t mean you can’t still have the freedom.” He watched her for a long moment before he shook his head. “You’re not staying at the inn.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You are coming to Lyne Castle. With me.”

Confusion flared, along with something else—something like desire. Not that she’d ever admit it. “Why?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I can think of two good reasons. First, because if you come with me, I can keep you safe until you decide your next path. We didn’t run from your father’s men so you could change your mind once things go slightly amiss.”

It didn’t feel slightly amiss. It felt as though she’d made a terrible mistake. “And the second reason?”

“Because I’ve a proposition for you,” he said. “One that won’t take long, but will pay handsomely.” Her brow furrowed, and he continued. “Give me a few days, and I’ll give you enough money to buy that happiness you so desperately want.”

She blinked, the promise exceedingly tempting. “That seems like a great deal of money.”

“Lucky for you, I have a great deal of money. And I’m about to have more.”

“Enough for me to never have to return to London?”

He inclined his head. “If that’s what you like. Enough for your bookshop. Wherever you want it to be.”

Desire and doubt warred within her. “Why would you help me?”

For a long moment, she thought he might say something lovely. Something that revealed that he was coming to like her. Hope flared, quick and dangerous. But when he replied, he said no such thing. “Because you are my perfect revenge.”

She narrowed her gaze on his, dread pooling. “What do you want from me?”

“It’s quite simple, really.” He opened the door to the coach and indicated she should enter, not knowing how much his next words stung. “I’m going to present you to my father. As my soon-to-be wife.”

She stilled. “You are serious.”

“Quite. We’ve been fabricating a marriage for the last week; an engagement shouldn’t be so very difficult. We’ve already started.”

“You didn’t tell Robbie we were engaged for me. You did it for you.”

He shook his head. “For us. It works for both of us.”

She ignored the pang in her chest at the words. “You’re asking me to lie to a duke.”

“To my father.”

She blinked. “I thought you planned to convince him that you’d never marry.”

“And I won’t,” King replied. “I’ve no intention of marrying you.”

He said it as though it wouldn’t hurt. And it shouldn’t, she realized. There was never a moment when he’d given any implication that they were more than traveling companions.

Except for last night, in the carriage.

She pushed the thought away. It wasn’t as though she would marry him, anyway. But still. “It’s a wonder any woman in Christendom finds you charming.”

He added, as though it would help, “I’ve no intention of marrying anyone, Sophie. You know that.”

“Have you changed your mind then? Do you wish to make a dying man feel better?” She asked the questions even though she knew the answers.

“No.”

You’re my perfect revenge.

“Because I am a Dangerous Daughter. God forbid anyone with fortune and title marry a Talbot sister.”

He stilled at the words, and she wondered if her frustration was clear. If her hurt was. “Sophie—”

She cut him off. “No, no. Of course. Your great, aristocratic father will no doubt be horrified that you’ve stooped to marry me. I lack breeding, bloodline, and class. My father won his title at cards—making us at best usurpers of title and privilege.”

“He believes those things.”

“Just as his son does.”

His eyes went wide, and then narrowed with anger. “You know not what you speak of.”

“No?” she asked, suddenly feeling very brave. “I think I know precisely that of which I speak. You didn’t linger here out of concern for my future. You didn’t sally into the bakeshop to rescue me out of the goodness of your heart. You don’t offer me this arrangement because you wish for me to have freedom.”

“That’s not true.”

“Really? So if I were another woman, with sounder reputation, with bluer blood, you would have proposed this?” She paused and he did not speak. “Of course you wouldn’t have, because those women wouldn’t anger your father so much.”

“Sophie—” King had the grace to look chagrined.

She was having none of it. “But those women also wouldn’t have the opportunity I have. I wasn’t raised to marry well, Lord Eversley. I wasn’t born with the silver spoon that allows you to be so utterly deplorable. So, fine. You want a Soiled S to trot before your father? You get one.”

She took hold of the edge of the coach and hoisted herself in without his help.