The Rogue Not Taken

BEYOND THE BEDPOST—CUMBRIA CASTLE CONFESSIONS!

That night, long after the house quieted, Sophie waited for her thoughts to do the same.

She sat straight up on the edge of her bed, clad in one of Sesily’s dressing gowns, a beautiful grass green satin covered in pearls and feathers, with a matching silk nightdress and slippers.

It was a costume more than anything else—a uniform. She was to use it to do what countless other women had done in similar frocks. Land herself a husband.

Willing away the distaste that came at the thought, she stared at the door between her rooms and King’s. She’d done all she could to put off approaching him, bathed and changed the bandage on her shoulder, dried her hair by the fire, combed it until it gleamed. It was late enough that he was no doubt abed, no doubt asleep, without thought of her.

They’d barely spoken in the hours since her family had arrived. He’d taken his leave immediately, no doubt grateful that his responsibility to her was complete. They’d dined with him, his father nowhere to be found, her sisters more than willing to fill whatever awkward silences arose with their chatter about London and Society.

King had remained quiet, answering only those questions that came directly to him.

Her sisters had known better than to engage him.

There’d been a moment when her mother had inquired after their journey—why it had taken such a long time. King had looked to Sophie in the aftermath of the question, surprised that the countess seemed not to know that she’d been shot and convalesced in Sprotbrough.

There hadn’t been a time to tell her family what had happened, strangely, as a bullet wound had seemed trivial when compared to the wound her family suffered. The one she would cause for King.

She’d watched him throughout dinner, memorizing his face, his eyes, the way his lips curved around his words. She wanted to remember all the little moments she could amass before tonight. Before she knocked on that door and changed their lives forever.

If she could find the courage to do it.

If she could find the willingness to do it.

Perhaps he would refuse her.

Relief flared at the idea. If he refused her, her family would have to try another way. If he refused her, she could leave, and find another life. She’d never have to return to London. To Mossband. She could disappear, and they could live their lives without her.

He could live his life without her.

She would have to live her life without him.

The thought ached in her chest, her heart somehow beating there, in spite of it, and she exhaled, standing and crossing to the adjoining door. She could end this now. She would knock; he would refuse her; she would leave.

Even though she desperately wanted him to accept her.

Not like this.

No, not like this. But the idea that she would never see him again, never touch him again, never be near him again . . .

It was torture.

She put her hand to the door, palm flat against the cool mahogany, and she lowered her forehead to the door. Breathing deep, imagining that she could smell him there, on the other side, soap and spice and King.

How much she wanted him, and how little she wanted this.

She straightened and lifted her hand, preparing to announce herself, when a knock sounded on the main door to her chamber.

She pulled her hand back from its task as though she’d been burned, immediately putting distance between her and the entrance to his rooms. She crossed to the door and opened it to reveal Seraphina, her hands at her stomach.

The eldest Talbot sister was out of breath. “I was afraid I had missed you.”

Sophie stood back and waved Sera into the room. “I have been . . . postponing.”

Sera crossed to the center of the bedchamber and turned to face Sophie as she closed the door, locking them both inside. “Do you love him?”

The question surprised Sophie, and it was a moment before she found her reply. “Does it matter?”

Sera sat on the edge of the bed, catching her breath. “It does, rather.”

Sophie crossed and poured her sister a glass of water, watching as she drank deep before saying, “Why?”

“If you don’t, you shouldn’t do this.”

Sophie shook her head. “You think I’ll find another who loves me?”

“I think you shouldn’t marry a man who doesn’t care for you.”

It was too late for that. “It is easy for you to say such a thing. Nothing about my actions will change your future.” Sophie sat next to Seraphina. “I’m so sorry, Sera. If I hadn’t—”

Sera reached over and took Sophie’s hand, clutching tight. “You defended me. No one else would have.” They were both lost in the memory before Sera chuckled. “And he deserved it.”

“He deserved much worse,” Sophie said.

The chuckle became a laugh. “Right on his backside in that pool!”

Sophie joined her sister in laughter. “Poor fish!”

“Oh, I hope he’s put off fish forever!” Sera giggled. “The cook is French, with a particular skill for poisson!”

They laughed together for an age, brushing tears from their eyes before reality returned, and they grew serious once more. Sophie turned to her sister. “I would do it again,” she confessed. The events of the Liverpool soiree had brought her to King. And she wouldn’t ever change that.

Sera squeezed Sophie’s hand and nodded, then repeated her question. “Do you love him?”

The tears returned, this time without a hint of laughter, pricking the backs of Sophie’s eyes with honesty. “I do,” she whispered. “I love him quite desperately.”

More than she’d ever thought possible.

She lied to me. How broken he’d been when he confessed that. How devastated.

She couldn’t do this.

She couldn’t lie to him. What a monster that would make her. Ariadne in the labyrinth, undeserving of him.

And she desperately wanted to deserve him. She’d never deserve him like this.

Sera turned to her then, taking both her hands in hers and giving voice to Sophie’s thoughts. “You mustn’t do this.”

“But if I don’t—what of you? What of Sesily and Seleste and Seline? What of Papa?”

Sera smiled. “We climb like ivy. Think you one harsh winter will end our journey?”

“You can say it . . .”

Seraphina nodded. “I can. Because my life is cast in stone. I am Duchess of Haven. And I carry the future duke inside me.” Sophie watched as her sister’s gaze grew sad. “Because of that, I can tell you that if you love him, you should tell him.” She shook her head. “I never told Haven. And look at the mess I’ve made.” She lifted Sophie’s hands to her lips and spoke to them. “Tell him, Sophie. Give yourself a chance at happiness.”

I can’t love you.

Sophie shook her head. “He doesn’t want love.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t know he already has it.” Sera’s eyes swam with unshed tears. “I never told him, Sophie. And by the time I thought to . . . I’d already lost him.” She took a deep breath. “What Father asks . . . it’s so much. Yes, it might save him. Might save Sesily and Seleste and Seline. You’ll be a marchioness and a duchess and that title might help us all. But Eversley—he’ll hate you for it.”

She couldn’t bear the idea of King hating her. But what of the family she loved?

“You cannot protect us all, Sophie. Not forever.”

She looked to Seraphina, her eldest sister, whom Sophie had always considered her most kindred sister. “I love you.”

Sera pulled her close, wrapping her in a tight embrace. “I know. We know. Why do you think we came to you? But you love him as well. And love does not come in half measures—you shall hate yourself forever if you trap him. I know it better than any.”

She didn’t want him trapped.

She wanted him to want her. As desperately as she wanted him.

She couldn’t do it. Not even for the family she loved. There had to be another way.

“Sophie . . . please. Tell him you love him and see what comes of it.”

Sophie looked to the door beyond which he slept, hope and terror warring for position in her chest. “What if he laughs?”

“I’ll toss him in the nearest fishpond,” Seraphina vowed.

Sophie gave a little huff of humorless laughter at that. “What if . . .”

I can’t love you.

“What if he doesn’t love me?”

Sera was quiet for a long time, and then said, “What if he does?”

Sophie nodded. “If he doesn’t . . . I must leave. Mother and Papa—”

“I shall help you.”

“With what money?”

“There are benefits to being the Duchess of Haven,” Sera said with a little smile. “I shall help you. Wherever you wish to go. Wales. The Outer Hebrides. America. Wherever.”

Far from here. Far from him.

Free from him.

As though she would ever be free of him.

Sophie nodded. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”

She nodded and stood, knowing that she could not have him forever. Wishing that she could at least have him tonight. She tightened the belt on her extravagant dressing gown, festooned with feathers and brocade. “This is a ridiculous gown.”

Sera chuckled. “Sesily would tell you it makes your bosom look wonderful.” She reached up and pulled the pins from Sophie’s hair, loosing it around her shoulders and arranging it this way and that. When she was satisfied with the work, she met Sophie’s gaze. “He shan’t know what’s struck him.”

Sophie took a deep breath, eyeing the adjoining door as Sera moved to leave the room.

“Sera,” Sophie called, staying her sister as she opened the door.

Seraphina turned back.

Sophie did not know what to say, but the eldest Talbot seemed to understand nonetheless. Her hand moved to her swelling midsection, stroking over it. Protecting it. “Tell him. And let the road roll out before you.”

Sophie nodded.

She would. For her sister.

For herself.

The door closed behind Seraphina with a soft click, and the sound propelled Sophie across the room, to where she’d been standing before her sister had arrived. Her heart pounded nearly unbearably; she’d never been so nervous in all her life.

If she did not knock now, she would lose her nerve.

She’d promised Seraphina she’d knock.

What if he doesn’t love me?

What if he does?

She lifted her hand, willing herself to knock.

Perhaps he wasn’t even in the room.

Perhaps he was a sound sleeper.

She wouldn’t like to wake him.

Stop being a cabbagehead and knock on the ruddy door.

Sophie took a deep breath, willing her heart to stop its racing, and knocked.

The door opened instantly, as though he’d been standing on the other side, waiting for her. She gave a little yelp of surprise at the instantaneous response, and he raised a brow. “Did I scare you?”

“A bit, yes,” she said, taking him in, his dark curls fallen haphazardly over his brow, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbow, boots off, feet bare. So desperately handsome, it was difficult to look at him.

He was too much for her.

She was not enough for him.

“You do know that the normal response to knocking is for one to open the door?” His casual teasing made her immediately more comfortable. She knew this man. She’d spent days on end with him.

She smirked. “You do know that most people don’t linger on one side of a door and wait for knocking?”

“Most people don’t share a door with you.” Her heart skipped a beat and he used her surprise to take her in, top to toe. “Christ. I know I’m not supposed to say it, Sophie, but you are beautiful.”

This time, she believed him. Somehow. She looked down at the dressing gown. “It’s Sesily’s.”

“I’m not talking about the gown.”

She didn’t know what to say, so she asked, “Were you waiting for me?”

“Hoping more than waiting.”

Her brow furrowed. For what could he be hoping? He’d said good-bye to her earlier in the day. He’d made it clear that they were not to be. “But this afternoon you said—”

“I know what I said.” He paused. “Why did you knock?”

There were a half-dozen reasons, and only one that mattered.

Tell him.

“I . . .” She couldn’t. “. . . am leaving tomorrow.”

He nodded. “I assumed your family was not planning to take up residence.”

“I don’t imagine your father would like that.”

“The idea does have its charms.”

Silence stretched between them, the thought of his father reinforcing everything she knew about this man and their nonexistent future. He wouldn’t marry. He wouldn’t have children. The line ended with him.

Whether or not she loved him.

Tell him.

She took a deep breath. “I wished to say . . .”

Good Lord. It was difficult.

“What is it?” She couldn’t meet his eyes, her gaze falling to his hand, where it was fisted at his thigh, knuckles white, as though he was holding something tightly.

She spoke to that hand, beginning again. “I wished to say . . .”

I wished to say that I am not sure I can live without you.

I wished to say that I will always be yours.

I wished to say . . .

“Sophie . . .” Her name was more than a prompt and less than a question.

She looked up at him then, his green eyes utterly focused on her. “I wished to say that I love you.”

For a moment, the universe stilled. He did not speak. He did not move. He did not look away from her. Sophie’s heart stopped beating. Indeed, the only evidence that she’d spoken at all was the heat that flooded her cheeks in the aftermath of her confession.

When she could not bear the silence a moment longer, she added in a flood of words, “I’m leaving tomorrow. And I’m not going back to London. I’m going to find my freedom. And earlier . . . we agreed that tonight might be ours.” She paused. “I know I said I couldn’t bear to be with you any longer . . .” She looked down at that hand again. “But I changed my mind. I should like to be with you. Tonight. Just this once. I should like you to ruin me. Because you’ve ruined me anyway, really. For all others. You once asked me how all this ended. And I don’t know, honestly. I don’t know that happily is viable anymore. But I know that tonight . . . with you . . .” She trailed off, then whispered, “I could be happy tonight.”

He remained still, but when he spoke, the words came like gravel, pulled from somewhere deep and dark inside him. “Say it again.”

She shuffled her feet, feeling like a child on display, suddenly uncertain of her words.

“Please, Sophie,” he begged. “Again.”

As though she could resist him. “I love you,” she whispered.

And then that fist released, and he moved, reaching for her, tangling his hand in her hair, pulling her to him for a long, wicked, wonderful kiss, stealing her breath and her sanity until he pulled back and pressed his forehead to hers, his thumb raking over her jaw as he met her gaze. “Again.”

“I love you,” she said, the words lost in another wild kiss, this one accompanied by his hands stroking down her back, pulling her tight against him and lifting her high off the ground, encouraging her to wrap her legs around him as he backed away from the door and kicked it closed with one long, muscled leg.

He carried her to his bed, following her down, pressing her into the soft mattress, the weight of him welcome between her thighs. She gasped at the sensation, the pleasure of him there, where she’d wanted him for days. He rained kisses over her face and neck, speaking as he went. “Christ, Sophie . . . I shouldn’t want this . . . I shouldn’t take it . . . I can’t be what you desire.”

Except he was what she desired.

He was the only thing she’d ever desired in her life.

“I shouldn’t accept your love,” he said between soft, drugging kisses, his fingers working at the sash of her dressing gown, his lips on the soft skin of her neck. “I’ll never be good enough for it.” He paused, lifting his head, meeting her eyes. “But Christ, I want it.”

“It’s yours,” she said, leaning up and catching his bottom lip in her teeth, sucking at it until he groaned his pleasure and gave her the kiss she desired. “As am I.”

He cursed, the word a benediction in this, and released the belt of her dressing gown. “I’ve never seen you naked,” he said, working at the pearls of the nightgown beneath. “I want that. I want that before you leave. Before you go and find a life more perfect than what I can give you. I’ll spend an eternity in hell for it,” he vowed, “But I don’t care. I want to see you naked. I want to worship you until you remember nothing but my name. But my touch. But this place.

“I want to worship you until I can’t close my eyes without seeing you. I want the memory of you, Sophie. Forever. So when another man loves you and gives you the life you deserve, I can torture myself with it.”

Tears threatened at the words. There would be no other men. No other love, she wanted to scream at him—she was his alone. Forever.

She wanted it, too, and she loved the feel of the silk sliding off her, baring her skin to the candlelight and his gaze. He pulled back, lifting off her, sitting up, and she was instantly nervous at the loss of him, moving to sit up herself, to cover her nudity.

“No,” he said, pressing her back down to the bed flat against the crisp linen sheets, open to his gaze and his touch. His attention lingered on her shoulder. “How does it feel?”

She smiled at his care. “I barely notice it.”

“Liar,” he said. “Let’s see if we can make it truth.” His hands spread over her skin, down the sides of her torso, over the swell of her belly, down her thighs, and she forgot she even had a shoulder, let alone one that had been shot. “You’re so beautiful,” he said again. “So beautiful.”

His hands ran down her legs to her slippers, and he slid off the bed to kneel there, at her bare feet. He took one in his hands, running his thumbs over the sole, sending waves of unexpected pleasure through her. “I still think of you in slippers on that road,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to her ankle as he made her wild with decadent pleasure. “I hated that you mistreated yourself.”

He switched to her other foot and offered the same treatment as she shook her head. “They don’t hurt now.”

“No?” he asked, kissing at her ankle, his tongue slipping out to find the sensitive skin there.

She sighed her pleasure. “You feel wonderful.”

“Good,” he whispered. “I want you to always feel wonderful.”

She loved his touch, but she wanted him, too. Wanted to explore him as he had explored her. If tonight was all they would have, then she would take her pleasure as well. She sat up, her fingers finding his soft hair, urging him up, over her, until she could reach his long, muscled thighs, tracing up to the waist of his trousers, to work at his shirttails.

He grasped her wrists, and she resisted his touch. “No,” she whispered. “Tonight is for me, as well.”

He watched her for a long moment, his green eyes darkening with each passing second. “I’m not sure I can bear it.”

“You shall have to,” she replied. “I want my exploration.”

He released her, rising up on his knees over her, pulling the shirt out of his trousers and over his head, revealing his chest and torso, defined like a statue from a Renaissance master. She couldn’t stop herself from running her fingers over the muscle there, loving the catch of his breath. “You’re like Michelangelo’s David,” she marveled, exploring the dips and rises of hard muscle. “You’re perfect.”

He watched her as she touched him, his breath ragged and glorious. “I’m not at all perfect,” he said. “But Christ if you don’t make me feel so.”

She sat up then, wanting to get closer to him, to feel his warmth, to explore him. She flattened her palms against his chest, loving his heat and strength, and couldn’t resist leaning in and pressing a kiss there, glorying in the feel of crisp hair. At the caress, his hands threaded into her hair, tilting her face up to him. “I don’t think I can take much of this, love.”

She smiled, adoring the power that rioted through her at the words. “Surely you can, my lord. Need I remind you of your reputation?”

He gave a little huff of laughter that turned into a groan as she sought out the falls of his trousers. “I thought we discussed the fact that my reputation is more tale than truth?” Her fingers fumbled at his buttons, betraying her own inexperience, and he cursed, stopping her movement. “Sophie. I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to—”

“I do,” she said, surprising herself with her bravery. “I think it’s my turn.”

He raised a brow, watching her. “More mine than yours, it seems.”

She smiled. “We’ll see.”

He leaned down and took her lips in a wild kiss, releasing her after a long moment to whisper, “You are unbearably perfect.”

She blushed, then found her courage. “Trousers, please,” she whispered. “I’ve wanted them off since I saw you that first night—in leather breeches, standing tall on your curricle.”

“You liked those?” He laughed, and lifted himself from the bed to remove them.

She remembered the way the leather of his breeches had revealed the thick muscles of his thighs. “Very much.” The grey wool slid to the floor, revealing long, muscled legs, and she realized that the leather had not done him justice.

And then she saw the scar.

Long and thick and brutal, white with years of healing, it ran nearly the full length of his left thigh. She couldn’t help but gasp at it, at the pain it must have caused him. She reached for it, and he stepped back. “I forget that it is there,” he said.

It was a lie, of course. No one could forget such a thing. “What happened?”

“The carriage accident.”

The one that killed his love.

No. Not his love. The one that killed the woman who betrayed him.

The woman who made him swear off love. The woman who made it impossible for Sophie to have the only thing she desired.

She reached for him, eager to will away the pain from the accident. But she knew without asking that he would take any more attention to the scar as pity. And he would deny her the rest. Instead, she moved toward him, coming to the edge of the bed, where he stood, one hand covering the most critical part of him, and she let her gaze fall to that mysterious place. “I wish to see you.”

He watched her for a long moment, and then moved his hand, revealing the hard length of himself, throbbing high against his stomach. Her gaze did not waver, not even when she said the only thing that came to mind. “In this, you do not look like David.”

He laughed and reached for her. “I shall take that as a compliment,” he growled, pulling her closer, brushing the edges of her dressing gown over her shoulders and down her arms until she, too, was naked.

“I don’t suppose you would lie down for me? It would make everything much easier,” she said, and he did, remarkably, stretching out on his back and lifting her to straddle him, her knees on either side of his hips.

She stared down at him, taking in his sheer masculine beauty. “You are . . .” She trailed off.

He reached up to cup her breasts, playing at the hard tips until she sighed and rocked against him, making him groan.

She would never get her exploration this way. She clasped his hands. “Stop. It’s my turn.”

He raised a brow. “You don’t want me to touch you?”

“Of course I do. But I wish to touch you more.”

He exhaled, long and graveled before he stretched his arms up, stacking them beneath his head. “I am yours to explore, my lady.”

And he allowed it, allowed her to stroke and discover, over his arms and chest, leaning over to kiss the corded muscles of his shoulders, to suck at the skin of his neck, to kiss down the slope of his chest until his breath came in quick pants and he groaned her name. “You’re the worst kind of tease,” he whispered. “I can feel you there, hot and wet above me.”

She pressed against him, reveling in him, hard and hot. “Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” he said. “In the best kind of way.”

“How?”

He reached for her, pulling her down for a kiss. “You’re so curious.”

“If this is the only time—” She stopped. She wouldn’t think about this being the only time. She collected herself. “How does it hurt?”

“It aches. For you.”

She scooted back, revealing the hard length of him. “May I touch it?”

He gritted his teeth. “I shouldn’t let you,” he said. “I should pack you into that pretty green gown and send you back to bed. Before it’s too late.”

She shook her head. “I wish you wouldn’t.” And she touched him anyway, stroking him in a long, lingering touch, reveling in the way he sucked in a breath of air and closed his eyes. “Does that help?”

“Do it again.” The command sent wicked pleasure through her.

She obeyed. “Like this?”

King’s green eyes opened, and he leveled her with the most glorious look she’d ever seen, his hands coming to hers, showing her how to touch him, how to stroke. He grew under her ministrations, somehow harder, longer. More handsome.

She could not stop staring at him, even when she said, “What you did to me . . . with your mouth.”

He groaned, harsh and unsettling in the quiet room. “Yes?”

“I’d like to . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence, instead scooting back, leaning down to press a kiss to the hard, hot tip of him, straining above their hands. He growled at the touch, and she lifted her head. “Is this . . .”

“It’s fucking perfect,” he said. “Christ, Sophie.”

Somehow, the foul language made the entire moment more perfect, and she lowered her lips again, taking him into her mouth, licking at him, sucking tentatively, glorying in the way he moved against her, showing her what he liked, chanting her name like a prayer. “Sophie . . . love . . . yes . . .”

She continued, learning the taste and feel of him, loving the pleasure she gave him. Loving the fact that she could give him this pleasure, here, now, once, before she left. She put all her love into the caress, wanting him to know the truth—that there would never be anyone else for her.

After too short a time, he thrust his hands into her hair and lifted her from him. “Stop,” he said, sitting up, his strong arms pulling her up to straddle him as he stole her lips in a long, wicked kiss. He released her with a gasping breath and repeated himself. “Stop.”

“Did you not . . .”

He rolled her down onto her back, finding his way between her thighs, his hands coming to her hair, holding her still for another kiss. “I did. Christ. I’ve never enjoyed anything like I did that.” He pressed his forehead to hers, his eyes closed. “You must go back to your room, love. We cannot do this.”

No.

She didn’t want to leave him.

She put her hand to his cheek. “King.”

He shook his head. “I stood on this side of the damn door for an age, trying to convince myself that you are not mine. That I can’t have you. If we do this, Sophie . . .”

He trailed off, and she heard a myriad of finishes of the sentence.

If we do this, I’ll never forgive myself.

If we do this, you’ll be ruined.

If we do this, you’ll still be alone tomorrow.

She reached up and kissed him softly. “I don’t care. I want it.”

“You want me.”

“I love you,” she vowed. “I’ll only ever love you.”

“How am I to deny you anything after that?”

She lifted her hips against his, testing the power of her movement, loving the way his eyes darkened at her touch. “You aren’t to deny me.”

“Sophie,” he whispered, shifting, the hard length of him finding the wet heart of her, the tip of him teasing at the place where she wanted him quite desperately. Pleasure shot through her.

He repeated the motion.

Good Lord.

“King, don’t stop.”

He didn’t, instead pressing deeper, rocking into her, stretching her gently before he stopped and said her name. Her gaze flew to his. “You’re so tight, love. Is it all right?”

It was strange and unsettling, and somehow wicked and wonderful. She nodded. “Is there more?”

He laughed, catching her lips in a long kiss. “There is.”

“More, please.”

And he gave it to her, rocking deeper and deeper until she was filled beyond anything she’d ever experienced. And he was so close to her. They were together for this one moment, for this one night. She’d never forget this moment. When she took her last breath, it would be this moment she remembered. The moment when King was hers. Forever.

Tears came, unbidden, and he stilled. “No. Christ. No.” He began to pull out of her. “Sophie, love. I’m sorry.”

“No!” she cried, tightening her thighs around him. “No. Don’t stop.”

“I’m hurting you.”

“You’re not.” There was nothing near pain in the way he touched her. Nothing close to it.

“Love, I can see it,” he said. “I can see the tears.”

She shook her head. “You’re not hurting me. It feels rather wonderful.”

He kissed her, holding her still, staring deep into her eyes. “What then?”

This hurts me. This moment. The truth of it.

That this is all I’ll ever have of you.

She couldn’t tell him any of that, of course. So, instead, she told him the only thing that mattered. “I love you.”

He kissed her again, reaching between them, stroking the tender, sensitive spot above the place where they were joined. “I could listen to you say that forever,” he said, running his thumb around and around the straining part of her. “I am going to make you say it tonight, again and again. I am going to make you say it when you come. I am going to watch the words on your lips as you fall apart in my arms, and as I put you back together.”

She would tell him whenever he liked. The words had freed her, and she whispered them over and over like a prayer as he lifted himself over her, rocking against her, long and slow, wreaking havoc on her body and mind. His thumb moved faster and faster in small tight circles, playing over that glorious place, sensation building, making good on all his promises. She was drawn tight as a bow, desperate for release, and she opened her eyes, meeting his, aching for the pleasure only he could give her.

“I love you,” she whispered, and the words rocketed through them both, tipping her over the edge as his movements came deeper, faster, more powerful, making her forget everything but his name, but the feel of him against her, but the way she loved him.

“Look at me, Sophie. I want to see it.”

She did, crying out as the crest came again, and she threw herself into the pleasure, the sound of her name on his lips, as he tumbled into it with her.

It was magnificent.

He rolled away from her, clutching her to him, careful of her bandage, his fingers trailing over her good shoulder. “Sophie . . .” he said, letting her name trail off, curl around them in this warm, dark room.

He was magnificent.

She sighed, curling closer to him, and he kissed the top of her head, the soft caress tempting her nearly as much as the rest of the interlude had.

They were magnificent together.

But they would never be together.

And with that insidious thought, she was returned to reality, to the arms of the man she loved, who would never love her. Who had another plan for his life. A plan that did not include love.

Perhaps she could have lived without love before tonight. Before her confession. Before knowing that she’d never be able to be with him without quite desperately wanting him to love her in return.

But she couldn’t. And so she would leave. Tonight. Escape in the dark, and hang her family and their wild plan to trap the Marquess of Eversley into marriage. She didn’t want him trapped.

The only way she wanted to marry the Marquess of Eversley was in a love match. And that would never happen. So she would find her way away from here and spend her life with the memory of tonight.

With the memory of his pleasure when she told him the truth.

When she confessed her love.

The memory would be enough.

What a lie that was.

She slid out of his arms, to the edge of the bed.

It would be enough, she told herself, ignoring the truth.

It had to be.