The Rogue Not Taken

KING CONQUERED!

He was going to marry her.

Indeed, he likely should have told her so before he made love to her, here in his bed. Before he ruined her, quite thoroughly. But there was something tremendous about making love to her, knowing that she was willing to give everything to him, without the promise of a title.

Knowing she didn’t care about the promise of a title.

Knowing she wanted him for him, and not his name, and not his fortune.

Knowing she loved him.

She loved him.

The moment she’d said it, he’d known their fate. He’d known that he would take her here, in this bed, against the cool linen sheets where he’d fought to find sleep and instead found visions of her. He’d known he’d take her virginity, and with it, her future.

He’d known they would marry.

She loved him.

He wanted her to say it again, as though she hadn’t said it a dozen times already. He didn’t think he’d ever tire of hearing her say the words. Of knowing the truth of them. Sophie Talbot loved him.

Her love made him want her thoroughly, without hesitation.

Even if he could never find a way to love her in return. He knew it was selfish and arrogant and the worst kind of greed, but he’d tasted the honesty in her words, and seen it in her eyes, and felt it in her touch.

And he wanted it for himself.

Forever.

So he’d taken her without hesitation. Without telling her the truth—that if she let him take her, they would marry. He’d been afraid she’d stop him if she’d known, afraid she would demand his love in return for her hand in marriage.

And so he’d resorted to the worst kind of trick.

She’d have to marry him now, as she was well and truly ruined. And, despite the fact that her ruination had been part of their ever-evolving agreement, there was no way on earth he was allowing her to leave him.

Ever.

It occurred to him, as they lay quietly in his bed, drenched in candlelight and shadows, her skin soft against his touch, her breath slowing, pleasure threading through them both, her profession of love still lingering in the heavy air, that he should tell her what was to come next.

He should propose.

She deserved a proposal.

He could manage a proposal—a summer fair in the Mossband town square, a masquerade ball, jewels, and public declarations of his intention.

Except Sophie wouldn’t want anything so extravagant.

She sighed in his arms, cuddling closer to him, and he kissed the top of her head.

He’d take her to the center of the labyrinth again. With a plateful of Agnes’s strawberry tarts and a soft wool blanket. He’d go to Mossband and fetch a basketful of sugar buns from Robbie the baker. King smiled in the darkness. His lady had a sweet tooth. He’d feed it for the rest of his life, with pleasure.

Just as soon as he took her to the labyrinth and told her the truth—that even as his past made it impossible for him to promise her love, he wished to promise her the rest. That he would do his best to make her happy.

As meager an offer it was, she loved him, and she would say yes. She would say yes, and they would eat sweets, and then he would lower her to the blanket and strip her bare and lick the sugar from her lips with only the sky and the sun as witness.

It wasn’t a fair in the Mossband town square, but it had the benefit of being quick. He’d take her over the border and marry her in Scotland. They could be wed by this time tomorrow.

And she’d be his. Forever.

She stiffened in his arms, pulling away from him, moving to the edge of the bed. Where was she going? It was the man who was destined to skulk off in the dead of night, was it not? He had plans for her. They involved more kissing. More touching. More of her telling him she loved him.

And she was leaving him.

He reached for her, catching her hand before she could escape. “Where are you going?”

She reached down for her dressing gown, lifting it up and covering herself. “I . . .”

“You don’t need the gown, Sophie,” he said, letting all his desire into his tone. “I shall keep you warm.”

She dipped her head, embarrassed by the words. He’d take great joy in teaching her not to be ashamed of desire. Someday, she’d come naked to his bed. The thought had him instantly hard again.

“Sophie,” he said, “come back to bed.”

“I cannot,” she said, standing and pulling the gown back on, tying the belt haphazardly. “We mustn’t be caught.”

“We shan’t be caught,” he said, moving across the bed, reaching for her, pulling her back to him as he knelt before her. It didn’t matter if they were caught, anyway. He was going to marry her.

He tucked a strand of glorious brown hair behind her ear, running his thumb over the high arc of one cheek. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Stay,” he whispered, leaning in and stealing a kiss, long and lush, reveling in the way her tongue matched his stroke for stroke until they were both gasping for breath. He pulled her close, worrying the soft skin of her ear with his teeth and tongue. “Stay, love. There’s so much more to explore.”

She sighed at the words, but stepped back nonetheless. “I cannot,” she said, the words catching in her throat as she backed away. “We agreed—one night.”

That was before, of course. Before she’d loved him.

Before he’d made love to her.

She couldn’t imagine he’d let her go now—she couldn’t imagine one night would ever be enough. And yet, she was leaving him. Cold realization threaded through him. “Where are you going?”

She met his gaze. “Away. Away from here.”

Away from him.

“And if I wish you to stay? What then?”

She shook her head. “I can’t. It’s too much.”

There was something in the words, something soft and raw and sad, and he realized that she was leaving him because she wanted to stay. Because she thought he wouldn’t give her what she desired.

And perhaps he wouldn’t, in the long run.

Perhaps he’d never be the man she deserved.

But damned if he wasn’t going to try.

Damned if he didn’t want to spend his whole life trying to make her happy.

He came off the bed then, following her as she made for the adjoining door. “Sophie,” he said. “Wait.”

She shook her head, and he could have sworn there were tears there, in her eyes, as she turned away, making a run for the door. His plans changed. He wasn’t going to propose tomorrow. He was going to propose now. He couldn’t bear her sadness, even for a moment.

He loved her.

Good Lord.

He stopped short at the realization, so clear as he considered the possibility that he might have hurt her. He loved her. He never wanted her hurt again. He’d do anything to stop it. He’d do anything for her.

Forever.

And he wanted her to know it. Immediately.

“Sophie, wait,” he said, unable to keep the laughter from his tone as she tore the door open, desperate to be rid of him. He was going to catch her and take her back to bed and tell her how much he loved her. Again and again, until he’d professed it as much as she had.

Until she believed him as he believed her.

He was going to propose to her, and capture her pretty agreement with his lips and make love to her until the sun rose and painted her with gold.

She loved him.

Except she’d gone still, her gaze fixated on something in her bedchamber, horror on her face. King stopped as well, dread twisting in his gut as she shook her head. “No,” she whispered, her hand clutching the edge of the door. “No,” she said again, louder. “I changed my mind.”

Changed her mind.

Jack Talbot stepped through the doorway, his gaze finding the bed and sliding back to where King stood. Naked.

The earl’s brow rose. “Eversley.”

King looked only at Sophie. “You changed your mind about what?”

“You’ve ruined her,” her father said.

Understanding flared, clear and angry, on a wave of pain he would not acknowledge. King spat his reply. “Except it seems she had quite a hand in the ruination.”

Pain flashed in her blue eyes, and he almost believed it. “King—I don’t want this.”

“You did, though, didn’t you? You wanted to trap me.”

Betrayed by the woman he loved.

She shook her head. “I didn’t. I swear.”

“You wanted to trap me,” he repeated, hating the way his throat tightened around the words. They way they reminded him of another woman. Another time. Another love that wasn’t love at all. “You wanted to be a duchess.”

“No,” she said. “I was leaving.” He could hear the distress in her voice. It sounded so honest. “I told you, I was leaving!”

“You were leaving to be caught,” he said. “So I could be caught.”

“No!” she cried.

“You lied to me.”

She wasn’t leaving.

She hadn’t planned one final night.

She didn’t love him.

It was the last that destroyed him. He met her gaze. “You lied to me.”

Her eyes went wide at the words, at the anger in them. “I didn’t,” she said, coming toward him, reaching for him.

He stepped back. If she touched him he did not know what he would do. He’d never felt so broken. Not even the night Lorna had died.

He’d never loved Lorna like he loved Sophie.

The realization stung worse than any blow.

“You wanted to marry me.”

She swallowed. “No,” she said.

He heard the lie and it wrecked him. He was unable to keep himself from thundering, “Stop lying to me!”

Her father stepped between them. “Shout at her again and you won’t be alive to marry her.”

“You arrange to trap another duke using your daughter as bait, and now you rush to protect her?” King did not have a chance to punctuate the question with a fist into his future father-in-law’s face, however, as Sophie was shouting herself, now.

“Fine! I did want to marry you!”

He shouldn’t have been shocked, but he was.

He shouldn’t have been devastated, but he was.

Even as he’d heard the lie, he’d hoped it was true.

I wished to say that I love you.

What an idiot he’d been. He’d never in his life wanted to believe something as much as he wanted to believe that she did love him. But he couldn’t. She’d betrayed him, Ariadne and the Minotaur in the labyrinth. And like the goddamn monster, he never saw it coming.

“I wanted to marry you. Yes. No woman in her right mind wouldn’t want to marry you. You’re . . .” She paused, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “You’re perfect.” She was destroying him with her simple words, with the way she spoke them, her voice rising just slightly, as though she couldn’t quite believe them herself. “You don’t have to marry me. Think of all the others—you never married them.”

He hadn’t ruined the others. He’d never touched them. He’d never known the feel of their soft skin or the way their hair fell across his bedsheets or the way their lips looked, red and lush, covered in strawberry tart and kisses.

He hadn’t loved the others.

He considered her for a long moment, hating her for her tears, for the way they clawed at him even as he dealt with her lies. Hating her for making him love again. For making him love her. For making him hate loving her.

“You might not be the prettiest or the most interesting, but you’re the most dangerous of all the daughters, aren’t you, Sophie?” he said, hating himself for the words as she went rail straight.

He imagined he’d be hating himself a great deal over the course of this marriage.

He wanted to punish her as she had punished him. To give her everything she’d ever wanted, and then snatch it all away.

King looked to his future father-in-law. “You’ll have your wedding,” he said, before turning away, stalking to his desk, extracting paper and pen. “Now get out.”

King summoned her to the drive of Lyne Castle the next afternoon.

Sophie arrived coiffed and dressed in a deep, beautiful purple that Seleste had provided—her sister had sworn that the gown—tighter than Sophie might like—would be flattering enough to draw King’s attention. It was a stunning gown, all lush satin skirts and low necklines, with slippers to match.

They, too, were too tight, but Sophie was willing to do anything necessary for a chance to convince King that she hadn’t lied, so it seemed that being trussed into a new frock and uncomfortable shoes was a small price to pay for it. Perhaps, if he found the dress attractive, he’d allow her to explain what had happened. Why she’d come to him in the night. Why she’d left.

Perhaps he’d let her go.

Let her walk away, and free him of her. Give him a chance to find another woman. One whom he believed.

He waited for her on the riding block of his curricle, two perfectly matched handsome black horses stomping in the dirt. She looked up at him, jaw set, hat low over his brow, reins in hand. “Your curricle is returned.”

“Not the wheels,” he replied without looking at her.

Guilt flared. “I am sorry.”

“I find your apologies rather vacant, Lady Sophie,” he said casually, setting the reins for driving. “Come on then, we haven’t much daylight.”

It was three in the afternoon. “Where are we going?”

He turned to her then, his gaze cool and unmoved and . . . un-King-like. “In, my lady.”

This man, this tone, none of it was familiar. Sadness consumed her, along with no small amount of frustration, She looked for a block to climb up. There wasn’t one. He did not reach over to help her in.

She met his gaze, and he raised a brow in challenge.

She wouldn’t back down. Not now. Instead, she lifted her skirts high—higher than any proper lady should—revealing her legs and knees, and taking hold of the massive curricle wheel, hauling herself up next to him.

He said nothing about her movement, instead flicking the reins expertly and setting them on course. After long minutes of silence, Sophie decided that this was a perfectly reasonable time to explain herself. “I’m sorry.”

He did not reply.

“I never intended for this to happen. I didn’t care that you were a marquess. Or that you were to be a duke.” She paused, but he gave no indication that he had even heard her. “I realize you don’t believe me, but everything I told you was the truth. I never wanted to return to London. I never wanted to marry an aristocrat.”

And then I fell in love with you.

She wanted to say that to him. But she couldn’t bear his disbelief.

She couldn’t blame him for not believing her, either.

“I ruined my family,” she said. “Seraphina has been exiled from Haven’s house, with child. None of my other sisters has a suitor worth his salt. My father’s lost the titled investors for his mines. Because I acted rashly. Yes. For a moment, I considered trapping you into marriage. But only because I wanted you so desperately. It never had to do with the title. Never with my family. Never for any reason but that I wanted you.” She paused, and whispered the last. “Forever.”

“Don’t ever say that word to me again.” The reply was cold and angry. “We do not have a forever. Neither of us deserves it.”

The words stung, but she refused to cry. Instead, she watched the road, rising and falling before them. “When I knocked on the door last night—”

I only wished to tell you I love you.

She didn’t say it. “—I’d already changed my mind. I don’t wish to marry you,” she said, instead, not knowing if the words were true or false. “I don’t wish for you to be saddled with me.”

“I shan’t be,” he said, the words cold and distant. “You needn’t worry.”

She did not care for the certainty in his words. “Where are we going?”

He did not reply, instead turning off the road and onto a smaller road, and then a drive that wound up to a great stone castle that rose up out of the landscape like something out of the Knights of the Round Table.

Outside the keep was a coach and six, hitched and ready, as though someone had just arrived. King pulled the curricle to a stop behind the coach and leapt down to bang on the door to the keep. Seconds later, the door opened to reveal the Duke of Warnick and a young woman draped in a green and black plaid.

Warnick stepped out of the keep with a smile, clapping King on the back heartily before turning to her. “Lady Sophie,” he said, coming forward to help her down, “Your husband-to-be is already neglecting you, I see.”

Sophie blinked. “Husband-to-be?”

Warnick tilted his head to one side, watching her with curiosity before turning back to King. “You haven’t asked her? A little late for that, no?”

King did not look at her. “She knows we’re to be married. She’s simply playing coy.”

Sophie forced a smile at the words. “Of course,” she said, attempting to hide her confusion. “I simply did not know that you knew, Your Grace.”

He laughed. “We have lax rules in Scotland, my lady, but the ones governing witnesses to weddings are fairly firm. I know, as your officiant.”

Sophie blinked. “Our officiant.”

“Yes! Don’t worry, I’ve been to several weddings. I shall take today seriously.”

“Today,” she said.

“Yes.”

“We’re to be married, today.”

“Aye,” the massive Scot said with a smile. “Else why would King have ferreted you away to Scotland?”

“Of course,” she said. “Why else?”

But she wanted to scream.

“You make a beautiful bride, if I may say so,” the duke continued as though all was perfectly normal. “Of course, the last time I saw you, you were much more . . . interestingly . . . dressed.”

“Shut up, Warnick,” King growled.

Sophie blinked, unable to be embarrassed of her footman’s garb as all her affront was taken up with the fact that she was about to be wed. “We’re to be married here. In your house.”

Warnick looked back at the massive keep. “One of them. Unfortunately, it’s not the nicest.”

“We won’t be going in,” King said. “If nothing else, the Scots understand marital expediency.” He looked to the plaid-covered girl. “I assume you are our second witness?”

“Aye, m’lord,” she said.

“And what’s your name?” he asked, the words an octave lower than his usual voice.

“Catherine.”

He smiled at her, and Sophie couldn’t help the way her heart pounded at the dimples that flashed there, in his handsome face. “Well, Catherine, you may call me King.”

The girl returned his smile warmly, and Sophie wanted to hit him. Hard.

King turned to Warnick, who was watching the scene carefully. “Let’s have this done.”

Warnick nodded. “I suppose we can skip the dearly beloved bit.”

“Indeed,” said King.

“I don’t know,” snapped Sophie. “Catherine seems fairly beloved.”

Warnick’s black brows rose and he looked to King. “Dearly beloved, then.”

King smirked. “Whatever my betrothed wishes.”

“Dearly beloved,” the duke intoned, “we are gathered here today to join this man”—he indicated King—“and this woman”—he waved to Sophie—“in holy matrimony.”

“Wait,” Sophie said.

“My lady?” asked the duke, all solicitousness.

“We’re doing this now?”

“Yes,” said King.

“In the drive of the Duke of Warnick’s castle?”

“Och. You see? She doesn’t like the castle.” Warnick pointed out before leaning in. “My highland keep is much nicer.”

“No no. It’s not the castle. The castle is lovely. But the drive—we couldn’t do it in a place more . . . authentic?”

King stared at her for a long moment and then said, “If I were marrying a more authentic bride, I might be troubled to find somewhere better.”

She gasped at the words. “You’re horrid.”

“Indeed, it seems I am. Aren’t we a sound match.”

“Perhaps we should wait and finish the ceremony another time,” the duke said, looking from King to Sophie.

“Perhaps so,” she said. She wasn’t going to marry him. Not like this. Not with him furious. She turned for the curricle and took several steps before landing herself on a particularly jagged rock. She gasped her pain and reached down to inspect her slipper. “Perhaps never is a good time for Lord Eversley.”

“You should be more careful about where you walk,” King said, his gaze on her foot. For the first time since she’d met him in the drive at Lyne Castle, he revealed emotion. He was livid.

“Well I’m sorry if I wasn’t prepared for a craggy-drived wedding. You should be more careful about where you take me,” she retorted. “Now you’ve torn my slipper.”

Warnick snorted his laughter.

“We’re to be married. In this place. At this time,” King said, looking away from her, the words cold and certain. He glowered at the duke. “Do it.”

She stopped and turned back. “I don’t think you understand,” she began. “I’m not—”

Catherine interrupted her, speaking from her place in the doorway to the castle. “It’s done.”

Everyone looked at her.

“I beg your pardon?” Sophie asked.

“I said it’s done.” Catherine pointed at her. “You said, We’re to be married here.” She pointed to King. “And he said, We’re to be married in this place, at this time. I witnessed it, as did Alec.” She looked to the duke. “You heard it, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Warnick said, surprise in the words. “It’s that simple? No dearly beloved required?”

Catherine shrugged one shoulder. “It’s the marriage that’s important, not how you get to it.” She looked to Sophie and King. “It’s done. We’ve witnessed your intent to be married, and so, you’re married.” She smiled. “Congratulations.”

It couldn’t be true.

Warnick’s brows rose and he nodded. “Fair enough.”

“That was significantly less painful than I expected it to be,” King said.

“No!” she said. If she was to marry him, she wanted something to feel like marriage. They couldn’t be. This couldn’t be it.

The duke looked to her. “You don’t wish to marry him?”

“Not like this,” she said.

“This is the only way it happens,” King replied. “I want it over and done.”

Sophie met his gaze, hating him. Loving him.

“My lady, do you wish to marry him?” Warnick asked again, serious this time.

She didn’t look away from King. Couldn’t. And she told the truth. Made the vow there in that mad place. “I do.”

Fury flashed in King’s eyes before he looked away.

He collected a box from the floor of the curricle and left to deliver it to the floor of the coach.

As Sophie saw it, she had two options. She could watch him leave her there, in the drive belonging to the Duke of Warnick and whoever Catherine was, or she could tell him the truth. Every bit of it. And let him decide what came next.

One month earlier, she might have chosen the first option.

But she was a different Sophie now, and so she followed him, not caring that their first argument as husband and wife was going to be immediately following their wedding, which she seemed to have missed, anyway.

“I didn’t want this,” she said. “Not like this.”

“I’m afraid I was not in the market for half the ton at St. George’s,” he said.

“You needn’t have been in the market for any of it,” she said. “I never asked for you to marry me.”

“You are correct. There wasn’t a moment of asking.”

She closed her eyes, hating the words. “I thought you did not intend to be saddled with me.”

He moved to the front of the coach and six, inspecting the perfectly matched chestnuts, and testing the harnesses for each of the great beasts. “I shan’t be,” he said, unhitching one of the horses and reconnecting it to the coach. “We may be married, but there’s no reason for us to ever interact again.”

The words made her ache. The thought of having him so close, and yet impossibly far away, made her want to scream her frustration. She’d never intended for any of this. “It’s that simple?”

“It is, rather,” he said, moving to the next horse. “I’ve a half-dozen houses throughout Britain. Choose one.”

She watched him. “I choose the one where you are.”

His hands hesitated on the harness, briefly, barely enough to be noticed. “You want Lyne Castle?” He laughed humorlessly. “By all means. My father will no doubt adore having you in residence. What with you being everything he’s always dreaded in a daughter-in-law.”

She ignored the pain that came with the cold words. “I don’t choose Lyne Castle. I choose wherever you are. The castle today, the town house in Mayfair tomorrow. I choose to live with my husband, whom I—” Love.

She trailed off, but he heard her nonetheless. “You needn’t lie any longer, Sophie. You got the marriage you were hoping for. I’ve no need for your professions of love. And you lost the chance to live with me when you lied to me and trapped me into marriage.”

She did her best to suffer the blow. “I had plans to leave.”

“And be found by your father. I’m aware of those plans. They worked well.”

“No,” she said. “I had plans to leave the castle. To leave Cumbria. I never wanted anything from you but the one thing I knew you couldn’t give me.”

“And yet, somehow, you managed to require it of me,” he said, the words filled with ire. “Lady Eversley,” he fairly spat, moving to the next horse, checking its harness. “Marchioness. Future duchess. Well played.”

“Not the title, King. Not the marriage.” She paused. “I didn’t wish to marry you. I only wished to love you.”

He looked back at the harness, securing it carefully before coming around the horses to face her. “Never say those words to me again. I’m tired of hearing them. I’m tired of believing them. Love is nothing but the worst kind of lie.”

“Not from me,” she said. “Never from me.”

“Your lie was the worst of them all,” he said, and she heard the pain in the words. “Even as I struggled with the truth of the past—with the knowledge that Lorna betrayed me, with the knowledge that she’d never cared for more than my title—you gave me a new truth. You tempted me with a future.”

Tears came at the words, at the confession that she had not expected. That she could not bear. “King—”

He stopped her from speaking. “You threatened to heal me,” he said. “You tempted me with your pretty vows.” He paused. “You made me think I could love again.”

She reached for him, but he backed away from her touch, opening the door to the coach. “Get in.”

She did, grateful for the privacy, eager for the journey back to Lyne Castle, for the chance to convince him that they could try again. Once seated, she looked to him, framed in the door. He did not join her, however.

He wasn’t coming with her. Uncertainty unfurled through her. “Where are you sending me?”

“To London,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Isn’t that what you wanted all along? To return to the aristocracy the conquering heroine? The next Duchess of Lyne?”

Her stomach dropped. It was nothing like what she wanted. “I never wanted any of that and you know it.”

“Well, Sophie, it seems that we all must make do with not getting what we want today.” He met her gaze, his eyes glittering green and furious. “The irony of it is this—I would have given you whatever you asked. I would have begged you for forever if you hadn’t been so quick to steal it.”

The words were more damaging than any blow.

Before she could recover, he closed the door, and the carriage began to move.

King watched the coach trundle down the long drive, twisting and turning until it was out of sight. Until she was out of sight.

Until he was alone in Scotland, newly married, and filled with anger and something far, far more dangerous. Something like sorrow.

“Well. That was the strangest wedding I’ve ever witnessed.” Warnick leaned against the low stone wall that marked the long-ago filled-in moat of the castle, cheroot in hand, watching him.

“You don’t seem to have witnessed many weddings,” King said, “Considering what a hash you made of it.”

“I was trying to give you some pomp and circumstance. To remember the occasion.”

King did not think he’d ever forget this occasion.

What a fucking nightmare.

He’d married her. She was his wife.

Christ. What had he done?

“I’ll say this—” Warnick began.

“Please don’t,” King replied, unable to take his gaze from the crest where the carriage had finally disappeared. “I am not interested in what you wish to say.”

“I’m afraid you’re on my land, mate,” the Scot drawled. “At your own request, I arranged a wedding for you. I gave you a coach and six of my finest horses.”

“They weren’t hitched correctly,” King said, thinking of her in that carriage, careening down the Great North Road. Had he checked all six horses?

“They were hitched fine,” Warnick said. “You’re just mad.”

“Was there food in the carriage? And water?”

“Everything you asked,” the duke replied.

“Boiled water?” King asked. She’d need it for her tea, which she would find in the box he’d brought from Lyne Castle. “Clean bandages?”

She might need them.

“And honey, just as requested,” Warnick said. “A strange collection of items, but every one in there. She’s all the comforts of home.”

Home.

The word brought an image of Sophie, leaning over the upper walkway of the library at Lyne Castle, laughing down at him. Of her in the kitchens, eating pasties with the staff. Of her at the edge of the labyrinth fountain, book in hand.

In his bed, pleasure in her eyes.

Pleasure, and her pretty lies.

He shoved a hand through his hair, hating the way she consumed his thoughts. She was gone. He looked to Warnick. “I’m ready for the next race.”

Warnick raised a black brow. “After your wife?”

King swore at him, low and wicked. “North. Let’s for Inverness.”

“That’s a long race. The roads are dangerous.”

Perfect. Something to keep him from thinking of her. “Are you not up for it?”

“I’m always up for it,” Warnick boasted. “And with you so distracted, I might actually win this one. I’ll send notice to the lads. When would you like to leave?”

“Tomorrow,” King said. As soon as he could be rid of this place and its memories.

Warnick looked to the curricle. “I see your darling is repaired.”

King followed his friend’s gaze, hating the look of the carriage he’d once loved so dearly, now rife with memories of her. “No thanks to you.”

The duke smiled. “She was a clever girl, selling your wheels.”

“They weren’t hers to sell. She’s a thief.”

“You think I didn’t know that? She’s very convincing.”

I wished to say that I love you.

He’d never been so convinced of anything in his life.

He’d never wanted something to be more true.

The damn curricle was full of her. Of wagered carriage wheels and her glorious defiance earlier, when she lifted her skirts high and climbed up on the seat.

He’d been an ass, not helping her up.

And now as he faced a drive back to Lyne Castle, those memories marred the perfection of his curricle—no longer a place of safety, empty of all but thoughts of speed and competition. Instead, it was filled with thoughts of her. With her pretty lies.

I wanted you. Forever.

“I’ll sell it to you,” he said.

Warnick blinked. “The curricle?”

“Right now,” King said.

The duke watched him for a long moment. “How much?”

It was worth a fortune, the custom box, the high, special wheels, the perfectly balanced springs, designed to keep the seat as light and comfortable as possible on long races. It was several stones lighter than other curricles. Built to King’s exact specifications by the finest craftsmen in Britain.

But he couldn’t look at it any longer.

She’d ruined it.

He shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t want it any longer.” He considered the horses and turned back to the duke. “I require a saddle.”

“You are giving me your curricle,” Warnick said. “For a saddle.”

“If you don’t want it—” King said.

“Oh, no. I want it,” Warnick replied, shock in his Scots burr, moving to the door to send a servant for a saddle.

“Good,” King said, moving to unhitch one of the blacks. “You can return the other horse when you’ve time.”

The two men stood in silence for the long minutes it took for a saddle to arrive from Warnick’s stables, until the duke spoke. “If I may . . .”

“I thought I made it clear that I wish you wouldn’t.”

Warnick did not seem to care for King’s wishes. “I’ve never seen a man brought so low by love.”

“I don’t love her,” he snapped.

And what a lie that was.

“It’s too bad, that,” Warnick said, crushing the remainder of his cheroot beneath his boot. “As she seemed to love you quite a bit.”

She’d betrayed him. For his title. Which he would have given her freely. Without hesitation. Along with his love.

“Love is not everything.”

The saddle arrived then, and King made quick work of fitting it to his horse. Warnick was quiet for a long time, watching him work before replying. “That may be the case, but with the way you look, I wouldn’t believe it. And with the way you look, I’m damn grateful I’ve escaped it myself.”

“That, you should be,” King said, pulling himself into the saddle.

“She’ll want children, you know,” Warnick said. “They all want children.”

The words brought back the vision of those little, blue-eyed girls. The ones he’d been sure he’d never know.

He’d been right all along.

The line ended with him.

“She should have thought of that before she married me.”