The Rogue Not Taken
Page 54
He put on his best aristocratic tone. “In some circles, it’s very royal.”
“Oh? Which circles are those?”
He grinned. “I’m not certain.”
She matched his grin. “I confess, I would call myself King, as well.”
“You see? Now you should feel sorry for me.”
“Oh, I do!” she said so quickly that they both laughed, and Sophie was suddenly, keenly aware that she liked the sound of his laughter. She liked the look of it, as well. And then they were not laughing anymore. “You are not uncomfortable,” she said quietly, leaning forward. The motion of the carriage no longer unsettled him.
He seemed startled by the reminder. “I am not. You are a welcome distraction.”
Her cheeks warmed as he, too, leaned forward. She considered retreating, but found she did not wish to. When he lifted his hand to her cheek, she was very grateful for her bravery, his warm hand a welcome temptation. They were so close, his eyes a beautiful green, his lips soft and welcome and just out of reach. She wondered what might happen if she leaned forward. Closed the distance between them. And then he spoke, the words on a whisper. “He doesn’t even know you’re coming, does he?”
She retreated at that, not pretending to misunderstand. “Why do you ask all the questions?”
“Because you answer them,” he replied.
“I should like to ask some.”
He nodded. “I’ll answer yours if you answer this one. Why the baker? I understand the bookshop and the freedom, but the baker—it’s been a decade. Why him, as well?”
She looked away, watching farmland beyond the window, the countryside dotted with sheep and bales of hay. So much simpler than London. So much more free. She opened the book on her lap and closed it. Again and again. And finally, she said, “He was my friend. We made a promise.”
“What kind of promise?”
“That we’d marry.”
“A decade ago.”
What had she done? Where was she going? What would come from this mad adventure? She couldn’t ask him any of that. Didn’t want him to hear it. And so she lifted her gaze to his and said, “A promise is a promise.”
He watched her for a long time, and then said, “You realize that this ends poorly.”
“Not necessarily.”
He stretched his arm across the back of the seat. “How does it end, then?”
She paused, thinking for a long moment about Mossband. About her childhood. About the world into which she’d been born and the world into which she’d been thrust. And then she answered him. “I hope it ends happily.”
He went utterly still, and she had the sudden sense that he was angry with her. When he spoke, there was no mistaking the disdain in his tone. “You think he’s been pining away for the earl’s daughter who left a decade ago?”
“It’s not impossible, you know,” she snapped. Must he always make her feel as though she was less than? “And I wasn’t an earl’s daughter. Well, I was, but not really. I’ve never really been an earl’s daughter. That’s the point. We were friends. We made each other happy.”
“Happiness,” he scoffed. “You haven’t any idea what to do with yourself now that you’re free, do you?”
She scowled. “I don’t care for you.”
“Shall we wager on it?”
“On my not caring for you? Oh, let’s. Please.”
He smirked. “On Robbie’s caring for you.”
She narrowed her gaze on his smug face, ignoring the sting of his words. “What’s the wager?”
“If we get there, and he wants you, you win. I’ll buy you your bookshop. As a wedding present.”
“What an extravagant gift,” she said smartly. “I accept. Though I have a second demand now.”
His brows rose. “More than a bookshop?”
She tilted her head. “Be careful, my lord, I might find reason to believe you are not so certain that you will win.”
“I never lose.”
“Then why not allow a second demand?”
He leaned back, “Go ahead.”
“If I win, you must say something nice about me.”
His brows snapped together. “What does that mean?”
“Only that you have spent the last week telling me all the ways that I fail. My lack of intelligence, my lack of excitement, my lack of proper figure, my lack of beauty, and now, my inability to land a husband.”
“I didn’t say—”
She raised her hand. “And you had better make it exceedingly complimentary.”
There was a long silence, after which he said, in a tone that could only be described as grumbling, “Fine.”
“Excellent. I think I might look forward to that more than to Robbie’s proposal.”
One black brow rose. “A clear indication that marrying the baker is an excellent idea.” He leaned forward, his voice lowering. “But don’t forget, Sophie. If we get there, and it’s a disaster . . .”
Her heart began to pound. “What then?”
“Then I win. And you must say something nice about me.”
Before she could retort, the carriage began to slow, and a wild cry came from the coachman. She stiffened, nerves chasing her triumph away. She snapped her gaze to him. “Is it highwaymen?”
“No.” King touched her ankle, the warm skin of his hand against that place that had never been touched by another person making her breath catch. “We are at the next posting inn.”
“Oh? Which circles are those?”
He grinned. “I’m not certain.”
She matched his grin. “I confess, I would call myself King, as well.”
“You see? Now you should feel sorry for me.”
“Oh, I do!” she said so quickly that they both laughed, and Sophie was suddenly, keenly aware that she liked the sound of his laughter. She liked the look of it, as well. And then they were not laughing anymore. “You are not uncomfortable,” she said quietly, leaning forward. The motion of the carriage no longer unsettled him.
He seemed startled by the reminder. “I am not. You are a welcome distraction.”
Her cheeks warmed as he, too, leaned forward. She considered retreating, but found she did not wish to. When he lifted his hand to her cheek, she was very grateful for her bravery, his warm hand a welcome temptation. They were so close, his eyes a beautiful green, his lips soft and welcome and just out of reach. She wondered what might happen if she leaned forward. Closed the distance between them. And then he spoke, the words on a whisper. “He doesn’t even know you’re coming, does he?”
She retreated at that, not pretending to misunderstand. “Why do you ask all the questions?”
“Because you answer them,” he replied.
“I should like to ask some.”
He nodded. “I’ll answer yours if you answer this one. Why the baker? I understand the bookshop and the freedom, but the baker—it’s been a decade. Why him, as well?”
She looked away, watching farmland beyond the window, the countryside dotted with sheep and bales of hay. So much simpler than London. So much more free. She opened the book on her lap and closed it. Again and again. And finally, she said, “He was my friend. We made a promise.”
“What kind of promise?”
“That we’d marry.”
“A decade ago.”
What had she done? Where was she going? What would come from this mad adventure? She couldn’t ask him any of that. Didn’t want him to hear it. And so she lifted her gaze to his and said, “A promise is a promise.”
He watched her for a long time, and then said, “You realize that this ends poorly.”
“Not necessarily.”
He stretched his arm across the back of the seat. “How does it end, then?”
She paused, thinking for a long moment about Mossband. About her childhood. About the world into which she’d been born and the world into which she’d been thrust. And then she answered him. “I hope it ends happily.”
He went utterly still, and she had the sudden sense that he was angry with her. When he spoke, there was no mistaking the disdain in his tone. “You think he’s been pining away for the earl’s daughter who left a decade ago?”
“It’s not impossible, you know,” she snapped. Must he always make her feel as though she was less than? “And I wasn’t an earl’s daughter. Well, I was, but not really. I’ve never really been an earl’s daughter. That’s the point. We were friends. We made each other happy.”
“Happiness,” he scoffed. “You haven’t any idea what to do with yourself now that you’re free, do you?”
She scowled. “I don’t care for you.”
“Shall we wager on it?”
“On my not caring for you? Oh, let’s. Please.”
He smirked. “On Robbie’s caring for you.”
She narrowed her gaze on his smug face, ignoring the sting of his words. “What’s the wager?”
“If we get there, and he wants you, you win. I’ll buy you your bookshop. As a wedding present.”
“What an extravagant gift,” she said smartly. “I accept. Though I have a second demand now.”
His brows rose. “More than a bookshop?”
She tilted her head. “Be careful, my lord, I might find reason to believe you are not so certain that you will win.”
“I never lose.”
“Then why not allow a second demand?”
He leaned back, “Go ahead.”
“If I win, you must say something nice about me.”
His brows snapped together. “What does that mean?”
“Only that you have spent the last week telling me all the ways that I fail. My lack of intelligence, my lack of excitement, my lack of proper figure, my lack of beauty, and now, my inability to land a husband.”
“I didn’t say—”
She raised her hand. “And you had better make it exceedingly complimentary.”
There was a long silence, after which he said, in a tone that could only be described as grumbling, “Fine.”
“Excellent. I think I might look forward to that more than to Robbie’s proposal.”
One black brow rose. “A clear indication that marrying the baker is an excellent idea.” He leaned forward, his voice lowering. “But don’t forget, Sophie. If we get there, and it’s a disaster . . .”
Her heart began to pound. “What then?”
“Then I win. And you must say something nice about me.”
Before she could retort, the carriage began to slow, and a wild cry came from the coachman. She stiffened, nerves chasing her triumph away. She snapped her gaze to him. “Is it highwaymen?”
“No.” King touched her ankle, the warm skin of his hand against that place that had never been touched by another person making her breath catch. “We are at the next posting inn.”
