The Rogue Not Taken
Page 63
Of course, it would have been significantly more gentlemanly if he’d reminded himself of the fact before he’d nearly had her in his carriage.
But he was only human. Made of flesh, just like her.
What glorious flesh it was. If only he was in the market for it.
He set the food and water inside the door quietly, leaving it ajar to avoid waking her with its closing, and went to assist in hitching the new horses. No, he was in the market for facing his father and telling him the truth—that when King died, the dukedom died with him. That he’d never marry. Never carry on the name.
He had spent more than a decade imagining his father’s response—the way the promise would break him.
The duke had asked for it, had he not? He’d said the words himself—proclaiming a preference for the death of his line than King’s marriage for love. And that’s what the duke would get. The end of the dukedom.
He would die with it on his head, and finally, King would win.
Were you ever happy?
Sophie’s words echoed through him.
There was something charming in her naiveté, even as she knew that happiness was no guarantee. Her sister was in the most loveless marriage of them all, and still Sophie seemed to believe in the fairy tale—that love might, in fact, triumph.
That she held even a sliver of wistful memory for the baker boy she’d last seen a decade ago was proof that he should be rid of Lady Sophie Talbot, and quickly.
Then why didn’t he leave her?
He was saved from having to consider the question fully by an unwelcome greeting. “I must say, even without your curricle, you’ve made terrible time.”
King stiffened, quickly counting the days before turning to face the smug Duke of Warnick, sauntering across the courtyard, cheroot in his hand, gleam in his eye. King scowled. “You were supposed to be here three nights ago,” King said. “You should be at your drafty keep by now.”
“I found I liked it here,” the duke said.
“You found you liked a woman here, if I had to wager.”
The Scot grinned, spreading his hands wide. “She likes me, and who am I to disappoint the lassies? And you? What’s kept you?”
King did not answer, instead accepting the harness for a second horse from the new coachman and focusing on hitching the beast to the coach.
“Secret reasons?”
King tightened the cinch.
Warnick pressed on. “Did you find you liked a woman, as well?”
“No.” The word was out before King could stop himself.
“Well,” the duke drawled, “that sounds like a lie.”
King shot him a look. “You question my honor?”
“I do, rather, but I’m not in the market for a duel, so don’t be throwing your glove to the ground or whatever it is you English idiots do.”
There was nothing in the wide world worse than an arrogant Scot.
“This isn’t your coach,” Warnick said.
“You’re very perceptive.”
“Why are you in a coach that’s not your own?”
King sighed and turned to face the duke, feet away, arms crossed, one shoulder leaning against the vehicle. “When did you become a Bow Street Runner?”
Warnick raised a brow and took a long drag on his cheroot before dropping it to the ground and stomping it with his massive black boot. “I don’t suppose you’d have room to hie me home?”
“I do not,” King said through clenched teeth, knowing that Warnick had no interest in passage over the border.
“Och,” scoffed the Scot. “It’s a few hours. You shan’t even require new horses to do it.”
“No room,” King said.
“Of course there is. I’ve all your wheels, so you’ve nothing but space. And I’m wee.”
Aside from being irritating as hell, the Scot was twenty stone if he was a pound. “You are nothing like wee.”
“Nevertheless . . .” Without warning, Warnick opened the carriage door.
King should have seen it coming. With a wicked curse, he dropped the hitch he was working on and went for him. “Close it.”
Warnick did, so quickly that it was almost as though it had never been open to begin with. He turned a knowing smile on King. “So, you did find a woman.”
“She’s not a woman.”
Warnick’s brows rose. “No? Because her bodice is undone, and things seem fairly clear on that front.”
King looked away for a heartbeat, frustration and fury making it impossible for him not to look back and plant his fist squarely in the center of the arrogant Scot’s face. “That’s for looking at her bodice.”
The duke put a hand to his face, blood spilling freely from his nose. “Dammit, King. Was that really necessary?”
King thought it rather was. He reached into his pocket and extracted a handkerchief, wiping his hand. He’d need to get a blanket for her. To cover her while she slept. He handed the square of linen to his friend. “I like you better when you’re over the border.”
“I like you better when I’m over the border,” the duke said, holding the white linen to his wound. “I’ve never seen you so wound up. Is it your father? Or the girl?”
It was both, no doubt. “Neither.”
Warnick made a sound that indicated he knew better. “There’s a curricle here. Buy it. Race me home. Send some of that anger packing before you face your dying father.”
He’d never heard an offer he so desperately wanted to take. He ached for the freedom of the curricle. For its promise. He wanted to feel as though he was on the edge of danger, knowing that it was his strength and skill and nothing else that kept him from losing everything. He wanted the reminder that he held his life in his hands. That he controlled it.
But he was only human. Made of flesh, just like her.
What glorious flesh it was. If only he was in the market for it.
He set the food and water inside the door quietly, leaving it ajar to avoid waking her with its closing, and went to assist in hitching the new horses. No, he was in the market for facing his father and telling him the truth—that when King died, the dukedom died with him. That he’d never marry. Never carry on the name.
He had spent more than a decade imagining his father’s response—the way the promise would break him.
The duke had asked for it, had he not? He’d said the words himself—proclaiming a preference for the death of his line than King’s marriage for love. And that’s what the duke would get. The end of the dukedom.
He would die with it on his head, and finally, King would win.
Were you ever happy?
Sophie’s words echoed through him.
There was something charming in her naiveté, even as she knew that happiness was no guarantee. Her sister was in the most loveless marriage of them all, and still Sophie seemed to believe in the fairy tale—that love might, in fact, triumph.
That she held even a sliver of wistful memory for the baker boy she’d last seen a decade ago was proof that he should be rid of Lady Sophie Talbot, and quickly.
Then why didn’t he leave her?
He was saved from having to consider the question fully by an unwelcome greeting. “I must say, even without your curricle, you’ve made terrible time.”
King stiffened, quickly counting the days before turning to face the smug Duke of Warnick, sauntering across the courtyard, cheroot in his hand, gleam in his eye. King scowled. “You were supposed to be here three nights ago,” King said. “You should be at your drafty keep by now.”
“I found I liked it here,” the duke said.
“You found you liked a woman here, if I had to wager.”
The Scot grinned, spreading his hands wide. “She likes me, and who am I to disappoint the lassies? And you? What’s kept you?”
King did not answer, instead accepting the harness for a second horse from the new coachman and focusing on hitching the beast to the coach.
“Secret reasons?”
King tightened the cinch.
Warnick pressed on. “Did you find you liked a woman, as well?”
“No.” The word was out before King could stop himself.
“Well,” the duke drawled, “that sounds like a lie.”
King shot him a look. “You question my honor?”
“I do, rather, but I’m not in the market for a duel, so don’t be throwing your glove to the ground or whatever it is you English idiots do.”
There was nothing in the wide world worse than an arrogant Scot.
“This isn’t your coach,” Warnick said.
“You’re very perceptive.”
“Why are you in a coach that’s not your own?”
King sighed and turned to face the duke, feet away, arms crossed, one shoulder leaning against the vehicle. “When did you become a Bow Street Runner?”
Warnick raised a brow and took a long drag on his cheroot before dropping it to the ground and stomping it with his massive black boot. “I don’t suppose you’d have room to hie me home?”
“I do not,” King said through clenched teeth, knowing that Warnick had no interest in passage over the border.
“Och,” scoffed the Scot. “It’s a few hours. You shan’t even require new horses to do it.”
“No room,” King said.
“Of course there is. I’ve all your wheels, so you’ve nothing but space. And I’m wee.”
Aside from being irritating as hell, the Scot was twenty stone if he was a pound. “You are nothing like wee.”
“Nevertheless . . .” Without warning, Warnick opened the carriage door.
King should have seen it coming. With a wicked curse, he dropped the hitch he was working on and went for him. “Close it.”
Warnick did, so quickly that it was almost as though it had never been open to begin with. He turned a knowing smile on King. “So, you did find a woman.”
“She’s not a woman.”
Warnick’s brows rose. “No? Because her bodice is undone, and things seem fairly clear on that front.”
King looked away for a heartbeat, frustration and fury making it impossible for him not to look back and plant his fist squarely in the center of the arrogant Scot’s face. “That’s for looking at her bodice.”
The duke put a hand to his face, blood spilling freely from his nose. “Dammit, King. Was that really necessary?”
King thought it rather was. He reached into his pocket and extracted a handkerchief, wiping his hand. He’d need to get a blanket for her. To cover her while she slept. He handed the square of linen to his friend. “I like you better when you’re over the border.”
“I like you better when I’m over the border,” the duke said, holding the white linen to his wound. “I’ve never seen you so wound up. Is it your father? Or the girl?”
It was both, no doubt. “Neither.”
Warnick made a sound that indicated he knew better. “There’s a curricle here. Buy it. Race me home. Send some of that anger packing before you face your dying father.”
He’d never heard an offer he so desperately wanted to take. He ached for the freedom of the curricle. For its promise. He wanted to feel as though he was on the edge of danger, knowing that it was his strength and skill and nothing else that kept him from losing everything. He wanted the reminder that he held his life in his hands. That he controlled it.
