The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel, #1)

by Sarah MacLean

“Excuse me, Lord Perfection, I did not have time to visit a modiste on the way.”

“You’ve stolen my boot and my footman in what I can only assume is a misguided attempt to gain my attention and my title, if the former actions of your family are any indication. I’m sure you’ll understand if I am less than amenable to providing you aid.” He paused, and when she did not speak, he added, “To put it plainly, you may be a colossal problem, Lady Sophie, but you are not my problem.”

“I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man in Christendom.”

“In the span of twelve hours, you’ve called me unintelligent and insane, suggested that I am trying to trap you into marriage, declared me uninteresting, and pointed out the flaws of my physique.” What? “I never pointed out your flaws.” She crossed her arms. “The livery, my lord. It doesn’t fit.” He blinked. “It doesn’t fit.” She let out a frustrated sound and slashed a hand in the air. “It doesn’t matter. All of that said, I cannot imagine why it is you feel it necessary to follow me as I do the one thing you’ve been asking me to do from the beginning of our acquaintance—leave you.” Honestly, he couldn’t imagine why it was necessary, either. But it was, somehow. “Also, I never declared you uninteresting.” “No. I believe you used the term unfun, which is even more unflattering, as it appears that I am so deeply boring that I require a word that, prior to today, did not exist.” “It’s not the same thing at all.”

“No matter. I don’t care for the destination you have in mind. You shan’t trap me into marriage. I’m smarter than the rest of the men in London, darling. And you’re not nearly as tempting as your sisters.”

“You will wish that you had accepted my help when I was in the mood to offer it.” “I wouldn’t accept your help if I were starving to death and you happened by with a cartful of tea and cakes.”

“You didn’t know me, and you tried to save me, did you not?” Sophie looked at him for a long while. “We don’t need to know a person to know how to do right by them.”

“Who are you?” she asked. “He’s the surgeon.” King replied. She looked to him. “He does not look like a surgeon.” “I’m not certain of his skill.” She returned her attention to the doctor. “Do try not to kill me, sir.” The other man nodded. “I shall do my best.”

“You’re the first pickpocket I’ve met who has no intention of keeping his spoils.” The boy looked down at his shoes. “It’s a habit.” “It’s a bad one,” King said. John looked to the doctor and offered a long gold chain. “’Ere’s your fob.” The doctor’s hand went to his waistcoat pocket. “I didn’t even feel it.” John grinned. “I’m the best there is in London. It’s too bad I’m reforming.” King was not impressed. “Reform harder.”

“Does it hurt?” Like a bastard. “Women are known for their ability to endure pain.” “Mmm. And to think you are considered the weaker sex.” She cut him a look. “A label no doubt assigned by a man who never witnessed a childbirth.”

“I’ve smelled worse, madam, I assure you.” He did not lower his voice, and the words boomed through the room. Sophie went scarlet as Eversley looked to the ceiling in frustration. “Is that why you wouldn’t let me near you?” “You’re the one who pointed out that I’d been doused in gin and honey,” she defended herself. “To underscore his madness, not your stench!” Mary’s mouth fell open. Sophie imagined hers might have also, if she weren’t so angry. “My stench?” She glared at him. He rocked back on his heels, as though considering his next move. “I did not mean—” She’d had enough. “Of all the ungentlemanly things you’ve said to me, my lord—and there have been many—that might be the worst of the lot.”

“No signs of infection, however.” Relief flooded Sophie. “Then I shall live?” The doctor met her gaze. “For today.” “Christ,” muttered Eversley. “You’re a comforting bastard, aren’t you?”

“I take it you are hungry.” “It seems so,” she said. “Food after the bath. And then tea. And then sleep.” She met his gaze. “You’re very domineering.” “It’s a particular talent.” “What with you being called King.” “Name is destiny.” She ignored that, moving past him to the high copper bathtub. She turned back. “Thank you.”

This was, by far, one of the worst nights of his life. It took all his power not to turn around. Not to go to her. Not to stare into that damn tub and take in the long length of her, flushed and pink from the heat. From his gaze. Christ. He did not want her. But he did. She was to be married. To a bumpkin called Robbie. Where the hell had she met him? How was she planning to marry someone in Cumbria? He shoved his hands in his pockets. He didn’t care. She was plain and proper and uninteresting. Liar.

He did not want Lady Sophie Talbot, dammit. Well, he wanted her. But he did not want to want her. “That’s a semantic argument.” Had he spoken aloud? No. She meant the looking.

He lifted his fingers and looked down at them, glistening with honey. She looked, as well. “You should wash them,” she said quietly. He should. There was a bathtub full of water mere feet away. And a washbasin and fresh water even closer. But he did not go to either. Instead, he lifted his hand to his mouth and licked the honey from his fingers, meeting her eyes. Willing her to look away. Her eyes widened. Darkened. But did not waver. It was then that he knew. If he kissed her, she would not stop him. And if he kissed her, he would not stop. Dangerous Daughter, indeed.

“I think they just might believe we are eloping.” “Are you?” Mary asked. “No!” Sophie said without hesitation. He turned to her. “Another man would take offense at how quickly you discount my eligibility.” She raised her brows at him. “Another man might be less of a cad than you are, my lord.”

“As we’ve established, I don’t value the gossip pages.” He watched her for a long moment before he said, “That’s not why you mind it.” “No,” she said, “I mind it because it devalues us. They’re my sisters. We are people. With feelings. We exist. And it seems that the world fails to see that. Fails to see them.” “Fails to see you,” he said. Yes. “I don’t wish to be seen,” she lied. “I just wish to be free of it.” His green gaze consumed her. “I see you, Sophie.”

“I’m not going to be sick. Carriages don’t make me ill. They make me wish I was not inside carriages.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand.” “I am . . . uncomfortable . . . in them.” “So you don’t travel?” He raised a brow. “Of course I travel, as you can see.” “Yes. But long journeys must be difficult.” There was a pause. “I don’t wish to be difficult.” She chuckled at that. “You think your aversion to carriages is what makes you difficult?” He smiled at her jest, a tiny quirk in his otherwise flat mouth. “I think you are what makes me difficult, these days.” “Surely not,” she teased. “I am easy as church on Sunday.” He grunted and closed his eyes. “I do not attend church.” “Shall I pray for your eternal soul, then?” “Not if you’re looking for someone to listen to you. I’m a lost cause, scoundrel that I am.”

“Let me go.” He kept his eyes closed and ignored her, resuming his relaxed position. “Stop moving. It’s bad for your shoulder and for my sanity.” Well, being so close to him was not good for her sanity. Not that he seemed to mind.

you were a man, I would not care much for you.” Her brows rose. “You do not care much for me, anyway.” He watched her for a long moment. “I was warming to you.”

“Except I am not. I do not fit in. I am not perfectly beautiful.” She gave him a half smile. “I am not even beautifully perfect. You’ve said it yourself.” “When did I say it?” he asked, affronted. “I’m the plain one. The boring one. The unfun one.” She waved a hand down at her livery, the clothing that had driven him to call her plump. “Certainly not the beautiful one.” He cursed softly, but she raised a hand before he could speak. “Don’t apologize. It’s true. I’ve never felt like I belonged there. I’ve never felt worth the effort. But in Mossband—I felt valued. “In escaping London, I have become more than I ever was there.”

“Aloysius Archibald Barnaby Kingscote. Marquess of Eversley. Future Duke of Lyne.” He waved his hand in a flourish. “At your service.” He was joking. But he did not appear to be joking.

“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.”

“You have five minutes,” he said, “and then we leave, laced or no.” He closed the door and returned to the horses, checking the cinches again as he counted to three hundred. By thirty-six, he was imagining her ample breasts. At ninety-four, he was cursing himself for not having a good look at the breasts in question when he had Sophie in hand earlier in the day. By one hundred and seventy, he’d relived the events of earlier in the day, much to the twin emotions of pleasure and guilt. By two hundred twenty-five, he was cursing himself the worst kind of scoundrel, but, truthfully, she was the one who had brought up breasts. You are the one who is acting like a boy in short pants. No. Boys in short pants were much more appropriately behaved. Two hundred ninety-nine. Three hundred.

“Stop believing whatever everyone has said about you for all these years. There’s nothing about you that is unmemorable. The last week has been the most memorable of my life, for Chrissakes. Because of you. Stop imagining that you’re something you’re not.” Her eyes went wide, and King immediately felt like an idiot. “What does that mean?” she asked quietly. He didn’t want to answer. He’d made enough of a fool of himself. So instead he said, “I’m simply saying that I should remember that we danced.” She went silent, and for a long moment, he thought she might be hurt that he didn’t remember. “I will remember you now.”

“That’s part of the freedom, isn’t it?” He didn’t reply, so she added, “I’ve never imagined anything as freeing as love must be.” She smiled, and he saw the sadness in the fading light. “I hope to experience it, of course. All the bits and pieces.” “With your baker.” He disliked the taste of the words. She did not hesitate. “In our bookshop, gifted to us by a losing marquess, who was positively obsequious with his compliments.” The words made him chuckle. “Do not count your books before they are shelved, my lady.” Silence fell for a long moment before he added, “It is not the stuff of poems and fairy tales.” “Bookshop owning?” “Love. Make no mistake. Love has nothing to do with freedom.” Her focus snapped to him as he told her the wicked truth, “It’s the most devastating trap there is.”

“We aren’t supposed to like each other.” Her words came on a sigh. “Don’t worry. We don’t.” What a lie that was.

“Do you . . .” She trailed off. Regrouped. “Do you wish to? Show me?” He exhaled, hot and lovely against her. “I am not certain I have ever wanted to do anything in my life so much as I want to do this.”

“I quite desperately want you to scream, Sophie,” he said between idle, unbearable licks. “I want to stop this carriage, lay you down beneath the stars, and make you scream again, and again, and again.”

“Who is she?” Warnick asked. She’s the youngest of the Dangerous Daughters. “Because she’s too clever by half for you. Which means that she’s more trouble than anything else,” Warnick continued, oblivious to the fact that King was lost in his own thoughts, his own words echoing through him. “You shouldn’t dally with clever women. You’ll never outsmart them, and before you know where you are, you’re married to them.”

“Good-bye, then,” she said, disliking the words. “Good luck,” he replied. She disliked those words more.

This was his family. You think he’s been pining away for the earl’s daughter who left a decade ago?

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.

“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.”

“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?”

“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.

“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.”

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.

“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.”

“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.

“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.

“I gave you everything you wished. I brought you to damn Mossband instead of packing you back to London, as I should have the moment I discovered you, like the baggage you are. I protected you from your father’s damn hunters. Oh, yes. And I saved your damn life.” “It’s hard to believe that a Dangerous Daughter’s life was worth the trouble, honestly.” She opened the book calmly. “My apologies for your wasted time.” He sat back on the seat, watching her. Shit. It wasn’t a waste. None of it. Indeed, he wouldn’t give up a moment of the last week for anything. Even though she was the most difficult woman in Christendom.

“I don’t think less of you, you know.” She turned another page. “For being too common for your perfect life? For being so common the mind will boggle at the possibility that I might make a decent wife? For being so common that you can hardly deign to breath the same air I breathe?” Damn. That wasn’t what he meant at all. “I don’t think you are common.” She turned pages more quickly now. “It’s difficult to believe that, I must admit, as you have spent the entirety of our acquaintance reminding me of my common appearance.” Flip. “My common background.” Flip. “My common past.” Flip. “My common family.” Flip. “My most common character.” Flip. Flip. Flip. “Indeed, my lord, you have been very clear on the matter. Clear enough for me to think you’re something of an ass.” He stilled. “What did you call me?” “I feel confident that your hearing is in full working order.” Flip. He reached across and snatched the book from her hands.

She hated everything he was, and he would never be good enough for her.

There was nothing common about her.

He released a breath he had not known he held, considering her big blue eyes, the color on her cheeks, the way she thought of him.

I never thought I'd see this line again.

“Play this game well, Lady Sophie, and we’ll be rid of each other before you even realize we were together.” Except she had realized it. She’d realized it the day prior, when they’d raced from the Warbling Wren, and the night prior, when he’d kissed her until she thought she’d go mad from the pleasure. And this morning, when he’d hurt her so thoroughly, and without thought. They were together, and somehow, she adored and loathed it all at the same time.

“The faster we begin our charade, the faster it is complete.” He turned, but did not approach, watching her for a long moment before he said, “Full cooperation, Sophie, or no ruination.” She smiled her most brilliant smile and agreed. “Full cooperation.”

She did not want him to say he loved her. She didn’t think she could bear hearing the words for the first time and know they weren’t true. And, somehow, strangely, she did not want him to not say that he loved her. She didn’t wish to be the means to his end. She wanted to be more than that. She wanted to be more than he offered.