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

by Sarah MacLean

“I like you smiling,” he said quietly, when they were outside the room in the dimly lit corridor. “You don’t do it enough with me.” She looked up at him, “I haven’t had much reason to smile since we met.” “I should like to change that.”

“You’re easily the most marriageable female I’ve ever met.” She stilled. “You think so?” “Certainly.” He took a bite of tart, as though the statement were utterly normal. “Once one learns that I’m not attempting to dupe him into marriage, you mean.” “Once that happens, yes,” he said with a smile.

“This is exquisite,” she said, her gaze riveted on the sweet. “It is, isn’t it?” His voice was lower than it had been, quieter. Darker. She looked up to find him staring at her mouth, and gastronomic pleasure turned to a different kind of pleasure entirely. “Would you like it?” “Very much.” She was no longer certain that they were discussing dessert.

“Why books?” Her brows rose. “I beg your pardon?” “Why are they your vice?” She set her plate down and wiped her hand on her skirts before reaching for the top volume on a stack of small, leather-bound books nearby and extending it to him. “Go on.” He took it. “Now what?” “Smell it.” He tilted his head. She couldn’t help but smile. “Do it.” He lifted it to his nose. Inhaled. “Not like that,” she said. “Really give it a smell.” He raised one brow, but did as he was told. “What do you smell?” Sophie asked. “Leather and ink?” She shook her head. “Happiness. That’s what books smell like. Happiness. That’s why I always wanted to have a bookshop. What better life than to trade in happiness?”

“Was I an ass?” She met his eyes, grassy green and focused on her. “You were. Quite.” He nodded. “I was.” “And tonight, you were even worse.” “I know. I wish I wasn’t.” “I wanted to throw my soup at you.” He raised a brow. “You’re getting the hang of telling me the truth.” She smiled. “It’s quite freeing.”

Forgive me?” She watched him for a long while. “Yes.” He exhaled, as though he’d been holding his breath for an age, and reached for her surprising them both, his fingertips brushing along her jaw, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“You’ve cream on your lip.” From the tarts. She lifted her hand, but he predicted her move, capturing her wrist before she could brush away the remains of the tart. “No,” he whispered, close, the scent of him overwhelming her, soap and spice. “Let me.” She stilled, not quite understanding, but wanting it, whatever he offered. And then he was there, his lips on hers, his tongue licking out to taste the errant cream. She’d never in her life experienced anything so scandalous. Anything so . . . “Mmm,” he murmured, the sound low and soft as he lifted his head. “Exquisite.” He hadn’t been talking about the tart earlier.

“I’m not one of the other women you’ve had. I’m not like them,” she said. “The other women?” He didn’t like those words. Not at all. She stared down at their hands, fingers entwined. “You needn’t lie to me.” Except it hadn’t been a lie. He didn’t want to lie to her. He wanted her to hear the truth. “It’s not—” She sighed. “Stop. King. You think I do not hear the things they say about me? That the beauty ran out by the time I was born? That my sisters are the pretty ones? The pleasant ones? The talented ones?” She looked to him. “I’m not beautiful. You know it. You’ve said it before.” What an ass he’d been then. What a blind, horrid ass. She continued. “You’re kind to say so now, and I suppose I understand the impulse, but lying about it won’t make me enjoy”—she waved one hand between them—“this more. In fact, it will make me enjoy it less.” She released his hand. “It makes me enjoy it less.”

He didn’t want her leaving. He wanted her here. Forever. Not forever. Forever was impossible. Forever with Sophie would mean love. She wouldn’t be happy without it. Without all its bits and pieces. And love was not in his cards. Not ever. Not even with this woman, who somehow grew more perfect each day with her smart mouth and her smarter mind and her laugh that made him want to spend the rest of his life hearing it. More perfect, despite his being an utter ass around her.

“I told you that my father killed her. As though he put a pistol to her head.” She nodded, not knowing what to say. “It wasn’t his hate that put the pistol to her head. It was my love.”

It felt like worship every time his tongue worked its slow orbit. It felt like worship every time his fingers stroked across her skin. It felt like worship when he opened his green eyes and stared up at her, as though she were his anchor in the storm. She wanted to be that. Now. Forever.

“Why did you stop?” “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low and dark and full of want. “For stopping?” She stared down at him, more confused than she’d ever been in her life. “You don’t owe me an apology.” “But I do. For all of it,” he said. “For the things I’ve done and said to you. For bringing you here. For this.” “I was quite enjoying it.” He exhaled, the sound harsh in their close quarters. “That’s the problem.” Her eyes widened. “It is?” He stood, guiding her feet to the floor. “No. Of course I want you to enjoy it. But this . . .” He paused and cursed again, low and wicked in the quiet library. “Christ. I was enjoying it, too. Too much. I can’t enjoy it, Sophie. I can’t enjoy you. And you shouldn’t enjoy me.” Too late. Her brow furrowed. “Why not?” She cast about for a way to protect herself. “You promised you’d ruin me, didn’t you? This is it, isn’t it?” He looked at her then, his green eyes glittering with anger and frustration and something near sorrow. And then he broke her heart. “I’ve no intention of making love to you, Sophie. Not tonight. Not ever.”

By afternoon, he’d found himself in the library once more, deep into the scotch, seated in the chair where he’d had her the night before, torturing himself with the memory of her exploring the massive room with exhilarating pleasure, eating her tart with the same. It occurred to him that he would think of her that way now, laughing with the servants, sighing over pasties, facing him in the dining room. He’d think of her with passion. She was all passion and strength and perfection, and stopping himself from taking her there, in that chair, on the floor, against the shelves of the library, again and again until neither of them remembered anything but each other, had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done. But leaving her had been far more difficult. And that terrified him.

He’d drive her away, just as he did with every other woman who had ever shown a modicum of interest in him since Lorna. Except, all the other times, it had been easy . . . a smile, a stolen kiss, a promise that they’d find someone even better. More ideal. Perfect for them. But he didn’t want Sophie finding someone more perfect. He wanted to be someone more perfect for her. Except he didn’t know how to be. Goddammit.

“I find that alcohol helps with my great distaste for this place.” “You didn’t hate it when you were a child.” “I didn’t see its truth.” “And what is that?” King drank. “That it turns us into monsters.”

What if the only love he’d ever believed was a lie? What if the darkest pain he’d ever felt was the product of betrayal instead of love? Who was he if not the man made by that night?

There was only one thing he could ensure remained true. This place. This line. It ended with him. Even if it meant leaving Sophie. Even if leaving Sophie had somehow become the last thing in the world he wanted to do.

“You’re my son,” the duke said, simply, something in his eyes that King did not wish to identify. “You’re my son, and there was a time when you were my joy. You deserve to know the truth. And more than that, you deserve to know happiness.” The duke paused, looking older. “Pride be damned.”

So it was best that she was here, inside this complicated maze, invisible to the world. Here, she could find courage to ignore what she felt for him. And to leave, head high, and find herself another life. But never another man. She knew that now. There was no other man for Sophie Talbot, youngest daughter of a North Country coal miner, than the Marquess of Eversley. And the Marquess of Eversley was not for her. So she was leaving. Just as soon as she found him, she’d tell him as much.

“Still reading about henges?” It took a moment for her to remember that she was holding a book. She clutched it more tightly and said with a forced smile, “Do you care for another reading?” He didn’t return the expression. “Believe it or not, not even henges could capture my attention at this moment.” She looked down at her book. “It’s not about henges.” “What is it?” She couldn’t remember. She looked down. “It’s the Greek myths.” “Is it interesting?” “It’s filled with rakes and cads and every sort of scoundrel.” “Sounds fascinating.” “If you enjoy ruiners of women.” “And do you?” Yes. She paused, considering the question. Its answer. She met his gaze. “Well, I like you.” “I thought we did not like each other?” She shook her head. “I find that I’ve changed my mind.” He stood then, moving toward her, and she finished. “Even though I shouldn’t.”

“If there were something between you, they wouldn’t have been so quick to tell you good-bye.” He stilled at the words. “Marcella wouldn’t have been able to do it so easily.” He lifted his hand from the fountain, touching her cheek with his cool, wet fingertips. She closed her eyes at the sensation. “It’s very difficult to tell you good-bye,” she whispered. Silence fell for a yawning stretch of time before he said, quietly, “Is that what you want? To tell me good-bye?” No. Never.

“Love makes us do strange things.”

“I thought she was the only person who had ever wanted me for me. And now I know the truth. She wanted me for my title and my fortune. Not for me. There’s never been anyone who wanted me.” Sophie did not hesitate, a desperate need for him to hear the truth propelling her closer to him. “That’s not true.” She wanted him. Desperately. He understood, his gaze turning predatorial. He, the hunter. She, the prey. And then he said, “I can’t love you.” A single tear slipped down her cheek as she nodded. “I know.” “I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay here. I want to keep you here, at the center of this labyrinth. Even though it’s the worst possible thing I can think to do to you.” “I don’t think I can survive your betrayal.” He came to her then, quick and purposeful, lifting her face to his, staring deep into her eyes. “I don’t want you to go,” he said. “I want you to stay.” “And what happens if I do? What is my life if I stay?”

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” She looked away. “It’s not true.” He hated that she didn’t believe him. “I know I said I wouldn’t tell you that. I know I said I would do as you asked, and find another way to compliment you, but I can’t.” He came up on his knees again, reaching for her, lifting her gaze to his. “You are beautiful, Sophie. More beautiful than you can imagine.”

“Feel what you do to me,” he whispered. “You make me ache for you. You make me want to lay you down and take you until there is nothing left but us and the labyrinth.”

“Don’t you see? My pleasure is yours. I am yours.”

Yours. He would hear that word, spoken in her voice, for the rest of his life. Yours. Truth and utter lie all at once.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry I cannot be the man you wish me to be.” Tears threatened again and she shook her head. No more of that. “It’s you who don’t see. I only ever wished you to be the man you are.”

“You’re not the most . . .” Sesily picked up where she left off. “Marketable.” “Of us.” Seline finished. Not beautiful. Not charming. Not exciting. Unfun. Except, in these recent days, she’d been all those things. And not because she’d been shot. Not because she’d dressed as a footman. Not because she’d sold away a carriage full of curricle wheels and run from her father’s henchmen. Not even because she’d nearly lost her virtue in a hedge maze. Because she’d fallen in love with King. Because he’d fed her strawberry tarts and kissed her senseless and tempted her with a glimpse of a life that was more than she’d ever imagined. Because he’d teased her with the idea that she was more than Sophie Talbot, the youngest and least interesting of the Soiled S’s.

“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.”

“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.”

“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?”

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.”

“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.”

“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.

This hurts me. This moment. The truth of it. That this is all I’ll ever have of you.

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.

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.

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.

“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.”

“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.

“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.”

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.

“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.”

“I don’t want the whole world thinking I trapped him. Thinking he’s saddled with me for some idiotic reason. I don’t want the aristocracy in our business.” “Hang the aristocracy, Nessie,” his father said, going to her. “Easier said than done,” Agnes replied, lifting her hand to his face, stroking his cheek. “I don’t wish to marry you. I wish to love you. And that will just have to be enough.” The words crashed over him. He stilled. “What did you say?” I didn’t wish to marry you. I only wished to love you. I don’t wish for you to be saddled with me.

He’d do anything he could to make sure she never cried again.

“You must be alive, love. I’ve so much to tell you,” he said into the darkness, willing her to hear him. “I won’t lose you, Sophie. Not just as I found you. You’re not done with me, yet.”

“What have I said about mail coaches, Sophie?” She scowled. “As you packed me off to London mere hours ago, with a promise never to see me again, I’m not terribly interested in what you have to say about my means of travel.” “Ah. Lovers’ quarrel,” explained the woman next to her, sounding rather gleeful. “We’re not lovers,” Sophie snapped. “If he’s chasing after the mail coach to fetch you, you will be,” said the man by the window, lowering his cap over his eyes and leaning back in his seat. Except they wouldn’t. “Little do you know. He doesn’t even like me.” “Get out of the coach, Sophie.” “Go on, Sophie, we’ve all places to be,” said another passenger. “As do I!” she insisted. King raised a brow. “Oh? Where are you headed?” She didn’t know that bit. Not yet. Still, she wasn’t about to say as much to him. “Sprotbrough. Perhaps you remember it. Handsome doctor?” “I remember it, love. Every minute of it.” “Don’t call me that.” “Why not? I love you.” She caught her breath at the words. He was a beast. “Get out,” she said softly, hating him for saying them. For making her wish they were true.

“I nearly lost you,” he said, the words quiet and devastating. “And then, just as I discovered you weren’t in the coach—that you were alive, I lost you again.” She released him and took a deep breath, stepping away from the words. From their truth. “You sent me away.” He reached for her. “Sophie—” She stepped back. “I told you that I loved you, and you sent me away.” He cursed, running his hands through his hair, “I know. I was wrong. Christ.” “I didn’t wish to marry you,” she said, hating the sadness in her words. The weakness there. “Not like that.” “I know,” he said. “I’m not sure you do,” she said, and she couldn’t bear to look at him any longer. She turned, looking down the road, where the mail coach had disappeared. She was trapped. Just as he was.

“I can’t be married to you, King. Not like this. That’s why I left the carriage.” She paused and looked back to him, meeting his beautiful green eyes. She loved him too much to be married to him without trust. Without love. “I told you everything. I bared myself. My love. And it wasn’t enough. You deserve better than to be trapped in a marriage you don’t want.” She shook her head and added, “And I deserve more.” She turned her back to walk away, not knowing where she was going, but knowing she could not stay with him. He called after her. “I want it.” She closed her eyes but did not stop. “God knows that you do deserve more, but I’m sorry, Sophie, you can’t have it. You’re my wife. And I want you. Every bit of you. I love you. More than you could possibly know. And I was a proper ass. I should have listened to you. I should have believed you.”