“I had my reasons for staying away.”
“I’m sure they were excellent,” King scoffed.
“Some better than others.” The duke inhaled. “I should never have left you alone for so long.”
King raised a brow. “Left me?”
The duke fisted his hands on his knees. “You were young and insolent and you knew nothing of the world. Every time I returned, you refused to see me. A single, petulant message. The line ends with me. I should never have allowed it.”
“I enjoy the way you think you have allowed me to do anything I’ve done since the night you exiled me.”
Lyne leveled him with a cool green gaze that King had used on countless others. He did not like being in its path. “I have allowed you everything. I filled your coffers with funds, I gave you horses, the Mayfair town house, the curricle you drove hell-for-leather for a year before you crashed it, the coach you never used.”
King sat forward, loathing the way his father seemed to claim his successes for himself. “That money is now worth twelve times its original value. The house sits empty, right there on Park Lane, entailed to you. The horses are dead. And yes, the carriage is crashed. Just as the coach here was.” He narrowed his gaze on his father. “I lived by your hand until I could live by my own. And I have never asked you for another shilling. One would think you would not have kept such a ledger. One would have thought you would count those funds as penance for killing a girl so far beneath you that you thought her expendable.”
“And so we get to it.”
“So we do.”
The duke sat back in his chair. “I was not the instrument of her death.”
It was a strange phrasing, one that King imagined his father used to eschew his responsibility. “No, I was, and thank you very much for clarifying the situation as though I wasn’t there.”
“You weren’t, either.”
King held up a hand. “I carried the reins, Your Grace. I heard her scream. I was there when she fell silent. I held her in my arms.”
“And that will be your cross to bear. All men have them.”
King ran a hand through his hair, barely able to contain his fury and frustration. “Why am I here?”
“I offered her money,” the duke said. “The milkmaid.”
“To leave me.” Lorna had never said so, but it was not an enormous surprise.
“I am not proud of it, but I had no other way of ensuring that she wasn’t after your title. Your money. That she wasn’t trying to climb.”
King laughed at that. “I am supposed to believe that you were, what . . . making certain she loved me?”
The duke’s gaze flickered over King’s shoulder. “Believe it or not, it’s the truth.”
“It’s bollocks and you know it. You’ve done nothing for your entire life but espouse the importance of blue blood and good name and strong breeding. If you offered her money, you did it to ensure she would leave me. I assume you offered her father the same.”
The duke nodded. “I did.”
“And he accepted. And she ran to me. Because she loved me. And money wasn’t enough to end that.”
“Neither accepted it,” the duke said, “And money was not enough, you are right. You’d tempted them with something else. Something far more valuable. Something they thought they’d never get, and then . . . it seemed as though they might.”
The words unsettled. She’d wanted to run away from the start. Across the border. Into Scotland. King had pushed her to marry in a church. In Britain. In front of all the world. She’d agreed. Hadn’t she?
“She didn’t tell you about the money,” his father said, “because she knew that if she did, you’d come to me, angry. And I’d tell you the truth. She worried you’d believe it. So she told you something else.”
King did not believe it.
He shook his head. “It’s not true.”
“It’s true.” The words came from the door, where Agnes had apparently stayed, sentinel.
“He even has you lying for him?” he said, betrayal hot and unpleasant in his chest.
“She’s not lying,” the duke said.
“Her father came to the castle after her death, Aloysius,” Agnes said. “After you’d disappeared. He was destroyed. And he told the truth—that they’d been after a title from the start. Together.”
King shook his head. “No. She was afraid of him. She told me her father was coming. That he’d kill her if he found her. That he was afraid of you.”
“That man wasn’t afraid of me,” the duke said. “He had visions of being a Boleyn. He spat in my face and tore her gown. Backhanded her—and well. Split her lip. And vowed to me that she’d be the next Marchioness of Eversley by sunup.”
King could still see the gown, torn at the neck. He could see her lip, bleeding. He pushed memory aside. His father lied. It was what he did.
“Why didn’t you stop them?”
“I went to Rivendel.” The neighboring earl, master of the estate where Lorna and her father lived. The duke laughed at his stupidity. “I actually thought he would be able to help. But your girl and her father had been promised a dukedom. And they were willing to risk all. By the time I returned home, you were gone. With her. And the coach.” The duke paused. “That’s when I learned that against human will, the aristocracy had no power.”
King’s mind reeled with the images of that night, burned into his memory. Her tears, her begs, her eyes filled with fear. Those eyes. She’d have to be the best actress in Britain. Or want something badly enough to do anything.
But the idea that she’d lied—that everything he’d thought about that summer, that girl, the life they could have had, was imagined—it was devastating. And impossible to believe. It did not matter that the doubt was there now, seeded. Growing. 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?
King stood, desperate to leave the room. To be rid of his father. To be rid of Agnes, whom he’d never thought would betray him. He leveled his accusation at her. “You’re both lying to me.”
“Call her a liar again, and you will no longer be welcome in this house,” the duke said, cold fury in his tone. “I will take your insults, but Agnes has been nothing but your champion since the day you were born, and you will not speak ill of her.”
At another time, the anger in his father’s words would have shocked him, but King hadn’t the patience for it now. He rounded on the duke. “This changes nothing. This place still made monsters of us both. The line will end with me, as I have always promised.”
“And the wife you presented to me? What of her desires?”
Sophie.
“Don’t tell me you believe she loves me. She’s a Dangerous Daughter.”
The duke’s gaze did not waver. “After witnessing last night, I think the girl might well care for you. Your milkmaid would never have left you the way the Talbot girl did.”
Perfect, untouched Sophie, who wanted a home full of happiness and honesty. Sophie, whom he would return to the life she desired as soon as possible. King hated the thought of her here, in this place, with this man and his revelations.
There had been a time when he’d believed in love. When he’d desired it. But he’d lost the only thing he ever loved, and now even that truth was clouded with lies. “Then her desires shall suffer along with mine.”
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.
His jaw clenched with anger and disbelief and something far more complicated. “Why am I here?” he asked a final time, the words harsh and unpleasant on his tongue.
“You’re my son,” the duke said, simply, something in his eyes t
hat 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.”
The words were the worst kind of blow, and King responded the only way he could. He left the room without a word, going to the only place he could think of to find solace. The labyrinth.
Anger and frustration propelled him through the complex maze, every turn bringing back another memory of his youth, of his mistakes. Of the past he’d been escaping for a dozen years. He followed the path without hesitation, the memory of the route to the center innate. He was Theseus, headed for the Minotaur, the battle already raging in his mind and heart.
But at the center of the labyrinth, he did not find a monster.
He found Sophie.
The Lyne labyrinth was as magnificent as she remembered.
Sophie sat on the edge of the extravagant marble fountain at the heart of the maze, book forgotten in her lap, shoring up her courage to leave the estate.
She’d spent much of the day exploring its twists and turns, the search for the fountain at the center occupying her thoughts just enough to keep her from going mad thinking of King. Of course, she thought plenty of King, of his childhood here, in what he’d confessed was his favorite place on the estate. Of the things he must have avoided when he was hidden away inside this labyrinth.
As one who was avoiding things herself, she could attest to the benefits of this particular location.
He’d escorted her to her bedchamber the previous evening, separated from his own by a wall and an adjoining door, and she’d kept herself from protesting his decision to leave her untouched. She had been masterful at hiding her emotions from him, if she were to offer her own opinion on the matter.
Of course, once her bedchamber door was shut and the candles beside the bed were snuffed, she’d let the tears come, along with the desire—not just for his touch and his words, but for the rest. The story he’d told, the love he’d had for Lorna—she ached for him, and for the girl he’d lost.
And then she’d ached for herself.
She’d ached at the unbearable knowledge that she wanted him. That she wanted his confessions and his desires and his truth. And it didn’t matter. Because she could want him forever, and he would never risk his heart again.
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.
She dangled her fingers in the cool water, staring up at the magnificent marble battle at the center of the fountain. The Minotaur, head-to-head with Theseus, water cascading around them as they battled hand-to-hand, each as strong as the other. There was something in the fine detail of the sculpture that made her feel for the monster in battle—he’d been a pawn in another’s game, born a monster as punishment to his mother. It didn’t seem fair that his whole life had been spent in solitude, even if the labyrinth of myth was as beautiful as this one.
“You remembered the way in.”
She snatched her hand from the water. He’d found her, first.
Her breath quickened at the words, and she turned to face King at the entrance to her secret hideaway. “I was—”
“Hiding from me.”
She smiled, hating the ache that came at the sight of him. Even with the shadow of an afternoon beard, with his hair in a state of disarray, in shirtsleeves, rolled to the elbow, he unsettled her. Perhaps those things unsettled her more, giving her a taste of the man he was outside of London’s view. Of the man she might have had, at another time, in another place.
She looked away, back to the water. “More from the idea of you than from the actuality of you, if that helps.”
His lips lifted in a small smile. “They are different?”
“The idea of you is much more unsettling.”
“That’s a pity,” he said. “I should like to be unsettling in person.”
Except he was terribly unsettling. Indeed, if he were any more unsettling, she’d have run screaming from this place. As it was, she stood, drying her hand on her skirts. “If you are here to hide from me, my lord, I am happy to leave you in peace.”
She was surprised when, for a moment, he appeared to consider the offer. Surprised, and somewhat affronted. After all, it was he who had insulted her, was it not? It was he who’d made it clear that they were never meant to be. So why would she be the one who left?
She’d been here first, had she not?
She did not imagine that he subscribed to the rules of siblings.
But he seemed to change his mind. “Stay,” he said, quietly. “Stay, and keep me company.”
Something in the soft words had her sitting, turning to him, wishing she were closer. Wishing she could see the glittering green of his gaze. That she could read the emotions there.
And then he added, a soft, unbearable “Please.”
Something had happened.
“My lord,” she said, “is all well?”
He ignored the question and sat on a low stone bench a few yards away, facing her and the fountain, stretching his long legs out and crossing them at the ankle as he crossed his arms over his chest, revealing wide bronzed forearms that she had difficulty ignoring. He lifted his chin, nodding at her lap. “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.”
He sat next to her on the edge of the fountain, raising a hand and tucking one long lock behind her ear. “You shouldn’t,” he agreed softly. “I won’t ruin you, Sophie.”
“That was the arrangement,” she said.
“So we have both reneged.”
“You take excellent care of me,” she replied, and his brow furrowed in confusion before she clarified. “Something nice about you,” she said. “As agreed. I have not reneged.”
He closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them, they glittered brilliant green. “I still renege. I won’t destroy your reputation.”
Her brow furrowed. “Why not? You don’t hesitate with the others.” He paused, and she pressed him. “You didn’t hesitate with Marcella.” Something bothered her about his silence, something that had bothered her that afternoon at the Liverpool soiree. Marcella waving happily from the window above, as though she were perfectly satisfied with King leaving her to pick up the pieces of her ruination.
“You don’t ruin them, do you?”
He raised a brow. “Why would you think that?”
She was flooded with memories. “Because I saw Marcella’s face when you left. When she looked out the window and t
hanked you.”
He looked down to the water, dragging his fingers across the surface. “Perhaps she enjoyed our tryst.”
Sophie’s gaze narrowed. “I don’t think so.”
“Well. That’s a bit hurtful.”
She ignored the attempt to dodge the point. “I don’t think there was a tryst. Was there?”
He inclined his head. “There was not.”
Her brow furrowed. “Then why the mad escape? Why enrage the earl?” She paused, realization dawning. “I see. Marcella will marry another.”
He nodded. “The owner of Hoff and Chawton menswear, if I recall. He’s promised me cravats any time I require them.”
“Marcella’s father won’t be able to argue the match.”
“I imagine he’ll be grateful for someone to happily marry his daughter. And Mr. Hoff is very wealthy.”
Sophie laughed. “You gave her the marriage she’d never have been able to have.”
“She swore it was a love match.”
“And the others?” Sophie asked. “Did they vow love matches as well?”
“Every one.”
She thought back on the other women, the ones she’d envied during their discussion in the carriage. “You ruin them so they can be happy.”
She would be happy, ruined by him.
“I give them the push they require.”
“I should have seen it,” she said. “If there was something between you, they wouldn’t have—” She stopped. She couldn’t tell him that.
“Wouldn’t have been what?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, no, Lady Sophie,” he said. “It was just becoming interesting.”
She exhaled sharply, tired of lying. So she told him the truth. “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?”
The Rogue Not Taken Page 28
