The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel 1)

She cleared her throat and found speech. “It is exactly the same.” She looked down the row of buildings, drinking in this place she’d dreamed of for years; there was a tea room now where there hadn’t been when she was younger, just on the crest of the little slope that curved round behind the pub. “Except for the tea shop.”

He was looking at the pub. “The Weasel and the Woodpecker? Really?”

She laughed at his surprise. “I think it’s creative.”

“I think it’s ridiculous.”

She shook her head, pointing to the rock at the center of the greensward. “Seleste climbed that once.” She noticed the question in his gaze. “My sister.”

“The one we haven’t discussed.”

He did not mention her suitor, and Sophie noticed. She nodded. “She climbed up—couldn’t have been older than eight or ten—and once up there, she became terrified. She couldn’t get herself down.”

“What happened?”

“My father came to save her,” she said, the long-forgotten memory returned with utter clarity. “He told her to jump into his arms.”

“Did she?”

Sophie couldn’t hold back the laugh. “She toppled them both to the ground.”

He laughed with her, the sound deep and soft in the early-morning light. “Did she learn her lesson?”

Sophie shook her head. “No. In fact, we all wanted to climb the rock and play with Papa after that.”

The words came on a thread of sadness, something she didn’t entirely understand, and she shook her head, willing the emotion away. Turning, she found King staring at her. “Did you climb the rock?”

She pushed past him, rounding the corner of the carriage. “Yes.”

He followed. “And did you jump?”

She stopped. Looked down at her feet. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because . . .” She paused, not wanting to say the words out loud. Not wanting him to hear them. Not that it mattered what he thought of her. They were through today. After this, they’d never see each other again.

“Sophie?”

She turned, loving the sound of her name on his lips. The way it wrapped around her in the cool, grey morning air. The way it made her remember the night before. The way he’d sounded in the dark.

She shouldn’t think of that. Of course, she would, but she shouldn’t think of it here in public. In daylight. In the presence of him, and all of Mossband.

“Sophie.”

She shook her head, staring over his shoulder at the rock in question. “I was too afraid to jump.”

Silence fell and she imagined him judging her. She wasn’t much different now, was she? Still afraid. Still uninteresting. Still unfun. She braced herself for his retort.

“Until now.”

She blinked, returning her gaze to his, beautiful and green and unwavering. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re not afraid to jump now. Isn’t that why we’re here? Why you stowed away in my carriage? Why you stole my wheels and got yourself shot? Isn’t that why we escaped your father’s men? All so that you could be here, now? So you could jump?”

She didn’t know what to say, his words so pointed they almost goaded. And then they did goad. “So you could win your wager? With happiness?”

She looked to the bakery, its chimney spouting happy smoke, keenly aware of the fact that the wager was ridiculous. She’d never win it. But he was driving her to its logical conclusion. She would enter the bakery, see Robbie, and return to Mossband. She would be free of London.

Everything would change.

It would begin again.

She would be free.

“Or do you forfeit?”

She was grateful for the teasing in the words. The way they brought her back to the moment. The way they reminded her of the woman she had promised herself she would become. The life she had promised herself she would have.

Without titles or pretension.

Without London.

Without him.

Not that she wanted him. She didn’t even like him. And he certainly didn’t like her.

Now was the time. She was here, in this place where she knew no one, had nothing. She’d found her way here. She’d made her wager and she would follow it through. Yes, she might fail, but she could not return to London. And she could not rely on King’s help forever.

He wasn’t for her.

I was too afraid to jump.

Until now.

It was not the seeing of Robbie that mattered, but the proving to herself that she was brave enough to do this. Alone. The proving to King. Because he would leave her, and she wanted him to think her brave.

To value her.

To see her. One final time.

She pasted a bright smile on her face. “Why would I forfeit when I am so very close to my bookshop?” Triumph flared at his surprise. He didn’t think she would do it, and so she returned to the open door of the carriage, reaching in to collect her paltry things.

Setting her basket at her feet, she smoothed her skirts, asking, “How do I look?”

“As though you’ve been riding in that carriage for twenty-four hours.”

She scowled up at him before collecting the basket and standing straight. “I shouldn’t have asked you.”

He stepped forward and raised a hand to her face, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear, the touch sending a thrill through her. A thrill she tried to ignore, even when his thumb stroked over her cheek, wiping away some invisible mark. The tips of his fingers lingered at her jaw, tilting her face up to his, and she felt her cheeks warm under his unwavering gaze.

They stood that way for a long moment, long enough for her to wonder if he might kiss her again. Long enough for her to wish he would kiss her again. There, next to the Mossband town greensward in full view of anyone who cared to look.

“Do not forget to keep your wound clean.”

If she’d wagered a thousand pounds, she would not have guessed that he’d say that. Her breath caught in her chest at the strange, caring instruction. “I shan’t.” She lifted the basket as unnecessary proof. He nodded and stepped away, and she felt the loss of his touch keenly. Disliked it. Grasped for something else to say, unready to be rid of him.

“I never intended to trap you into marriage, you know.” It was an odd thing to say, but true, and that was what mattered, she supposed.

“I know that now,” he said, a little smile on his handsome face. There was a dimple there, in the dark stubble of his unshaved beard. She itched to touch it.

Instead, she said, “Thank you. For everything.”

“You’re welcome, Sophie.”

And that was that. She nodded once. “Good-bye, then,” she said, disliking the words.

“Good luck,” he replied. She disliked those words more.

With a deep breath, she crossed the street to the bakery, telling herself that the discomfort in her stomach was nothing more than nerves. Nothing at all to do with turning her back on Kingscote, Marquess of Eversley. The man with whom she’d spent the better part of the last week.

After all, they didn’t even like each other.

She pushed the door to the bakery open, a little bell above the door tinkling happily, announcing the heat of the ovens, and the smell of cinnamon and honey making her mouth water. The counters were empty of food, as it was too early for passersby, and it took her a moment in the dim light.

“I’m sorry, miss, we haven’t anything for sale just yet—” Robbie began, coming to his full height at the great mouth of the brick oven that sat at the center of the room. He met her eyes, his already warm and kind and gentle—exactly as she remembered. “Sophie?”

He remembered her.

Her chest constricted with an emotion she could not immediately identify. She smiled. “Robbie.” The name felt strange on her tongue. Unfamiliar. Incorrect.