The Rogue Not Taken (Scandal & Scoundrel 1)

He came out from around the counter, tall and broad in his shirtsleeves, his still-blon

d hair tied back in a queue, his brown eyes filled with laughter. “We didn’t know what became of you! I mean, we read the papers, but you never returned!”

He reached for her then, and she stepped back, surprised by his forwardness. He stilled, sensing the awkwardness. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I forget that you’re a lady now.”

The words placed distance between them. Immediately setting her apart. She shook her head. “No,” she said. “It’s only—you surprised me.”

“I’m the one who is surprised, I assure you.” He looked around the shop, searching for something and not finding it. “I don’t have a coat.”

He was embarrassed of his shirtsleeves, and she hated herself for making him feel that way. She lifted a hand. “No, don’t worry about that.”

He looked away, and silence fell between them. “It’s the crack of dawn,” he said.

“I just arrived.”

“From London?”

She nodded.

“Are your sisters here, as well?”

“No. I came alone.”

His brow furrowed. “Why?”

She thought for a long moment, and then settled on, “I wanted to come home.” She paused, and when he did not speak, she said, “To a place I knew. To people I cared for.”

I wanted to be happy.

He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

She searched for more, settling on “I hate London.”

He nodded as though the words made sense, but she had the distinct impression that they did not. “All right.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, his suspenders pulling tight, and he rocked up on his toes, then back, peering about the room before his attention finally settled on the basket on one table. “Buns are still cooling, but are you hungry? Would you like a biscuit? They’re from yesterday, but still good.”

And that’s when she knew.

This ends poorly.

King had said those very words to her, before they’d made their foolish wager. And she’d known they were true, even as she’d denied it. This did end poorly. And not because Robbie Lander was not to be her husband.

It ended poorly because ten years had made this place different.

Or perhaps it had made her different.

But, either way, Mossband was not her home.

The universe underscored her thoughts with the ringing of the bell above the door. “Papa!”

A little girl pushed past her, and Robbie bent down to catch her in his large arms, lifting her high. “Good morning, moppet. Give me a kiss.”

Sophie watched as the child did just that, pressing her face to Robbie’s without hesitation before pulling back and saying, “Mama said I could have two buns today.”

“Did she?” Robbie replied, his gaze sliding past Sophie to the door. “Two?”

“One promises what one must to make little girls wear shoes.” The words came from behind Sophie, and she spun to find a pretty, brown-haired, pink-cheeked woman there, dandling a baby on one hip. The baby had Robbie’s brown eyes and a fat, happy look that Sophie recognized from their childhood.

This was his family.

You think he’s been pining away for the earl’s daughter who left a decade ago?

She hadn’t, of course. But still, staring at this woman, this baby, Sophie couldn’t help but feel . . . envious.

He had a home here. He’d stayed in Mossband, and here he was with his happy life. His happy wife. His happy family.

And it was all so foreign to Sophie.

His wife met Sophie’s gaze with a welcoming smile. “Good morning.”

Sophie found a matching smile despite her wild thoughts. “Good morning.”

“Jane, this is Lady Sophie, daughter of the Earl of Wight,” Robbie said, setting his daughter down and moving a tray of sticky buns to the counter.

Jane’s eyes widened and she dropped into a curtsy, the baby laughing at the surprising change in altitude. “My lady, welcome!”

“Oh, please don’t, Mrs. Lander,” Sophie said, hating the honorific. “Please call me Sophie. I’ve known your husband since we were”—she looked to the little girl—“your age.” She leaned down. “What is your name?”

“Alice,” said the little girl, riveted by the tray of sweets. Her little throat moved as she swallowed in anticipation.

“I remember those buns from when I was a little girl,” Sophie said, the memory coming swift and sad, her throat closing around the words. When she’d been sure of herself. She stood quickly, willing away the tears that threatened without warning. Willing away the sadness that this little girl, this little family wrought.

She’d imagined many things about returning to Mossband, but never sadness. Never this sense of loneliness. “What a fine family, Robbie.” She corrected herself. “Mr. Lander.”

“It is, isn’t it?” He laughed.

It was perfect. A perfect life.

“Lady Sophie and I were playmates when we were young,” he explained to his wife, who turned an interested gaze on Sophie.

“Oh?”

Sophie nodded, the weight of the moment heavy in the room. “It’s true.”

Silence fell, awkward, and Sophie wondered how quickly she might leave. Where she might go. What came next.

“Papa,” said the little girl, unaffected by the arrival of the newcomer. “Mama promised buns.”

Robbie looked to his daughter. “Well. A promise is a promise.”

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.

Her heart began to pound. She clutched her basket to her skirts and took a deep breath. “You’ve things to do. I must . . . take my leave.”

Robbie met her gaze as he lifted a hot bun from a tray by the oven. “Will we see you again?”

The simple question threatened to break her, reminding her that there was nothing for her here in Mossband—just as there was nothing for her in London.

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Jane’s brow furrowed. “Are you in town?”

“I am . . .” She trailed off, realizing that she did not know where she was. Where she would be.

“Are you in rooms at the pub?” Robbie’s brilliant wife offered.

“Yes,” Sophie lied, grasping at the solution. She had to sleep somewhere. “At the pub.”

“Excellent,” Robbie said. “Then we will see you again.”

“For buns,” Sophie replied.

“Take one now? For breakfast?” Jane offered, holding one out to Sophie.

She hated those buns then, their warm temptation. Their promise of happiness and memory and restoration. She didn’t want the bun. She didn’t want the strange emotions that came with it. Or the strange emotions that came with not accepting it.

And so she stood there in the center of the bakery, staring at that outstretched pastry, wondering just how on earth it was that the smartest of the Talbot sisters had become such a proper imbecile, and what, precisely, she was going to do with the rest of her life—the life that would begin when she left this place and faced a great, yawning future.

How does it end?

King’s question echoed through her on a wave of uncertainty.

She had no idea how it ended. But not here.

What had she done?

“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?

&nbs

p; “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.”

Good Lord. He was ruining her all over again. She was not Mrs. Matthew to these people, she was Lady Sophie Talbot. They knew her. And they would not hesitate to gossip about her.

“My lord,” she began, not entirely certain of what she would say.

He ignored her, instead reaching a hand to Robbie. “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?”

Sophie ignored the flip of her heart at his outrageously romantic words. He was an actor worthy of the London stage. But what was he doing? What would happen to her when they didn’t marry? When she was left in discarded ruin—unwanted by the Marquess of Eversley?

She was not one of the other ladies, with copious offers of marriage. Her only other option for marriage was here. And it was married to Jane. Making sugar buns.

It hadn’t been an option at all, if she was honest with herself.

She should be more honest with herself.

She supposed he thought she would be grateful for his arrival. But instead, it embarrassed her quite thoroughly. She didn’t want him to see that this had turned into such a disaster. She didn’t want him to see that she was alone. Without a home. Without a purpose.

She didn’t want him to gloat.