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.
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.