“You’ve ruined her,” her father said.
Understanding flared, clear and angry, on a wave of pain he would not acknowledge. King spat his reply. “Except it seems she had quite a hand in the ruination.”
Pain flashed in her blue eyes, and he almost believed it. “King—I don’t want this.”
“You did, though, didn’t you? You wanted to trap me.”
Betrayed by the woman he loved.
She shook her head. “I didn’t. I swear.”
“You wanted to trap me,” he repeated, hating the way his throat tightened around the words. They way they reminded him of another woman. Another time. Another love that wasn’t love at all. “You wanted to be a duchess.”
“No,” she said. “I was leaving.” He could hear the distress in her voice. It sounded so honest. “I told you, I was leaving!”
“You were leaving to be caught,” he said. “So I could be caught.”
“No!” she cried.
“You lied to me.”
She wasn’t leaving.
She hadn’t planned one final night.
She didn’t love him.
It was the last that destroyed him. He met her gaze. “You lied to me.”
Her eyes went wide at the words, at the anger in them. “I didn’t,” she said, coming toward him, reaching for him.
He stepped back. If she touched him he did not know what he would do. He’d never felt so broken. Not even the night Lorna had died.
He’d never loved Lorna like he loved Sophie.
The realization stung worse than any blow.
“You wanted to marry me.”
She swallowed. “No,” she said.
He heard the lie and it wrecked him. He was unable to keep himself from thundering, “Stop lying to me!”
Her father stepped between them. “Shout at her again and you won’t be alive to marry her.”
“You arrange to trap another duke using your daughter as bait, and now you rush to protect her?” King did not have a chance to punctuate the question with a fist into his future father-in-law’s face, however, as Sophie was shouting herself, now.
“Fine! I did want to marry you!”
He shouldn’t have been shocked, but he was.
He shouldn’t have been devastated, but he was.
Even as he’d heard the lie, he’d hoped it was true.
I wished to say that I love you.
What an idiot he’d been. He’d never in his life wanted to believe something as much as he wanted to believe that she did love him. But he couldn’t. She’d betrayed him, Ariadne and the Minotaur in the labyrinth. And like the goddamn monster, he never saw it coming.
“I wanted to marry you. Yes. No woman in her right mind wouldn’t want to marry you. You’re . . .” She paused, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “You’re perfect.” She was destroying him with her simple words, with the way she spoke them, her voice rising just slightly, as though she couldn’t quite believe them herself. “You don’t have to marry me. Think of all the others—you never married them.”
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.
He considered her for a long moment, hating her for her tears, for the way they clawed at him even as he dealt with her lies. Hating her for making him love again. For making him love her. For making him hate loving her.
“You might not be the prettiest or the most interesting, but you’re the most dangerous of all the daughters, aren’t you, Sophie?” he said, hating himself for the words as she went rail straight.
He imagined he’d be hating himself a great deal over the course of this marriage.
He wanted to punish her as she had punished him. To give her everything she’d ever wanted, and then snatch it all away.
King looked to his future father-in-law. “You’ll have your wedding,” he said, before turning away, stalking to his desk, extracting paper and pen. “Now get out.”
King summoned her to the drive of Lyne Castle the next afternoon.
Sophie arrived coiffed and dressed in a deep, beautiful purple that Seleste had provided—her sister had sworn that the gown—tighter than Sophie might like—would be flattering enough to draw King’s attention. It was a stunning gown, all lush satin skirts and low necklines, with slippers to match.
They, too, were too tight, but Sophie was willing to do anything necessary for a chance to convince King that she hadn’t lied, so it seemed that being trussed into a new frock and uncomfortable shoes was a small price to pay for it. Perhaps, if he found the dress attractive, he’d allow her to explain what had happened. Why she’d come to him in the night. Why she’d left.
Perhaps he’d let her go.
Let her walk away, and free him of her. Give him a chance to find another woman. One whom he believed.
He waited for her on the riding block of his curricle, two perfectly matched handsome black horses stomping in the dirt. She looked up at him, jaw set, hat low over his brow, reins in hand. “Your curricle is returned.”
“Not the wheels,” he replied without looking at her.
Guilt flared. “I am sorry.”
“I find your apologies rather vacant, Lady Sophie,” he said casually, setting the reins for driving. “Come on then, we haven’t much daylight.”
It was three in the afternoon. “Where are we going?”
He turned to her then, his gaze cool and unmoved and . . . un-King-like. “In, my lady.”
This man, this tone, none of it was familiar. Sadness consumed her, along with no small amount of frustration, She looked for a block to climb up. There wasn’t one. He did not reach over to help her in.
She met his gaze, and he raised a brow in challenge.
She wouldn’t back down. Not now. Instead, she lifted her skirts high—higher than any proper lady should—revealing her legs and knees, and taking hold of the massive curricle wheel, hauling herself up next to him.
He said nothing about her movement, instead flicking the reins expertly and setting them on course. After long minutes of silence, Sophie decided that this was a perfectly reasonable time to explain herself. “I’m sorry.”
He did not reply.
“I never intended for this to happen. I didn’t care that you were a marquess. Or that you were to be a duke.” She paused, but he gave no indication that he had even heard her. “I realize you don’t believe me, but everything I told you was the truth. I never wanted to return to London. I never wanted to marry an aristocrat.”
And then I fell in love with you.
She wanted to say that to him. But she couldn’t bear his disbelief.
She couldn’t blame him for not believing her, either.
“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.”
The words stung, but she refused to cry. Instead, she watched the road, rising and falling before them. “When I knocked on the door last night—”
I only wished to tell you I love you.
She didn’t say it. “—I’d already changed my mind. I don’t wish to marry you,” she said, instead, not knowing if the words were true or false. “I don’t wish for you to be saddled with me.”
“I shan’t be,” he said, the words cold and distant. “You needn’t worry.”
She
did not care for the certainty in his words. “Where are we going?”
He did not reply, instead turning off the road and onto a smaller road, and then a drive that wound up to a great stone castle that rose up out of the landscape like something out of the Knights of the Round Table.
Outside the keep was a coach and six, hitched and ready, as though someone had just arrived. King pulled the curricle to a stop behind the coach and leapt down to bang on the door to the keep. Seconds later, the door opened to reveal the Duke of Warnick and a young woman draped in a green and black plaid.
Warnick stepped out of the keep with a smile, clapping King on the back heartily before turning to her. “Lady Sophie,” he said, coming forward to help her down, “Your husband-to-be is already neglecting you, I see.”
Sophie blinked. “Husband-to-be?”
Warnick tilted his head to one side, watching her with curiosity before turning back to King. “You haven’t asked her? A little late for that, no?”
King did not look at her. “She knows we’re to be married. She’s simply playing coy.”
Sophie forced a smile at the words. “Of course,” she said, attempting to hide her confusion. “I simply did not know that you knew, Your Grace.”
He laughed. “We have lax rules in Scotland, my lady, but the ones governing witnesses to weddings are fairly firm. I know, as your officiant.”
Sophie blinked. “Our officiant.”
“Yes! Don’t worry, I’ve been to several weddings. I shall take today seriously.”
“Today,” she said.
“Yes.”
“We’re to be married, today.”
“Aye,” the massive Scot said with a smile. “Else why would King have ferreted you away to Scotland?”
“Of course,” she said. “Why else?”
But she wanted to scream.
“You make a beautiful bride, if I may say so,” the duke continued as though all was perfectly normal. “Of course, the last time I saw you, you were much more . . . interestingly . . . dressed.”
“Shut up, Warnick,” King growled.
Sophie blinked, unable to be embarrassed of her footman’s garb as all her affront was taken up with the fact that she was about to be wed. “We’re to be married here. In your house.”
Warnick looked back at the massive keep. “One of them. Unfortunately, it’s not the nicest.”
“We won’t be going in,” King said. “If nothing else, the Scots understand marital expediency.” He looked to the plaid-covered girl. “I assume you are our second witness?”
“Aye, m’lord,” she said.
“And what’s your name?” he asked, the words an octave lower than his usual voice.
“Catherine.”
He smiled at her, and Sophie couldn’t help the way her heart pounded at the dimples that flashed there, in his handsome face. “Well, Catherine, you may call me King.”
The girl returned his smile warmly, and Sophie wanted to hit him. Hard.
King turned to Warnick, who was watching the scene carefully. “Let’s have this done.”
Warnick nodded. “I suppose we can skip the dearly beloved bit.”
“Indeed,” said King.
“I don’t know,” snapped Sophie. “Catherine seems fairly beloved.”
Warnick’s black brows rose and he looked to King. “Dearly beloved, then.”
King smirked. “Whatever my betrothed wishes.”
“Dearly beloved,” the duke intoned, “we are gathered here today to join this man”—he indicated King—“and this woman”—he waved to Sophie—“in holy matrimony.”
“Wait,” Sophie said.
“My lady?” asked the duke, all solicitousness.
“We’re doing this now?”
“Yes,” said King.
“In the drive of the Duke of Warnick’s castle?”
“Och. You see? She doesn’t like the castle.” Warnick pointed out before leaning in. “My highland keep is much nicer.”
“No no. It’s not the castle. The castle is lovely. But the drive—we couldn’t do it in a place more . . . authentic?”
King stared at her for a long moment and then said, “If I were marrying a more authentic bride, I might be troubled to find somewhere better.”
She gasped at the words. “You’re horrid.”
“Indeed, it seems I am. Aren’t we a sound match.”
“Perhaps we should wait and finish the ceremony another time,” the duke said, looking from King to Sophie.
“Perhaps so,” she said. She wasn’t going to marry him. Not like this. Not with him furious. She turned for the curricle and took several steps before landing herself on a particularly jagged rock. She gasped her pain and reached down to inspect her slipper. “Perhaps never is a good time for Lord Eversley.”
“You should be more careful about where you walk,” King said, his gaze on her foot. For the first time since she’d met him in the drive at Lyne Castle, he revealed emotion. He was livid.
“Well I’m sorry if I wasn’t prepared for a craggy-drived wedding. You should be more careful about where you take me,” she retorted. “Now you’ve torn my slipper.”
Warnick snorted his laughter.
“We’re to be married. In this place. At this time,” King said, looking away from her, the words cold and certain. He glowered at the duke. “Do it.”
She stopped and turned back. “I don’t think you understand,” she began. “I’m not—”
Catherine interrupted her, speaking from her place in the doorway to the castle. “It’s done.”
Everyone looked at her.
“I beg your pardon?” Sophie asked.
“I said it’s done.” Catherine pointed at her. “You said, We’re to be married here.” She pointed to King. “And he said, We’re to be married in this place, at this time. I witnessed it, as did Alec.” She looked to the duke. “You heard it, didn’t you?”
“I did,” Warnick said, surprise in the words. “It’s that simple? No dearly beloved required?”
Catherine shrugged one shoulder. “It’s the marriage that’s important, not how you get to it.” She looked to Sophie and King. “It’s done. We’ve witnessed your intent to be married, and so, you’re married.” She smiled. “Congratulations.”
It couldn’t be true.
Warnick’s brows rose and he nodded. “Fair enough.”
“That was significantly less painful than I expected it to be,” King said.
“No!” she said. If she was to marry him, she wanted something to feel like marriage. They couldn’t be. This couldn’t be it.
The duke looked to her. “You don’t wish to marry him?”
“Not like this,” she said.
“This is the only way it happens,” King replied. “I want it over and done.”
Sophie met his gaze, hating him. Loving him.
“My lady, do you wish to marry him?” Warnick asked again, serious this time.
She didn’t look away from King. Couldn’t. And she told the truth. Made the vow there in that mad place. “I do.”
Fury flashed in King’s eyes before he looked away.
He collected a box from the floor of the curricle and left to deliver it to the floor of the coach.
As Sophie saw it, she had two options. She could watch him leave her there, in the drive belonging to the Duke of Warnick and whoever Catherine was, or she could tell him the truth. Every bit of it. And let him decide what came next.
One month earlier, she might have chosen the first option.
But she was a different Sophie now, and so she followed him, not caring that their first argument as husband and wife was going to be immediately following their wedding, which she seemed to have missed, anyway.
“I didn’t want this,” she said. “Not like this.”
“I’m afraid I was not in the market for half the ton at St. George’s,” he said.
“You needn’t have been in the market for any of it,” she sai
d. “I never asked for you to marry me.”
“You are correct. There wasn’t a moment of asking.”
She closed her eyes, hating the words. “I thought you did not intend to be saddled with me.”
He moved to the front of the coach and six, inspecting the perfectly matched chestnuts, and testing the harnesses for each of the great beasts. “I shan’t be,” he said, unhitching one of the horses and reconnecting it to the coach. “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. “It’s that simple?”
“It is, rather,” he said, moving to the next horse. “I’ve a half-dozen houses throughout Britain. Choose one.”
She watched him. “I choose the one where you are.”
His hands hesitated on the harness, briefly, barely enough to be noticed. “You want Lyne Castle?” He laughed humorlessly. “By all means. My father will no doubt adore having you in residence. What with you being everything he’s always dreaded in a daughter-in-law.”
She ignored the pain that came with the cold words. “I don’t choose Lyne Castle. I choose wherever you are. The castle today, the town house in Mayfair tomorrow. I choose to live with my husband, whom I—” Love.
She trailed off, but he heard her nonetheless. “You needn’t lie any longer, Sophie. You got the marriage you were hoping for. I’ve no need for your professions of love. And you lost the chance to live with me when you lied to me and trapped me into marriage.”
She did her best to suffer the blow. “I had plans to leave.”
“And be found by your father. I’m aware of those plans. They worked well.”
“No,” she said. “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.”