“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?
“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.
She didn’t want him to judge her.
Embarrassment flared hot and unwelcome.
She wanted him to leave.
He stayed, sadly, turning back to starry-eyed Jane, and said, “But she was so eager to see her old friend”—he leaned in conspiratorially—“and, between us, to have one of these legendary buns, that she forgot to ask for one for me.” He looked to Robbie. “Of course, we’ve been traveling for days, so I forgive her. Exhaustion takes a toll on such a delicate lady.” Sophie resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
“Of course, my lord,” Robbie said, reaching for a second bun and a length of cotton in which to wrap them.
“Are you a lord?” Alice asked, the arrival of an aristocrat apparently more interesting than breakfast.
“I am indeed.” King bent down to meet her. “How do you do, Miss—”
Alice did not understand the prompt, so Sophie interjected. “Alice.”
“Alice is a lovely name. For a lovely young lady.”