The Rogue Not Taken

“I have been.”

Past tense. Christ. Her shoulders were bare.

The moment the thought came, he heard proof of it, the hiss of fabric as she pushed it over her hips, the sound rhythmic enough to make him think she was moving them to ease passage. Undulating.

He clenched his fists and leaned against the wall, his imagination running wild.

Her breath came slightly faster, but not nearly as fast as his. Not nearly as fast as his heart was beating.

Not nearly as fast as other parts of him throbbed.

And then he heard the scrape of the wooden bath stool against the floor as she positioned it, and the soft pad of her feet as she climbed it and sank into the water with a stunning, glorious sigh, as though she sank into pure, unadulterated pleasure.

This was, by far, one of the worst nights of his life.

It took all his power not to turn around. Not to go to her. Not to stare into that damn tub and take in the long length of her, flushed and pink from the heat. From his gaze.

Christ.

He did not want her.

But he did.

She was to be married.

To a bumpkin called Robbie.

Where the hell had she met him? How was she planning to marry someone in Cumbria? He shoved his hands in his pockets. He didn’t care.

She was plain and proper and uninteresting.

Liar.

And then she began to wash herself, and he resisted roaring his frustration at the sound of water against her skin, against the bathtub, sloshing and sluicing as she cleaned herself. He imagined arms and legs peeping over the edge of the tub as wet cloth slid down perfect, pale skin. Her head tipped back as she washed her neck and chest, her hands moving slowly, with infinite pleasure, across her body, above and then below the water, over curves and valleys, down, down, until the cloth disappeared and it was nothing but her hand, those long fingers dipping into moisture of a different kind—

“Why do they call you King?”

He nearly leapt from his skin at the words.

He closed his eyes, clenched his fists, and somehow found words. “It’s my name.”

The water shifted. “Your parents christened you King?”

He exhaled, not wishing to prolong her bath. “Kingscote.”

“Ah,” she said, and was quiet for a long moment, still, too. “What an extravagant name.”

“My family prides itself on extravagance.”

“I was on the grounds of Lyne Castle once.” The reminder of his childhood home was unwelcome. He did not reply, but she spoke anyway. “The duke opened them to visitors for some reason. There was a labyrinth there.” He could hear the smile in her memory of the place he’d just been remembering himself. “My sisters and I spent half the day lost inside—I found the heart of it and spent an hour or two reading at the center. They never found me.”

“It’s considered one of the most difficult labyrinths in Britain,” he said. “I’m impressed you found your way through. You were how old?”

“Seven? Eight? It’s magical. You must have adored living with it as a child.”

It had been there for generations, perfectly groomed and rarely used, and King had spent countless afternoons exploring the twists and turns of the maze, losing his governesses and tutors and nurses without any difficulty. The only person who could ever find him there was his father.

He cleared his throat. “It was my favorite place on the estate.”

“I imagine that it was. It was magical.”

There was reverence in the words and, though he did not wish to, he was soon thinking of her there, at the fountain at the heart of the labyrinth, the marble statue of the Minotaur rising above her like fury. It occurred to him that if he had her at the center of that labyrinth right now, she wouldn’t be reading.

He shoved a hand through his hair at the thought. He’d never have her there.

Not ever.

Once she was well, he’d be rid of her.

Finally.

“Do you travel home often?”

Why did she have to make conversation? It made it very difficult to hear the lap of water against her.

He gritted his teeth. “No.”

“Oh,” she said, obviously hoping that he would have said more. “When was the last time you were home?”

“Fifteen years ago.”

“Oh,” she repeated, the word softer, more surprised. “Why now?”

“You really don’t read gossip columns, do you?” he asked. Wasn’t that what ladies in London did between embroidery and tea?

“A truth that makes my mother quite anxious,” she answered, and he could hear the smile in her voice. He wanted to look to see if she was, in fact, smiling. “But I don’t like the way they speak of my sisters.”

“You’re very loyal.”

She looked away. “It shouldn’t bother me so much. My sisters adore TALBOT TATTLING. They’re in constant competition for the most scandalous of tidbits.”

“Who is winning?”

There was a pause as the sloshing water indicated she shifted in the bath. “These days, it is Seline. The one betrothed to Mark Landry. Do you know him?”

“I do.”

“Well, The Scandal Sheet reported several weeks ago that Mr. Landry taught Seline to ride on a stunning black mare and then gifted her with the same horse, prompting my father to insist they marry.”

“Because of an extravagant gift?”

“Because the horse is named Godiva. The implication being that Seline allegedly learned in the nude in the private stables at Landry’s estate.”

“That sounds false.”

There was a smile in her words when she replied, “It sounds uncomfortable.”