“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 said. “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.”
“Not from me,” she said. “Never from me.”
“Your lie was the worst of them all,” he said, and she heard the pain in the words. “Even as I struggled with the truth of the past—with the knowledge that Lorna betrayed me, with the knowledge that she’d never cared for more than my title—you gave me a new truth. You tempted me with a future.”
Tears came at the words, at the confession that she had not expected. That she could not bear. “King—”
He stopped her from speaking. “You threatened to heal me,” he said. “You tempted me with your pretty vows.” He paused. “You made me think I could love again.”
She reached for him, but he backed away from her touch, opening the door to the coach. “Get in.”
She did, grateful for the privacy, eager for the journey back to Lyne Castle, for the chance to convince him that they could try again. Once seated, she looked to him, framed in the door. He did not join her, however.
He wasn’t coming with her. Uncertainty unfurled through her. “Where are you sending me?”
“To London,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Isn’t that what you wanted all along? To return to the aristocracy the conquering heroine? The next Duchess of Lyne?”
Her stomach dropped. It was nothing like what she wanted. “I never wanted any of that and you know it.”
“Well, Sophie, it seems that we all must make do with not getting what we want today.” He met her gaze, his eyes glittering green and furious. “The irony of it is this—I would have given you whatever you asked. I would have begged you for forever if you hadn’t been so quick to steal it.”
The words were more damaging than any blow.
Before she could recover, he closed the door, and the carriage began to move.
King watched the coach trundle down the long drive, twisting and turning until it was out of sight. Until she was out of sight.
Until he was alone in Scotland, newly married, and filled with anger and something far, far more dangerous. Something like sorrow.
“Well. That was the strangest wedding I’ve ever witnessed.” Warnick leaned against the low stone wall that marked the long-ago filled-in moat of the castle, cheroot in hand, watching him.
“You don’t seem to have witnessed many weddings,” King said, “Considering what a hash you made of it.”
“I was trying to give you some pomp and circumstance. To remember the occasion.”
King did not think he’d ever forget this occasion.
What a fucking nightmare.
He’d married her. She was his wife.
Christ. What had he done?
“I’ll say this—” Warnick began.
“Please don’t,” King replied, unable to take his gaze from the crest where the carriage had finally disappeared. “I am not interested in what you wish to say.”
“I’m afraid you’re on my land, mate,” the Scot drawled. “At your own request, I arranged a wedding for you. I gave you a coach and six of my finest horses.”
“They weren’t hitched correctly,” King said, thinking of her in that carriage, careening down the Great North Road. Had he checked all six horses?
“They were hitched fine,” Warnick said. “You’re just mad.”
“Was there food in the carriage? And water?”
“Everything you asked,” the duke replied.
“Boiled water?” King asked. She’d need it for her tea, which she would find in the box he’d brought from Lyne Castle. “Clean bandages?”
She might need them.
“And honey, just as requested,” Warnick said. “A strange collection of items, but every one in there. She’s all the comforts of home.”
Home.
The word brought an image of Sophie, leaning over the upper walkway of the library at Lyne Castle, laughing down at him. Of her in the kitchens, eating pasties with the staff. Of her at the edge of the labyrinth fountain, book in hand.
In his bed, pleasure in her eyes.
Pleasure, and her pretty lies.
He shoved a hand through his hair, hating the way she consumed his thoughts. She was gone. He looked to Warnick. “I’m ready for the next race.”
Warnick raised a black brow. “After your wife?”
King swore at him, low and wicked. “North. Let’s for Inverness.”
“That’s a long race. The roads are dangerous.”
Perfect. Something to keep him from thinking of her. “Are you not up for it?”