The Rogue Not Taken
Page 102

This time, she believed him. Somehow. She looked down at the dressing gown. “It’s Sesily’s.”
“I’m not talking about the gown.”
She didn’t know what to say, so she asked, “Were you waiting for me?”
“Hoping more than waiting.”
Her brow furrowed. For what could he be hoping? He’d said good-bye to her earlier in the day. He’d made it clear that they were not to be. “But this afternoon you said—”
“I know what I said.” He paused. “Why did you knock?”
There were a half-dozen reasons, and only one that mattered.
Tell him.
“I . . .” She couldn’t. “. . . am leaving tomorrow.”
He nodded. “I assumed your family was not planning to take up residence.”
“I don’t imagine your father would like that.”
“The idea does have its charms.”
Silence stretched between them, the thought of his father reinforcing everything she knew about this man and their nonexistent future. He wouldn’t marry. He wouldn’t have children. The line ended with him.
Whether or not she loved him.
Tell him.
She took a deep breath. “I wished to say . . .”
Good Lord. It was difficult.
“What is it?” She couldn’t meet his eyes, her gaze falling to his hand, where it was fisted at his thigh, knuckles white, as though he was holding something tightly.
She spoke to that hand, beginning again. “I wished to say . . .”
I wished to say that I am not sure I can live without you.
I wished to say that I will always be yours.
I wished to say . . .
“Sophie . . .” Her name was more than a prompt and less than a question.
She looked up at him then, his green eyes utterly focused on her. “I wished to say that I love you.”
For a moment, the universe stilled. He did not speak. He did not move. He did not look away from her. Sophie’s heart stopped beating. Indeed, the only evidence that she’d spoken at all was the heat that flooded her cheeks in the aftermath of her confession.
When she could not bear the silence a moment longer, she added in a flood of words, “I’m leaving tomorrow. And I’m not going back to London. I’m going to find my freedom. And earlier . . . we agreed that tonight might be ours.” She paused. “I know I said I couldn’t bear to be with you any longer . . .” She looked down at that hand again. “But I changed my mind. I should like to be with you. Tonight. Just this once. I should like you to ruin me. Because you’ve ruined me anyway, really. For all others. You once asked me how all this ended. And I don’t know, honestly. I don’t know that happily is viable anymore. But I know that tonight . . . with you . . .” She trailed off, then whispered, “I could be happy tonight.”
He remained still, but when he spoke, the words came like gravel, pulled from somewhere deep and dark inside him. “Say it again.”
She shuffled her feet, feeling like a child on display, suddenly uncertain of her words.
“Please, Sophie,” he begged. “Again.”
As though she could resist him. “I love you,” she whispered.
And then that fist released, and he moved, reaching for her, tangling his hand in her hair, pulling her to him for a long, wicked, wonderful kiss, stealing her breath and her sanity until he pulled back and pressed his forehead to hers, his thumb raking over her jaw as he met her gaze. “Again.”
“I love you,” she said, the words lost in another wild kiss, this one accompanied by his hands stroking down her back, pulling her tight against him and lifting her high off the ground, encouraging her to wrap her legs around him as he backed away from the door and kicked it closed with one long, muscled leg.
He carried her to his bed, following her down, pressing her into the soft mattress, the weight of him welcome between her thighs. She gasped at the sensation, the pleasure of him there, where she’d wanted him for days. He rained kisses over her face and neck, speaking as he went. “Christ, Sophie . . . I shouldn’t want this . . . I shouldn’t take it . . . I can’t be what you desire.”
Except he was what she desired.
He was the only thing she’d ever desired in her life.
“I shouldn’t accept your love,” he said between soft, drugging kisses, his fingers working at the sash of her dressing gown, his lips on the soft skin of her neck. “I’ll never be good enough for it.” He paused, lifting his head, meeting her eyes. “But Christ, I want it.”
“It’s yours,” she said, leaning up and catching his bottom lip in her teeth, sucking at it until he groaned his pleasure and gave her the kiss she desired. “As am I.”
He cursed, the word a benediction in this, and released the belt of her dressing gown. “I’ve never seen you naked,” he said, working at the pearls of the nightgown beneath. “I want that. I want that before you leave. Before you go and find a life more perfect than what I can give you. I’ll spend an eternity in hell for it,” he vowed, “But I don’t care. I want to see you naked. I want to worship you until you remember nothing but my name. But my touch. But this place.
“I want to worship you until I can’t close my eyes without seeing you. I want the memory of you, Sophie. Forever. So when another man loves you and gives you the life you deserve, I can torture myself with it.”
Tears threatened at the words. There would be no other men. No other love, she wanted to scream at him—she was his alone. Forever.