He should propose.

She deserved a proposal.

He could manage a proposal—a summer fair in the Mossband town square, a masquerade ball, jewels, and public declarations of his intention.

Except Sophie wouldn’t want anything so extravagant.

She sighed in his arms, cuddling closer to him, and he kissed the top of her head.

He’d take her to the center of the labyrinth again. With a plateful of Agnes’s strawberry tarts and a soft wool blanket. He’d go to Mossband and fetch a basketful of sugar buns from Robbie the baker. King smiled in the darkness. His lady had a sweet tooth. He’d feed it for the rest of his life, with pleasure.

Just as soon as he took her to the labyrinth and told her the truth—that even as his past made it impossible for him to promise her love, he wished to promise her the rest. That he would do his best to make her happy.

As meager an offer it was, she loved him, and she would say yes. She would say yes, and they would eat sweets, and then he would lower her to the blanket and strip her bare and lick the sugar from her lips with only the sky and the sun as witness.

It wasn’t a fair in the Mossband town square, but it had the benefit of being quick. He’d take her over the border and marry her in Scotland. They could be wed by this time tomorrow.

And she’d be his. Forever.

She stiffened in his arms, pulling away from him, moving to the edge of the bed. Where was she going? It was the man who was destined to skulk off in the dead of night, was it not? He had plans for her. They involved more kissing. More touching. More of her telling him she loved him.

And she was leaving him.

He reached for her, catching her hand before she could escape. “Where are you going?”

She reached down for her dressing gown, lifting it up and covering herself. “I . . .”

“You don’t need the gown, Sophie,” he said, letting all his desire into his tone. “I shall keep you warm.”

She dipped her head, embarrassed by the words. He’d take great joy in teaching her not to be ashamed of desire. Someday, she’d come naked to his bed. The thought had him instantly hard again.

“Sophie,” he said, “come back to bed.”

“I cannot,” she said, standing and pulling the gown back on, tying the belt haphazardly. “We mustn’t be caught.”

“We shan’t be caught,” he said, moving across the bed, reaching for her, pulling her back to him as he knelt before her. It didn’t matter if they were caught, anyway. He was going to marry her.

He tucked a strand of glorious brown hair behind her ear, running his thumb over the high arc of one cheek. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Stay,” he whispered, leaning in and stealing a kiss, long and lush, reveling in the way her tongue matched his stroke for stroke until they were both gasping for breath. He pulled her close, worrying the soft skin of her ear with his teeth and tongue. “Stay, love. There’s so much more to explore.”

She sighed at the words, but stepped back nonetheless. “I cannot,” she said, the words catching in her throat as she backed away. “We agreed—one night.”

That was before, of course. Before she’d loved him.

Before he’d made love to her.

She couldn’t imagine he’d let her go now—she couldn’t imagine one night would ever be enough. And yet, she was leaving him. Cold realization threaded through him. “Where are you going?”

She met his gaze. “Away. Away from here.”

Away from him.

“And if I wish you to stay? What then?”

She shook her head. “I can’t. It’s too much.”

There was something in the words, something soft and raw and sad, and he realized that she was leaving him because she wanted to stay. Because she thought he wouldn’t give her what she desired.

And perhaps he wouldn’t, in the long run.

Perhaps he’d never be the man she deserved.

But damned if he wasn’t going to try.

Damned if he didn’t want to spend his whole life trying to make her happy.

He came off the bed then, following her as she made for the adjoining door. “Sophie,” he said. “Wait.”

She shook her head, and he could have sworn there were tears there, in her eyes, as she turned away, making a run for the door. His plans changed. He wasn’t going to propose tomorrow. He was going to propose now. He couldn’t bear her sadness, even for a moment.

He loved her.

Good Lord.

He stopped short at the realization, so clear as he considered the possibility that he might have hurt her. He loved her. He never wanted her hurt again. He’d do anything to stop it. He’d do anything for her.

Forever.

And he wanted her to know it. Immediately.

“Sophie, wait,” he said, unable to keep the laughter from his tone as she tore the door open, desperate to be rid of him. He was going to catch her and take her back to bed and tell her how much he loved her. Again and again, until he’d professed it as much as she had.

Until she believed him as he believed her.

He was going to propose to her, and capture her pretty agreement with his lips and make love to her until the sun rose and painted her with gold.

She loved him.

Except she’d gone still, her gaze fixated on something in her bedchamber, horror on her face. King stopped as well, dread twisting in his gut as she shook her head. “No,” she whispered, her hand clutching the edge of the door. “No,” she said again, louder. “I changed my mind.”

Changed her mind.

Jack Talbot stepped through the doorway, his gaze finding the bed and sliding back to where King stood. Naked.

The earl’s brow rose. “Eversley.”

King looked only at Sophie. “You changed your mind about what?”

“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.