It was the wrong time to notice it, but the entire morning he’d been noticing her—from the moment she’d walked into the pub in what had to be a years-old dress procured from the pub owner’s wife. There was nothing attractive about the frock, and still he could not keep his attention from her.
Then she’d argued with him—no surprise, as arguing seemed to be what they did together. And it was more exciting than anything he’d done with a woman in a very long time.
When the men had arrived, he’d known, without question, that they were looking for her. And he’d been about to turn her over—to explain that Lady Sophie Talbot was nothing more than a nuisance, and be rid of the woman and her troublesome life, when he’d made the mistake of looking at her.
She’d looked crushed, her blue eyes full of sadness and resignation. And the smallest, most devastating sliver of hope.
Hope that he might help her out of this mess.
So he had. Like a fool, perpetuating the myth of their marriage, locking them together for more time, until the bounty hunters left. It was idiocy, of course, considering the fact that she’d just sent a messenger to her father, apprising him, no doubt, of the entire situation. Of her plans, which the Earl of Wight would never allow, no matter how much his youngest daughter believed herself plain or boring or irrelevant.
She thought too little of herself, and King had suddenly wished very much to change her mind. As insane as that sounded.
He blamed her beautiful smile.
Which he’d noticed at the exact wrong time, of course.
Dammit.
He came to his feet the moment the man left their table and sat at the bar, knowing that they hadn’t entirely convinced him that they were simple newlyweds smitten with each other. Knowing that he was about to pay the barkeep for information on them. Knowing that Sophie had just paid for an urgent delivery to London. He swore under his breath and, refusing to release Sophie’s hand, pulled her from her chair to her feet, leaning down to whisper at her ear, “They are not certain of us. Feign love.”
She turned to look at him, blinking. “How do I feign something like that?”
She was so damn innocent. It slayed him. He leaned back in, pressing his lips to her ear, enjoying the way she curled into the touch. “Pretend I’m your Robbie.”
Confusion washed through her eyes, and he knew the truth, a thread of relief twisting through him. She did not love Robbie.
Not that he cared one way or another.
He pulled her from the room, instead, using his strength to keep her closer than was proper. Once they were through the back entrance of the pub, he drew her into the dark hallway just beyond the door, hesitating at the foot of the stairway that led to the rooms above.
He imagined they didn’t have much time, so he was not gentle when he set her against the wall. “How is your shoulder?” he asked, realizing he hadn’t asked her before. Though he’d spoken to Mary and to the mad doctor every day, he hadn’t seen Sophie in three days. And he should have asked after her wound.
He should have asked after her, period.
She was confused by the question, but answered nonetheless. “It is fine, thank you. Stiff, but it remains uninfected.”
He nodded. “Excellent.”
“You knew they were here.” She hissed. “That’s why you wagered.”
He hadn’t, but he did not correct her. “You shouldn’t have agreed to bet me.”
“Because you’re a scoundrel?”
“Because I do not lose.” A stool scraped against wood in the pub. The man approached. King pressed closer to her, his hands encircling her waist. She squeaked her surprise as he leaned in. There was no time to prepare her. No time to change his plan. No time for anything but a quick, low “Time for my forfeit. Make it look real, Mrs. Matthew.” And he set his lips to hers.
For a moment, she froze beneath him, her lips pressed together in a flat line, her hands up at his shoulders, pushing at him, a little sound of protest caught in her throat. He lifted one hand to her neck, his thumb brushing along the line of her jaw, his fingers threading into the hair at the nape of her neck, massaging there until she relaxed, sighing her pleasure at the sensation.
He didn’t intend to like kissing Sophie Talbot.
He didn’t intend for anything more than the most perfunctory of caresses—long enough to convince her pursuers, and mechanical enough to get the job done.
But the sigh did him in. He caught it with his lips, readjusting the angle, pulling her tighter against him and pouring all his expertise into the touch—instinctively knowing that if she’d ever kissed another, it had been nothing like this. For, if there was anything in the world King enjoyed, it was kissing. He adored the privacy of it. The magnificent way it tested and teased and tempted and ultimately told, foreshadowing a greater, more intense act.
Her mouth was open, her full lips on his, and he took what she likely didn’t even know she’d offered, worrying her beautiful bottom lip with his teeth before soothing it with his tongue and stroking deep, tasting her, the tang of bergamot from her tea and something sweeter, more delicious than he would have imagined.
She sighed again, and he pulled her closer, loving the way she gasped at the movement before giving in to it, wrapping her hands around his neck and threading her fingers in his hair. Christ. It felt good.
She felt good.
Even better when her tongue met his.
She was an excellent student.
And this kiss was getting out of control.
He broke it off, lifting his lips from hers, ready to stop the moment before it ran away with them both. But her eyes remained closed and her hands remained fisted in his hair, and he found that releasing her was not in the cards. Instead, he returned his lips to her skin, tracing her cheekbone, her jaw, running his teeth down the column of her neck to linger in the space where it met her shoulder. He kissed her there, licking delicately before he sucked just enough to elicit a lovely little cry.