It had to do with the fact that he could not be what she wanted.
He could not give her the love she desired. The love she deserved. And the best thing in the world he could do for her at this point was to pack her back to the inn in Mossband and pretend as though they’d never met.
As though he would forget her.
He drank deep, guilt turning to frustration. What a damn fool he was to have brought Sophie here, to have introduced her to his demons. To have tempted them both with what could never be.
Because even if he did marry her—he could never love her.
He’d done that once. And look where it had landed him. Alone. Drunk. In the library.
“My lord?”
King turned his attention to the door, where Agnes stood. Agnes, who had been by his side from childhood, more mother than housekeeper, more friend than servant. She was the only person in the world who could look at him with such equal parts adoration and disdain. “Come in, Agnes,” he said, waving a hand to the chair opposite. “Sit and tell me tales of the last decade.”
She drew closer, but did not sit. “Are you drunk?”
He looked up at her. “I’m working on it.”
She considered him for a long moment and then said, “Your father wishes to see you.”
“I do not wish to see him.”
“You don’t have a choice, Aloysius.”
“No one calls me that,” he said.
“Well, I am most definitely not going to call you King,” Agnes said, dry and certain. “I already have one of them.”
“And a monarch in London, as well,” King quipped.
“That’s the drink talking, or I’d take a switch to you for rudeness.”
He looked up into her pretty face. The years had been kind to her, despite the fact that he imagined his father was anything but. “I’m too old for switches, Nessie. And I’m well past the age where I mustn’t disrespect the pater.”
She narrowed her brown eyes on him. “You may disrespect your father all you like. I won’t have you disrespecting me. Drunk or otherwise.”
The words set him back. For a boy who had grown up without a mother, Agnes had been the best possible companion, always forthright, always caring, always there. She’d been young and pretty when King was a child, always willing to play. It had been Agnes who had shown King the secret nooks and crannies of the castle, always finding time for him. When King had broken his wrist after tripping down the castle stairs, it had been Agnes who had gathered him in her arms and promised him he would be well. And it had been Agnes who had always told King the truth, even when it made him feel like an ass.
Like now.
“I apologize.”
The housekeeper nodded. “And while we’re at it, why not try your hand at not disrespecting your future wife, either?”
It was too late for that.
“She’s not my future wife.”
Agnes raised a brow. “Has she come to her senses and left you, then?”
Somehow, she hadn’t. But he was through keeping her here, against her wishes, forcing her to tell a story that she didn’t want to tell. He was releasing her from their agreement as soon as possible. This afternoon. The moment he next saw her.
And she would leave him.
“She will,” he replied, hating the words.
“You know that will be entirely your fault.”
He nodded. “I know.”
And he did. He’d drive her away, just as he did with every other woman who had ever shown a modicum of interest in him since Lorna. Except, all the other times, it had been easy . . . a smile, a stolen kiss, a promise that they’d find someone even better. More ideal. Perfect for them.
But he didn’t want Sophie finding someone more perfect.
He wanted to be someone more perfect for her.
Except he didn’t know how to be.
Goddammit.
“I hate this place.”
“Why?”
He sighed, leaning his head back on the chair and closing his eyes. “Because it makes me feel like a child. It makes me feel like the child I was when I lived here, clinging to your skirts, uncertain of what to do next. The only difference is that now I could not care less about his opinion of my actions.”
She watched him carefully. “I’m not certain that’s true.”
She was right, of course. He cared deeply about his father’s opinion of his actions. He wanted him to loathe them. He stood, irritated by the revelation. “When I inherit, I’m razing the place and its memories.” He moved to a low table nearby and filled his glass once more. “Lead on. Take me to the king of the castle, so I may receive my instructions and leave him in peace. If all goes well, we can have it out, and we’ll never see each other again.”
He would have left already, if not for Sophie.
“He is not the villain you think he is, you know.”
He cut her a look. “With due respect, you are not his son.”
“No,” she said, “but I have run his house since you were born. I was here the night you left. I’ve been here all the nights since.”
“Since he forced my hand and left me to kill the woman I loved.”
Agnes stopped short. King had never said the words aloud, and in the last twenty-four hours, he’d said them twice. It was as though telling Sophie had unlocked something in him.
“What is it?” he asked.
She shook her head and began to move again. “I promised your father I’d fetch you.”
“I am fetched, Agnes,” he said. “I do not require escort.”