Willing away the distaste that came at the thought, she stared at the door between her rooms and King’s. She’d done all she could to put off approaching him, bathed and changed the bandage on her shoulder, dried her hair by the fire, combed it until it gleamed. It was late enough that he was no doubt abed, no doubt asleep, without thought of her.

They’d barely spoken in the hours since her family had arrived. He’d taken his leave immediately, no doubt grateful that his responsibility to her was complete. They’d dined with him, his father nowhere to be found, her sisters more than willing to fill whatever awkward silences arose with their chatter about London and Society.

King had remained quiet, answering only those questions that came directly to him.

Her sisters had known better than to engage him.

There’d been a moment when her mother had inquired after their journey—why it had taken such a long time. King had looked to Sophie in the aftermath of the question, surprised that the countess seemed not to know that she’d been shot and convalesced in Sprotbrough.

There hadn’t been a time to tell her family what had happened, strangely, as a bullet wound had seemed trivial when compared to the wound her family suffered. The one she would cause for King.

She’d watched him throughout dinner, memorizing his face, his eyes, the way his lips curved around his words. She wanted to remember all the little moments she could amass before tonight. Before she knocked on that door and changed their lives forever.

If she could find the courage to do it.

If she could find the willingness to do it.

Perhaps he would refuse her.

Relief flared at the idea. If he refused her, her family would have to try another way. If he refused her, she could leave, and find another life. She’d never have to return to London. To Mossband. She could disappear, and they could live their lives without her.

He could live his life without her.

She would have to live her life without him.

The thought ached in her chest, her heart somehow beating there, in spite of it, and she exhaled, standing and crossing to the adjoining door. She could end this now. She would knock; he would refuse her; she would leave.

Even though she desperately wanted him to accept her.

Not like this.

No, not like this. But the idea that she would never see him again, never touch him again, never be near him again . . .

It was torture.

She put her hand to the door, palm flat against the cool mahogany, and she lowered her forehead to the door. Breathing deep, imagining that she could smell him there, on the other side, soap and spice and King.

How much she wanted him, and how little she wanted this.

She straightened and lifted her hand, preparing to announce herself, when a knock sounded on the main door to her chamber.

She pulled her hand back from its task as though she’d been burned, immediately putting distance between her and the entrance to his rooms. She crossed to the door and opened it to reveal Seraphina, her hands at her stomach.

The eldest Talbot sister was out of breath. “I was afraid I had missed you.”

Sophie stood back and waved Sera into the room. “I have been . . . postponing.”

Sera crossed to the center of the bedchamber and turned to face Sophie as she closed the door, locking them both inside. “Do you love him?”

The question surprised Sophie, and it was a moment before she found her reply. “Does it matter?”

Sera sat on the edge of the bed, catching her breath. “It does, rather.”

Sophie crossed and poured her sister a glass of water, watching as she drank deep before saying, “Why?”

“If you don’t, you shouldn’t do this.”

Sophie shook her head. “You think I’ll find another who loves me?”

“I think you shouldn’t marry a man who doesn’t care for you.”

It was too late for that. “It is easy for you to say such a thing. Nothing about my actions will change your future.” Sophie sat next to Seraphina. “I’m so sorry, Sera. If I hadn’t—”

Sera reached over and took Sophie’s hand, clutching tight. “You defended me. No one else would have.” They were both lost in the memory before Sera chuckled. “And he deserved it.”

“He deserved much worse,” Sophie said.

The chuckle became a laugh. “Right on his backside in that pool!”

Sophie joined her sister in laughter. “Poor fish!”

“Oh, I hope he’s put off fish forever!” Sera giggled. “The cook is French, with a particular skill for poisson!”

They laughed together for an age, brushing tears from their eyes before reality returned, and they grew serious once more. Sophie turned to her sister. “I would do it again,” she confessed. The events of the Liverpool soiree had brought her to King. And she wouldn’t ever change that.

Sera squeezed Sophie’s hand and nodded, then repeated her question. “Do you love him?”

The tears returned, this time without a hint of laughter, pricking the backs of Sophie’s eyes with honesty. “I do,” she whispered. “I love him quite desperately.”

More than she’d ever thought possible.

She lied to me. How broken he’d been when he confessed that. How devastated.

She couldn’t do this.

She couldn’t lie to him. What a monster that would make her. Ariadne in the labyrinth, undeserving of him.

And she desperately wanted to deserve him. She’d never deserve him like this.

Sera turned to her then, taking both her hands in hers and giving voice to Sophie’s thoughts. “You mustn’t do this.”