“Well. That was the strangest wedding I’ve ever witnessed.” Warnick leaned against the low stone wall that marked the long-ago filled-in moat of the castle, cheroot in hand, watching him.

“You don’t seem to have witnessed many weddings,” King said, “Considering what a hash you made of it.”

“I was trying to give you some pomp and circumstance. To remember the occasion.”

King did not think he’d ever forget this occasion.

What a fucking nightmare.

He’d married her. She was his wife.

Christ. What had he done?

“I’ll say this—” Warnick began.

“Please don’t,” King replied, unable to take his gaze from the crest where the carriage had finally disappeared. “I am not interested in what you wish to say.”

“I’m afraid you’re on my land, mate,” the Scot drawled. “At your own request, I arranged a wedding for you. I gave you a coach and six of my finest horses.”

“They weren’t hitched correctly,” King said, thinking of her in that carriage, careening down the Great North Road. Had he checked all six horses?

“They were hitched fine,” Warnick said. “You’re just mad.”

“Was there food in the carriage? And water?”

“Everything you asked,” the duke replied.

“Boiled water?” King asked. She’d need it for her tea, which she would find in the box he’d brought from Lyne Castle. “Clean bandages?”

She might need them.

“And honey, just as requested,” Warnick said. “A strange collection of items, but every one in there. She’s all the comforts of home.”

Home.

The word brought an image of Sophie, leaning over the upper walkway of the library at Lyne Castle, laughing down at him. Of her in the kitchens, eating pasties with the staff. Of her at the edge of the labyrinth fountain, book in hand.

In his bed, pleasure in her eyes.

Pleasure, and her pretty lies.

He shoved a hand through his hair, hating the way she consumed his thoughts. She was gone. He looked to Warnick. “I’m ready for the next race.”

Warnick raised a black brow. “After your wife?”

King swore at him, low and wicked. “North. Let’s for Inverness.”

“That’s a long race. The roads are dangerous.”

Perfect. Something to keep him from thinking of her. “Are you not up for it?”

“I’m always up for it,” Warnick boasted. “And with you so distracted, I might actually win this one. I’ll send notice to the lads. When would you like to leave?”

“Tomorrow,” King said. As soon as he could be rid of this place and its memories.

Warnick looked to the curricle. “I see your darling is repaired.”

King followed his friend’s gaze, hating the look of the carriage he’d once loved so dearly, now rife with memories of her. “No thanks to you.”

The duke smiled. “She was a clever girl, selling your wheels.”

“They weren’t hers to sell. She’s a thief.”

“You think I didn’t know that? She’s very convincing.”

I wished to say that I love you.

He’d never been so convinced of anything in his life.

He’d never wanted something to be more true.

The damn curricle was full of her. Of wagered carriage wheels and her glorious defiance earlier, when she lifted her skirts high and climbed up on the seat.

He’d been an ass, not helping her up.

And now as he faced a drive back to Lyne Castle, those memories marred the perfection of his curricle—no longer a place of safety, empty of all but thoughts of speed and competition. Instead, it was filled with thoughts of her. With her pretty lies.

I wanted you. Forever.

“I’ll sell it to you,” he said.

Warnick blinked. “The curricle?”

“Right now,” King said.

The duke watched him for a long moment. “How much?”

It was worth a fortune, the custom box, the high, special wheels, the perfectly balanced springs, designed to keep the seat as light and comfortable as possible on long races. It was several stones lighter than other curricles. Built to King’s exact specifications by the finest craftsmen in Britain.

But he couldn’t look at it any longer.

She’d ruined it.

He shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t want it any longer.” He considered the horses and turned back to the duke. “I require a saddle.”

“You are giving me your curricle,” Warnick said. “For a saddle.”

“If you don’t want it—” King said.

“Oh, no. I want it,” Warnick replied, shock in his Scots burr, moving to the door to send a servant for a saddle.

“Good,” King said, moving to unhitch one of the blacks. “You can return the other horse when you’ve time.”

The two men stood in silence for the long minutes it took for a saddle to arrive from Warnick’s stables, until the duke spoke. “If I may . . .”

“I thought I made it clear that I wish you wouldn’t.”

Warnick did not seem to care for King’s wishes. “I’ve never seen a man brought so low by love.”

“I don’t love her,” he snapped.

And what a lie that was.

“It’s too bad, that,” Warnick said, crushing the remainder of his cheroot beneath his boot. “As she seemed to love you quite a bit.”

She’d betrayed him. For his title. Which he would have given her freely. Without hesitation. Along with his love.