“Aye, it is, but if ye recall, I never could stand too much time in the company of the uninteresting, the vain, and the arrogant.”
“Then how do you stand to be around yourself?” She could not resist the barb.
“Are you calling me uninteresting?” The underlying laugher in his voice was unmistakable.
“Certainly not.”
“I thank ye, lass.”
“You should not. I’m calling you vain and arrogant. One with your past could never be considered uninteresting, Your Grace. You provided much fodder for the gossips by ruining Elizabeth and disgracing me.”
She bit her tongue to keep from blurting the rest of her thoughts: Leaving me to bear it all. Leaving me to know you had never wanted me, that you had used me. Allowing everyone to pity me, the poor, pleasantly plump, freckled one with the too frank speech who was cast aside for the Incomparable.
“I did not ruin Elizabeth.”
The warning in his tone both surprised and rankled her. She never had liked that men thought they could silence women with a cool word or harsh look, and she’d never imagined him to be the sort of man to do so. But apparently, she’d been blind to his true nature all along.
“I suppose that’s correct,” she conceded.
It had taken her a month to accept that her best friend had betrayed her. At first, Elizabeth had told Guinevere that Asher had lured her to the library in Guinevere’s home during the busy ball, and as horrible as that had been to hear, it had been even worse to think that her best friend since childhood had been disloyal. But when faced with evidence from her sisters, who’d seen Elizabeth and Asher laughing and talking, and then sneaking to the library together, it had been much harder to deny that Guinevere had been both betrayed and made a fool of.
But she was stubborn, to be certain, and she’d tried to cling to hope until a chance encounter with Asher’s father in front of the milliner’s shop had opened her eyes and shattered her heart. The tips of her ears burned now with the shame his words had brought her when he’d said, “I’m sorry my son pursued you to spite me. It was not well-done of him to use you thusly.”
In the face of that revelation, the truth had to be accepted. What she’d believed to be a real courtship had been a ruse. And somewhere along the way, he and Elizabeth had been drawn to each other. The worst of it all—Well, she still to this day could not decide what was the worst of it. It had all hurt like a mortal wound.
She’d gone around for months muttering, “Et tu, Brute?” under her breath until her mother threatened to send her to Bedlam if she didn’t cease her behavior. She’d stopped, of course, but that didn’t mean she had not felt like Caesar in Shakespeare’s play, betrayed by those he’d trusted.
Guinevere forced herself to shrug as if the past no longer haunted her or shaped her actions, her thoughts, and her future. She longed for the day it would be the absolute truth.
“Fine. Elizabeth was a willing participant in your scandalous liaison,” Guinevere amended.
She could swear she heard him sliding his teeth back and forth. Perhaps, he’d crack one. The thought turned up her lips.
After a moment, silence fell, and then he said, “It’s interesting how ye choose to twist the truth about what happened. I suppose it would be too difficult to face yerself in the looking glass if ye admitted the actual facts.”
Her brows dipped together. Did he mean Elizabeth had pursued him? Even if that was true, it changed nothing. He had used Guinevere in his personal vendetta against his father, a fact he likely did not realize she knew. But she’d eat a mud pie before telling him and allowing him to comprehend the depth of her humiliation.
A sudden pain pierced her head and neck. Whether from the conversation or the fall, she was not certain. She reached up and slid a hand over her cramping muscles.
“Did ye injure yerself?”
He could have been an actor for how sincere his concern sounded.
“Certainly not,” she snapped. “Do you think me the sort of woman to be injured from a small fall?”
“Nay, Guin. I think it would take much more than that to injure the likes of ye.”
The likes of me?
She frowned. What did he mean by that? No. No, she would not allow herself to wonder or to care about anything Asher did or said. She drew herself up to her full height, which irritatingly only put her head level with his shoulders. “Lady Guinevere, if you please.”
“As ye wish it, Lady Guinevere.”
Gawds. Why did the way he said her name still have to sound so enticing?
“If you’re endeavoring to be accommodating, perhaps you would depart now and find your way back to the ballroom that you never should have left.”
“If ye remember, the uninteresting and the vain drove me out here.”
“All the way to my bedchamber window?” she demanded. “Why not just retreat to the pleasure gardens? This seems an unnecessarily long way to come to get away from those who annoy you.”
“Well, I was in the pleasure gardens, but I saw something that interested me. Care to know what the something was, or are ye afraid to find out?”
For better or worse, she’d never been one to retreat from someone questioning her mettle. “You have me on tenterhooks,” she said, making sure her voice was as blasé as possible. “Do scandalize me.”
“It was the strangest sight.” His voice dipped low, mesmerizing. He always had been an excellent storyteller. Apparently, his knack for drawing a listener in had not dulled a bit over the years.
Pity, that. She’d prefer him to be as dull as the pianoforte lessons her mother still forced her to sit through, though everyone, including God, knew no amount of lessons would ever make her accomplished at such a thing. She was not a proper lady in most ways.
“What did you see?” she demanded, truly interested now. Mama often accused her of being like a cat: too curious for her own good.
“I saw ye, Lady Guinevere, running with little decorum and much abandon at the edge of the woods.”
“You couldn’t have.” She pressed a hand to her chest where her heart fluttered. She should have denied it outright. Was it too late? She bit her lip. Yes, she supposed it was, drat it all.
“I assure ye, I did see ye. I’ve keen eyesight.” He tapped his temple.
“But it’s dark,” she insisted, wincing at how foolish she sounded.
“Do the Bow Street Runners come around much for yer services?” he quipped.
“You are an odious man,” she snapped.
“Such cruel words from such beautiful lips,” he replied, managing to sound both chastising and oddly admiring at once. “I wonder where ye learned such language. From one of the men ye meet in the dark, perhaps?”
“I do not meet men in the dark,” she bit out.
He tsked at her, exactly as her mother would. “Let me remind ye that I saw ye. That white gown ye’re wearing is not verra stealthy.”
She clenched her teeth at the truth of the statement. “There are at least a hundred women in white gowns at my parents’ ball.”
“Aye, but I could think of no other lady who would abandon propriety as ye would and gallop around like a wild horse, heedless of caution.”
“Is that a compliment?” Her heart beat at a dangerous speed.
“Aye. I give them when they are due.”
“Why did you follow me, Your Grace?” Her words were unnervingly breathy. “And for that matter, why are you here?”
“I think ye know why I’m in London.”
She had meant her home, but whether he had purposely misconstrued her question or not, she didn’t know. What she did know, of course, but she preferred to ignore, was the fact that she had been unable to pay no mind to the news of his father’s death, not to mention the ensuing speculation from all the marriage-minded mamas regarding if the widowed, and now grossly wealthy, Duke of Carrington would return to London and take a wife. According to Guinevere’s elder brother, Huntley, wagers had been
made at White’s as to whether or not Asher would show his face in London, take up his title properly, and secure another Incomparable.
She wished she’d known he had returned so she could have prepared herself mentally to see him. And she wished that Mama had told her that she’d invited him to this ball. Then Guinevere remembered that her mother had tried to speak to her about the guest list, and she had purposely evaded her mother’s attempts. Guinevere swallowed. She needed to say something about his father, but what, given their history?
“I was sorry to hear of your father’s passing.”
“I was sorry to hear it did not happen sooner,” he replied.
She bit her lip. She should not comment. She should stay out of his affairs. They were not friends. They could never be friends. And yet… “The years have not lessened your anger at him, I see.”
“We Scots are famous for holding grudges against people who’ve wronged us, Lady Guinevere. Whether the wrongdoer is a stranger, a father, or a lovely lass.”
Of all the nerve! How had she wounded him?
“Are you implying you have a grudge against me?”
A bang came from above, making her jerk, and then an urgent hiss. “Guinnie!”
Guinevere glanced toward her bedchamber window and stepped out of the shadow of the tree she’d been standing under with Asher. She was both relieved and annoyed to see three figures in her window, which were undoubtedly her sisters, Frederica and Vivian, and her best friend, Lilias.
“Guinevere Darlington,” Vivian said. “We have been frantically searching for you. Thankfully, I said—”
“Guinevere!” Lilias interrupted. “What are you doing down there? Lord Pratmore returned to the ballroom covered in mud and Lady Fanny returned unscathed. Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Guinevere said, keenly aware that Asher was behind her in the dark, listening to this conversation. She did not want the man privy to her secrets, but she could not announce his presence to prevent her sisters and Lilias from saying anything else. Her youngest sister, Frederica, had a habit of letting secrets slip to Huntley, and he would most certainly feel compelled to duel for her honor or some such nonsense. “I took a tumble in the muck, and I was trying to climb the tree to get back into my chamber to change.”
“I told you she had it well in hand,” Lilias said.
“Hold on, Guinnie,” Frederica said. “I’ll throw down the rope.”
Guinevere’s ears burned. What must Asher think that she and her sister had a secret rope hidden away for times such as these?
“Do hurry, Freddy,” she said faintly, Asher’s heat against her back made it hard to think properly. Had he moved closer? To better hear? To eat her like a wolf? She was positively losing her wits.
“Guinevere, when you return to your bedchamber, you might want to stay there and feign a megrim,” Lilias said.
Guinevere shook her head. “Mama would blister my ears for days if I attempted such a thing, and Papa wouldn’t stop her.”
“But, Guinnie, Carrington is here. We saw him!”
“Lilias, do cease talking!” Guinevere snapped as the rope was thrown out the window to dangle down the side of her home.
“I take it by your terse tone you already knew?” Lilias asked.
“Verra astute of ye, Lady Lilias,” Asher said, stepping out of the shadows.
Guinevere moaned as a chorus of gasps came from above her.
“I’d normally love to stand and listen to the rest of this conversation, but someone is coming.” Asher delivered the dreadful news as casually as one would speak of the weather.
One glance to her right confirmed he had spoken the truth. For once.
“I cannot be caught alone with you,” she burst out. “My parents would force us to wed!”
“I’m sure neither of us wants that,” Asher agreed and fairly shoved her toward the rope.
Before she could obtain a good hold on it, he was hoisting her up. His strong hands gripped her hips, causing her heartbeat to soar. Just as her fingers found purchase, he released her and said, “Climb quickly. I’ll distract whoever is coming this way, and ye can reward my efforts later.”
“By what means?” she asked, her overactive imagination—the one only Asher had ever ignited—sparking like a well-tended fire.
“That, lass, remains to be seen.” And with those parting words, the man who’d once swept into her life and left her heartbroken disappeared yet again.
Chapter Two
“Where did you disappear to last night?”
His half brother’s question pulled Asher from his thoughts about Guinevere—tree climber, trouble finder, dangerous schemer.
His neck muscles tightened at the appearance of Pierce in his study, and Asher set his teacup down next to the mound of papers he’d been reading, which informed him of the new estates he’d inherited. Pierce plopped into one of two armchairs across from Asher and kicked his feet up onto the edge of Asher’s desk. The golden liquor in the crystal glass Pierce was holding sloshed over the edges as he settled himself.
“Still imbibing first thing in the morning?” Asher asked.
Wry amusement lit his brother’s face. “Since Father’s death, I can normally tolerate waiting until midday, but I’m making an exception this morning, given the solicitor will be here soon to read Father’s will. I feel certain I’ll want fortification against what I’m to learn.”
“Perhaps,” Asher agreed, studying Pierce for a moment. He looked like he’d just returned from all night at one of London’s clubs, which would not be unusual if his habits had not changed. His black hair was a disheveled mess, and bloodshot eyes stared back at Asher. Pierce’s shirt was untucked, and his cravat dangled untied down his chest. A woman’s lip paint stained Pierce’s neck and cheek, as well as the top edge of his cravat.
They hadn’t rubbed along well when Asher had been in London five years ago, for which Asher did not completely blame Pierce. Asher had been angry at his father and distrustful, and that wariness had tainted his willingness to bond with Pierce, so he’d not bothered trying. Then again, neither had Pierce, but that could have easily been because of how distant Asher had been. Now they had another chance and several unfortunate things in common that might draw them closer.
Neither of them had known about the other until they were grown. Hell, Asher hadn’t even known until he was two and twenty that his father was alive. Or English. Or a duke. He inhaled a long, slow breath as an image of his mother, frail and near death, floated in his mind. He’d been shocked when she’d confessed that he wasn’t a bastard. Wasn’t sired from a man long dead of the lung disease.
He’d even been furious for a moment. But she was dying. And she was his mother. And when she’d explained, there was only one choice—forgiveness. His father had, in fact, wed his mother long ago in secret after meeting her when he was in Oban with his father, Asher’s deceased grandfather. The man had discovered the marriage and given his father an ultimatum: divorce Asher’s mother or be cut off from all blunt and risk losing any part of his inheritance that was not entailed.
Under his desk, Asher curled his hand into a fist. His father had divorced his mother on false grounds of infidelity, but the divorce had not been final until after Asher was born. Still, his father had refused to acknowledge Asher or even see him, so Asher’s mother had thought to protect him by telling him she’d birthed him out of wedlock and his sire was dead. The old hatred did not sweep over Asher like a tide as it once had. It had lessened ever so slightly when his father had publicly set the record straight, and it had ebbed much more over the last few years as he’d built his distillery empire and proved his worth to himself. He didn’t have time for hatred. It took too much energy.
“So?” Pierce asked, rising and making his way to the sideboard that held the decanters of liquor. With his back to Asher, he went on. “Last night? The Fairfaxes’ ball? Where did you disappear to? I searched for you for quite a while before I left.”
Brilliant, sharp-green eyes and dark hair that glistened like polished wood flashed in Asher’s mind. Mounds of that silky chestnut hair, all unfortunately twisted up on top Guinevere’s head. He’d seen her immediately when he’d entered her parents’ ballroom. Of course, he had. Fate had been laughing. He’d stayed away from England all these years, not only because he was avoiding his father but because of memories of her, the vixen.
He should not have gone to the ball last night, but morbid curiosity as to what she now looked like, whether she’d changed greatly had driven him there. She shone brighter than the sun, just as she had when he’d met her five years prior. The fools that made up London Society had taken much longer to recognize what he’d discovered in moments after they were introduced. She was still a wondrous sight and apparently still scheming.
He’d cared for her—more than cared if he was honest. He’d been lost to her seemingly innocent charms. But he wasn’t going to sit there and dwell on how a slip of a lass had made him a fool and how his reaction to seeing her in another man’s arms had set the disastrous course of his young adult life.
He was older, and he damn well hoped he was wiser. He was here to ensure he did not lose the company he’d spent the past seven years building to his competition. Ill luck had been his constant companion the last six months, and he was dangerously close to having to sell a chunk of Loch Glen Distilleries to his competitors, the MacPhersons.
He couldn’t allow that to happen. The families that worked for him depended on him, depended on the jobs he provided them for their livelihood, and the MacPhersons were known to bring in their own people when they took over a distillery. For the people who relied on him, who had believed in him, he would swallow his pride and accept his father’s blunt, which he had refused for so long.
Pierce cleared his throat, reminding Asher that he’d not answered his brother’s question. “I left,” he said, which was partially true. He’d left the ballroom, just not the ball as Pierce would assume.
Lady Guinevere And The Rogue With A Brogue (Scottish Scoundrels: Ensnared Hearts Book 1) Page 2