Lady Guinevere And The Rogue With A Brogue (Scottish Scoundrels: Ensnared Hearts Book 1)

by Julie Johnstone

  “I will stand by the terrace doors, alone and miserable, waiting for you.” If a man could purr, Lord Kilgore had just done so.

  She laughed. It was not well-done of her, but he smiled, and she swore it was genuine. There was not even a hint of seduction in it.

  It struck her suddenly that Kilgore was not any more affected by her than she was by him. Perhaps that was why he was seeking her out. Perhaps he’d decided it was time to wed but did not want the trouble of love, either. And that might be just the thing to bring them together—a nice dull marriage of convenience wholly unlike the passionate union she’d fantasized about as a young girl and thought was within her grasp with Asher. It was perfect.

  “Who is your next set with?” he suddenly asked, as the music had already started.

  Her mind froze. Drat him, and herself, and the fact that Asher was standing so near. She didn’t know how, but she felt her current predicament was surely his fault. He dizzied her. Never mind that she was caught by her own deceiving ways. She glanced swiftly around, praying to locate one of her brother’s friends, whom she might persuade to dance with her, but she saw none of Huntley’s chums, or even Huntley, for that matter. Heat creeped up her neck to her face, and then she did the unthinkable as her gaze drifted over Asher, who was still talking to the chestnut-haired gentleman with whom she was unfamiliar.

  “‘Wherefore art thou, Romeo?’” she murmured, then slapped a palm over her treacherous mouth.

  Chapter Five

  Asher struggled to focus on the latest news his business partner and good friend, Gabriel Beckford, was telling him about their gaming hell, the Orcus Society. His attention was divided between Beckford and Guinevere. Damn her for looking so bonny and for still having the ability to stir his lust and unreasonable jealousy. Before he knew he was doing it, his hand tightened into a fist. She apparently also still had a tendre for Kilgore.

  “Carrington?”

  His name sharp from Beckford snapped his attention fully to the man.

  “Aye?”

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  Asher hated to admit he’d not been fully paying attention, but there was no hope for it. He shook his head, and Beckford glanced to where Kilgore stood with Guinevere before looking back at Asher. “Kilgore frequents our club quite often.”

  “Does he?” Asher’s curiosity was piqued. “Does he make use of the pleasure room?”

  Beckford shook his head. “Never. He drinks two drinks, then leaves. There are whispers in the ton about his conquests of married, wealthy women, but—” Beckford shrugged “—I’ve seen no proof of it. He speaks to the girls in the club, mind you—very polite that one is—but it’s almost as if he’s waiting.”

  “Waiting?”

  “For someone who is not there.”

  He glanced at Kilgore and Guinevere. The man appeared to have found who he had been looking for. Yet, if that were the case, why were they not wed? Had they engaged in intimacy and now Guinevere found herself abandoned by the man? His hatred for Kilgore flared, suddenly burning as hot as if five years had not passed. The logical part of his mind reminded him that it was not all Kilgore’s doing. Elizabeth had told him that Guinevere had planned to obtain a proposal from Kilgore that Season and that she had been thrilled when Asher had paid her attention, so she could use him to make Kilgore jealous. It would be more reasonable for him to find sweet revenge in knowing that, even as Guinevere had attempted to use him, she had been used, but he’d never been reasonable or logical when it came to Guin.

  The stubborn part of his mind, which had never been able to totally forget her or the image of Kilgore kissing her that night, wondered exactly what had transpired between them. They must not have ended the courtship or affair tragically or they would not be speaking so companionably now as if they were close friends. Or lovers.

  His gut burned with even hotter anger, but he tried to push it aside. Guinevere was not his concern. He was here to obtain an introduction to Lady Constantine, begin his courtship, and secure his fortune.

  Guinevere’s husky laughter brought his gaze to her once more. God, she looked ravishing in red. Like a ripe berry waiting to be plucked or a shiny red apple begging to be bitten. God save him. He hated her and lusted for her at the same time.

  What were they talking about? He found himself staring. He should look away. Damn the loud chattering people around him.

  “Who is your next set with?” Kilgore asked Guinevere.

  Guinevere looked startled, as if her bluff had been called. He studied her as a lovely blush creeped slowly up the creamy expanse of her décolletage and continued on to wash a tempting rosy color over the long, graceful column of her neck and across her achingly beautiful face.

  Her obvious agitation should be perfect, but it wasn’t. Why the devil didn’t he feel more pleasant about her misery? Her gaze darted around the room, as if searching for something or someone. Who she was supposed to dance with? Or had she lied? Was she attempting to avoid dancing a set with Kilgore? Maybe Asher had judged the situation incorrectly. Maybe Kilgore had hurt Guinevere, and though she’d once done her own share of damage to Asher, he didn’t like seeing her upset, as much as he’d thought he might.

  “‘Wherefore art thou, Romeo?’” she blurted in the most charming way only she had ever been able to achieve when agitated. Her green eyes popped wide, and her delicate hand slapped rather unladylike over her pouty pucker. Did she still taste like fresh strawberries and cream? His body tightened at the memory.

  Guinevere Darlington was a liar. She had not promised the next dance to anyone. That much was clear to any man who wasn’t blind. He should let her drown like the conniving cat she was and simply remind himself she was the cause of her situation. He should, but he wouldn’t.

  “Ye called?” he found himself saying as if some lunatic had taken over his body. He was stepping toward her and taking her hand like a foolish valiant rescuer before he could think better of it. So much for searching out Lady Constantine. She would have to wait until the dance was over.

  Guinevere’s mouth parted, and a fascinating display of shock, wariness, and begrudging acquiescence played across her face before it became a mask of sublime indifference. If it weren’t for her fingers so stiff in his or their previous encounter by the tree—he was still shocked about that—he might believe he didn’t affect her. But her chest rose enticingly with each subtle breath, and her eyes darted to Lady Lilias, who by her slack expression, was not as practiced at hiding her emotions as Guinevere was.

  She let out a small sigh. Her jade eyes met his. Resignation flashed, but it was gone with a blink of her long, dark lashes. A brittle smile came to her lovely lips. “I had utterly forgotten you.” Her cool tone cut the silence that had descended on their small group. She pressed her lips together but failed to completely hide the fact that she was smirking.

  That’s how it was going to be, was it? They were to cut each other with their rapier wit.

  He offered his best disengaged smile. “And I ye, until ye called me.”

  “Called you?” she nearly exclaimed, seeming to lose a bit of her composure. She gave him a look that could have withered a hillside of newly sprung bluebells.

  “Guinevere,” Lady Lilias said, her tone pinched, “I do believe your mother is coming this way.”

  Guinevere’s gaze flew behind him, widened considerably, and her fingers went from stiff in his hand to gripping him tightly. When she focused on him once more, she gave him a pleading look. “Oh, yes, Your Grace, I beg your pardon. I thought you might have forgotten our conversation about ill-fated lovers, but I’m pleased to find you remember it. Shall we continue it during our dance?”

  He should let the little hellion flounder here to deal with her mother, who was marching toward them still, but he found he could not be that cruel, even to Guinevere. “By all means,” he replied and slipped her arm into his to lead her in the opposite direction of her mother and to the dance floor.

/>   It wasn’t until they reached the dance floor that he realized they were to dance the waltz, which he’d heard had become more accepted by Society, not that he’d ever given a damn about what the toffs of the ton thought. She must have realized it, as well, because she backed up a step as if to run from him. He increased his hold on her fingertips while bringing his right hand to her waist. It seemed like a lifetime since he’d first rested his hand on the gentle curve of her body, but when his hand molded her shape, it felt as right, as meant to be, as it had the very first time he had touched her. Except now he was the wiser to who she really was.

  She hesitated but a moment, her gaze focused on his chest in seeming indecision, and then her hand came to his shoulder and her eyes drew to his. God, she was stunning. She had been beautiful five years ago, like a new bud, but now she was in full bloom, her appearance causing a physical reaction in him he had to struggle to control.

  Damnation, he’d not thought it would be this way. He’d thought he’d be apathetic with her when he saw her again.

  “Ye’ve changed, lass,” he said.

  She arched her eyebrows as they began the steps of the waltz. “Did you think to find me the same, Your Grace?”

  His jaw tensed at her persistence in calling him by his newly acquired title. “Asher,” he reminded her.

  Her lips pressed together in a hard line. “It’s hardly proper for me to call you by your given name, Your Grace.”

  “Ye used to care little for propriety.”

  She frowned as he started to twirl her around. “It’s not well-done of you to point out my past peccadilloes. Shall I categorize all of yours whilst we dance?”

  He bit back the desire to grin. “That would likely require a second set.” He was careful to keep his tone neutral, though the discovery that Guinevere still had a penchant for blunt talk made him want to chuckle. Was that why she had not wed? Had she been relegated to spinster already? He couldn’t imagine it to be so, especially given Kilgore’s obvious continued interest in her.

  She offered a genuine smile that made her eyes sparkle, and his chest tightened. He had to be careful with her. His body did not seem to give a damn what his mind knew.

  “I think you underestimate your sooty reputation, Your Grace,” she said with blatant cheekiness. “I believe listing all your peccadilloes would require at least three sets.”

  He was caught by an onslaught of heady sensations. “Scandalous,” he managed. “Ye smell of lilies,” he said, watching her face. “I believe I once told ye it was my favorite scent in the world.”

  “Nonsense.” She leaned into him as he turned her once more. “I smell of roses. I’m certain I’ve never owned a lily scent in my life. I detest that smell.”

  “I see ye are not on familiar terms with the truth still.”

  Damn it all. He’d not intended to speak so candidly.

  She made a misstep, and he clutched her closer to steady her. For a heartbeat, their chests brushed, and his blood heated in recognition like a wolf to its prey. As she put a respectable distance between them once more, it occurred to him that she had changed in another way.

  “Ye’re quite an accomplished dancer now,” he noted.

  Her eyebrows drew together. “You sound oddly regretful. Why is that? Were you hoping to find me the bumbling fool so that you could laugh at my abilities?”

  Her seeming vulnerability took him off guard. “Guin—”

  “Lady Guinevere, if you please,” she said, tart as a lemon.

  He clenched his teeth together at her highhanded tone. Maybe this was the true Guinevere, the one she’d hidden from him before in order to draw him into her web. Or had he walked into her web voluntarily? “Is it Lady Guinevere to Kilgore?” he bit out. He sounded like a jealous husband. Damn it all. He should stop this now, but the desire to push forward was too great.

  “You are beyond the pale!” she gasped.

  “Aye, aye, I am. Does that scare ye? Do I scare ye?”

  What in God’s name had taken hold of him? He’d lost his mind, and it had only taken half a waltz for it to happen. He wanted Guinevere to show some sort of genuine emotion. Regret would be good. He’d been trapped in a marriage with a woman he did not care for because of Guinevere, after all. She had jaded him to women forever. It would be damnably nice to hear her admit the truth and maybe even apologize.

  “You do not scare me, Your Grace.”

  Her civil tone made him want to let out a string of curses.

  “I know exactly who you are now, and to answer your question, I am ‘Guin’ to Kilgore. Not,” she said, all haughty disdain, “that my personal life is any of your affair. I cannot fathom why you even care—unless, of course, there is someone new you mean to thwart by using me once more.”

  The music ended on her last words, and she tried to pull away from him, but he pressed a palm to the small of her back to hold her in place. “Use ye? It seems the years have muddled yer memory.”

  Her gaze skittered around them, and she paled considerably. They were drawing attention, but he didn’t give a damn.

  She lifted her chin in a show of impressive pride. “We shall have to agree to disagree, you louse. Oh, pardon, I mean, Your Grace. Now if you will please release me, people are beginning to stare, and I cannot afford to become fodder for the gossips because of you again. I have my future, as well as my sisters’ futures to consider.”

  Even as his anger ticked to a degree he had not experienced since the night he’d seen her with Kilgore on the balcony, he released her, well aware what she said about her future was true. She turned away, and though he should have stayed silent and simply let her depart, he could not seem to manage it. He wanted to warn her and injure her at the same time. It was bloody awful, and he knew it. “I would not continue to pin yer hopes on Kilgore, if I were ye. The marquess is not interested in marriage. I should think it time ye quit dwelling in a fool’s paradise.”

  Her eyes blazed magnificently. “We circle back to Romeo and Juliet, I see,” she said, matter-of-fact. Her head tilted ever so slightly as she studied him, a fierce frown developing. “Did you just call me a fool?”

  He shrugged, though he felt as nonchalant as a soldier preparing for battle. “I simply meet fire with fire.”

  She looked momentarily surprised, but then she smirked. “King John.” She narrowed her eyes. “I find it rather interesting that you know so much Shakespeare now. If I recall correctly, you knew nothing of him and his work five years ago.”

  People were openly staring now. He didn’t care, except that he would hate to think her poor innocent sisters’ futures were ruined because of this exchange. As far as he knew, they did not deserve that fate. He could tell her that he’d begun reading Shakespeare because, as furious as he was at her, he was drawn to the text, drawn to the memories of her spouting Shakespearean quotes, and he had wanted to know what the comical words that had come out of her mouth meant. He’d been looking for answers that he had, of course, never found. He could tell her all that, but he wouldn’t. The thing about men like him was, they could be beasts when cornered. He’d like to think he was better than that, but he wasn’t.

  He shrugged. “Elizabeth loved Shakespeare.” It was a guess. He and Elizabeth had barely tolerated each other. He didn’t know what she liked, only what she didn’t—Scotland and him for taking her there. She especially had despised him when he refused to accept his courtesy title or take the money his father had offered.

  Guinevere looked stricken for a moment, and his chest felt as if it were being constricted by a band. He was the largest arse in the world. “Guin—”

  “Lady Guinevere,” she corrected in a wooden tone. She bit her lip, looking away from him. “I’ve missed my next promised set, and I do believe my mother is striding this way to take me to task.” Her beautiful face turned to his, and he could not see a trace of the vulnerability he thought he’d glimpsed in her eyes a moment ago.

  She regarded him now with all the im
passive coldness of the women of the ton they had once made jest of together. “Thank you, Your Grace, for the dance and the interesting conversation on Shakespeare, whom your wife loved.”

  She was gone in a twirl of silk and a swirl of lilies, and he was left standing there, disgruntled. He studied her progress through the crowd. She moved gracefully, head held high, shoulders back, not pausing, though he noted several men attempt to stop her. Perhaps she only deigned to halt for Kilgore?

  Good God, he had to get control of himself. He needed to cease watching her, but where the devil was she going? Certainly not to meet her draconian mother…

  He tracked her across the ballroom, keeping his gaze firmly on her as she paused a moment to glance around, and then she slipped from sight into a darkened passage. The perverse need to discover if she was slipping away to meet Kilgore had him glancing at the man to confirm he was no longer standing with Beckford, nor where he’d told Guinevere he would wait for her. He wanted to know for certain, though he was well aware he should not care at all.

  Chapter Six

  She’d made a cake of herself! No, he’d caused her to make a cake of herself. Whether it was true or not, it felt good to blame Asher. Guinevere rushed away from him and toward the darkened passage where she’d seen Lord Charolton maneuver Lady Constantine out of the ballroom. It had been difficult to keep those two in her sights with her attention so diverted by Asher, but she’d managed it somehow. She weaved through the crowd in the ballroom, a smile planted on her face, and only nodding to several gentlemen who tried to stop her.

  Once she gained the darkened passage, she rushed through the shadows that led to the library, but she paused when a sound, footfalls perhaps, came from behind her. She whirled around, facing back toward the ballroom, but could see nothing in the gloomy darkness.