“Of course, of course,” Lilias replied, “but I think you should consider Kilgore if he is truly pursuing you this time.”
“Lilias!” Guinevere hissed, aghast.
“Fine, fine. I’ll go soothe your mother, but the subject of you and Kilgore is not finished. He may be a rogue, but I have always said—” Guinevere squeezed her eyes shut, praying Lilias would not finish the sentence “—reformed rogues make the best husbands.”
Guinevere opened her eyes with a sigh to find Asher staring at her as if she had leprosy. Lilias’s departing footsteps echoed against the hardwoods for one moment before uncomfortable silence descended. She didn’t know what to say, but it occurred to her that she did have a question.
“Did you follow me from the ballroom?” she asked Asher.
“Nay.” His tone was disdain personified. She was foolish for having even entertained the notion for one moment.
“I see.” She forced herself not to nervously clear her throat and tried to sound unaffected. “Well, thank you for your assistance.”
He arched a wry eyebrow. “With ridding ye of Charolton or making ye feel better?”
Heat suffused her cheeks. Blast the man. He knew which instance she’d been referring to. “With ridding me of Charolton. The other should never have occurred. I was… I was—”
“Swept away by desire for me,” he inserted, cryptic humor in his tone.
“You flatter yourself, Your Grace.”
“We’re back to Your Grace, are we?”
She had to unclench her teeth to respond. “We never left the particularly proper state we find ourselves in,” she boldly and ridiculously lied. If he was any sort of true gentleman, he’d simply go along with her and not point out how she’d contradicted herself.
“So ye kiss many men in secluded libraries, do ye? That’s what ye term a particularly proper state?”
He was not a true gentleman. He was a Scot. A rogue.
“Oh do be quiet!” she snapped, pressing her fingertips to her throbbing temples. After what had just happened, she deserved an aching head. “What I do where is none of your concern.”
“I agree with that,” he said with a nod.
“Excellent. Then we can part ways.”
“Did ye follow Charolton or Lady Constantine to the library?” he demanded.
She frowned. “Didn’t we just agree that what I do is none of your concern?”
“We did,” he replied, “and I’m not concerned, merely curious.”
“You can stuff your curiosity.”
“That’s not very proper of ye,” he said with a smirk.
“And it’s not very gentlemanly of you to point it out to me.”
“I never claimed to be a gentleman, Lady Guinevere.”
“No,” she said, angry with herself, “you did not.” He was exactly right. And she had no business standing in here with him. If Kilgore truly wanted to court her, she should let him. “If you’ll excuse me, Kilgore is waiting for me.”
“Ye did not seem to be thinking about Kilgore a moment ago.” Asher’s mocking tone made her blood boil.
“You…you,” she accused, so vexed she was stuttering. “You took advantage of the discomfited state in which the encounter with Lord Charolton left me.”
He opened his mouth, snapped it shut, and then opened it again, looking just past her now. “I suppose I did,” he relented, much to her surprise. His gaze touched her once more, but it was cold, distant. “I beg yer pardon. The kiss was a grievous mistake.”
That was the second time in one night Asher’s words made her feel horrid. Grievous? Why had he had to say grievous? The single word mistake would have sufficed. She would absolutely not let him see that he had injured her pride. Notching up her chin and shoving back her shoulders, she said, “I could not agree more. Now, if you will excuse me.”
He stepped aside, and she passed, forcing herself not to give him a parting glance to ensure he knew the kiss had been as grievous to her as it was to him. His lack of any parting words increased her self-consciousness and made her heart thud in her ears, so when he spoke as she unlocked the library door, she flinched at his deep voice at her back.
“Might I suggest next time ye offer a man for a duel, ye offer up the man ye are pursuing. Unless, of course, ye think Kilgore would not come to yer aid.”
Guinevere stilled, her hand upon the doorknob. How dare he! If she were not such a lady, she would point out he had offered himself first. She pressed her lips together on the desire but found herself whirling to face him once more. “I merely followed your lead, you unspeakable cad! And to clarify, I have no doubt whatsoever that Kilgore would be more than happy to satisfy whatever need I have.”
And before he could say more to injure her, she whirled around, flung open the door, and stepped into the hall, almost running smack into Lady Constantine, who was sliding out from behind a curtain directly beside the library door. The woman looked as startled as Guinevere felt. Then, as if a silent mutual agreement to keep the secrets of this night had passed between them, they fled toward the ballroom together without a word or parting farewell once they entered the noise and revelry.
Chapter Seven
The next morning Asher was in a damned terrible mood. He recognized it, and he knew the cause—a green-eyed, brown-haired, tart-tongued temptress who had haunted him for five years.
He rolled out of bed plagued by Guinevere’s image, their kiss, their exchange of well-placed barbs, and her in Kilgore’s arms as they danced the last set of the ball. He had a strong desire to do bodily harm to Kilgore, though Asher knew the yearning was misplaced. Yet, knowing something did not change it. Life had taught him that lesson well enough.
He had known his father was manipulative, but that had not changed the man’s character. He had known he did not wish to wed Elizabeth, but he had still done so. He had known he should not follow Guinevere the night before at the ball, that it should not matter to him if she was slipping away to meet Kilgore, but it had, and he’d followed. And he sure as hell had known he should not kiss her, but he had been consumed by some sort of madness only she had ever caused in him.
He dressed quickly and made his way downstairs, nearly crashing into his valet in his unfocused state.
“Your Grace,” Cushman said, “you dressed yourself again, I see.”
His valet was exceptionally good at conveying his dislike of something with only his tone. It made Asher wonder if Cushman had done that with Asher’s father, and if so, why had the old duke kept him on? Asher had a difficult time imagining his father allowing any impertinent behavior, which was how his father would have seen it. To Asher, who had grown up in Scotland without servants and where most people freely expressed their opinions, he was still adjusting to the reality that his servants would not speak frankly with him, even though he’d given them leave to do so.
“Aye, and ye can expect it will continue, Cushman. Why don’t ye see if Pierce needs to be dressed?”
A flicker of a smile pulled at the man’s mouth, but he managed to suppress it. The English were really lacking in humor.
“Lord Pierce rose very early this morning and departed not long ago,” Cushman said.
“He did?” Asher found that hard to believe. If the noisy state upon which his brother had entered the house in the predawn hours that morning was an indicator, then Pierce had been deep in his cups when he’d come home.
“Yes, Your Grace. Quite unusual, that. I’m always wary myself of curious comportment and make it a point to carefully watch the person displaying such behavior.” Cushman gave him an unmistakably pointed look. Was the man referring to him or Pierce?
“Are ye telling me I should keep an eye on my brother?”
Cushman looked affronted. “I would never presume to tell you such a thing. I’m merely the valet, not a member of your family.”
“I wish ye English would not prevaricate,” he said, thinking of Guinevere and how she’d never answered his que
stion as to who she’d followed to the library last night. He didn’t know why he felt it mattered, only that his gut told him it somehow did.
“Prevarication is a way of English life, Your Grace. Best to embrace it, as you are English, as well.”
“I’m a Scot,” he said, choosing to ignore that he was half-English. He had lived in Scotland all his life, and that was what he considered himself. “Did Pierce mention where he was going?”
“No, Your Grace. Do you wish to break your fast now?”
“Nay,” Asher said, distracted once more, but this time it was the task before him that was heavy on his mind. He’d allowed Guinevere to divert him from his sole purpose of attending the ball: to introduce himself to Lady Constantine and ferret out if she’d be amenable to a marriage of convenience. Guinevere disrupting his life ended now. There was nothing between them except his lust for her, which he would keep a tight rein on from this moment forward. Whatever game she and Kilgore both still seemed to be playing was not his concern.
“I’m going for a ride and then a call,” he said, brushing past Cushman and the footman and opening the door himself, which he heard his valet muttering about the impropriety of at his back.
Once outside, he breathed in the fresh air, attempting to order his thoughts. His focus needed to be on securing Lady Constantine and his inheritance, and nothing—or no one—more.
“My heavens!” Lady Constantine’s mother, the Countess of Longford, exclaimed as Asher was announced and then shown into the drawing room. The woman patted at her half-pinned hair with one hand while scrambling to stand and set the small dog she had been holding in her lap down at the same time. As she bobbed a curtsy to him, her dog, who was already annoyingly yapping, ran over to Asher’s foot and started nipping at his boot.
“Bernie, back!” the woman commanded, looking utterly frazzled.
Bernie, the little black-and-white terror, paid no mind to his mistress, and Asher did his best to ignore the dog, who was working his way into a frenzy, presumably disliking Asher’s right boot with an amazing amount of intensity for such a small dog.
“Smitherson!” Lady Longford shrieked. “Fetch Bernie! And where is Lady Constantine?”
“Just here, Mother,” came a breathless, feminine voice as a tall, willowy chit whom Asher had seen but not met at the Antwerp ball rushed into the room. She halted at the door. The footman sprang into action to try to retrieve Bernie at Asher’s leg, which afforded Asher a moment to observe the woman who might well soon be his wife. Lady Constantine was not unattractive, but she did not stir Asher’s desire in the least. He preferred a lusher figure to her thin one, darker hair to her light, green eyes to her—
Damn.
As Lady Longford made introductions at an ear-ringing octave to be heard, he presumed, over the dog, he cut off the comparison of Guinevere and Lady Constantine. Irritation stirred that he had not been able to stop it.
Lady Constantine and her mother stared at him in wide-eyed expectation. Damn it all, he had missed his cue. He inclined his head as the dog scrambled around his feet to avoid the footman, who was now on his knees before Asher.
Unmistakable mirth lit Lady Constantine’s eyes, and her mouth quirked up, but the chit quickly schooled her features into a placid picture as she presented the appropriate curtsy in return. Pierce was wrong about Lady Constantine: the woman was not cold at all. It was good Lady Constantine possessed humor. Those who did could usually appreciate the irony in life, and those who appreciated irony were often people who carefully considered things. So it stood to reason that the lady would carefully consider his offer and not dismiss it outright if she’d harbored hopes of a grand love, as Guinevere used to call what she required in order to wed.
Smitherson made a grab for the dog, missed, and dove, planting himself a facer at Asher’s feet. Lady Longford began to screech. Asher reached down, grabbed the yapping dog, and commanded it to silence. Then he thrusted it toward the footman who had gained his feet, his hair and livery askew.
Mumbling apologies, the footman bowed out of the room clutching Bernie, who was making a valiant attempt to squirm out of the man’s hands. The drawing room door shut, and blessed silence descended. Asher’s muscles started to relax, but then Lady Longford spoke, her naturally high tone, infused with an undercurrent of frantic agitation, knotting his shoulders once more.
“To think, Constantine, a duke is calling upon you!”
Lady Constantine’s face turned scarlet. “Mother!”
“Posh.” Lady Longford waved a hand at her daughter. “I’ve said nothing untoward. Sit, sit,” she said, all aflutter as she rang a bell and took her own seat upon the settee. “I don’t mind sharing that I was slightly worried about my Constantine.”
The obtuse woman grinned at him. If it were possible for Lady Constantine to kill her mother with her eyes, Lady Longford would be dead now, not that Asher blamed Lady Constantine.
Lady Longford cupped her right hand to her lips. “You are my daughter’s second caller today.” She looked pleased with herself while Lady Constantine pressed her lips together to form a hard line.
A young servant scurried in with a tray of tea and cakes, blessedly silencing the woman for a moment, but once everyone was served and the servant had left, Lady Longford opened her mouth as if to speak again. But before she could get a word out, more, louder yapping broke the silence in the room. Three dogs resembling fluffy rats burst into the room. Asher watched in amused astonishment as Bernie led the charge, followed by a black dog and another black-and-white one.
“Oh, dear heavens!” Lady Longford screeched, jumping up and tipping her tea onto her lap. She screeched even louder.
The chaos in the room only increased with the appearance of the harried footman and the servant who had delivered the tea. The two of them dashed about trying to capture the dogs while Lady Constantine’s mother shrilled orders at them. Asher looked to Lady Constantine and she met his gaze straight on.
He sensed steel behind her stare. As her mother raced around the room flailing her arms, Lady Constantine arched challenging eyebrows at him, but the moment her mother halted and looked at them—the servants had finally captured the runaway dogs—Lady Constantine’s face transformed into that of an obedient daughter.
Ah, so the lady was putting on a show for her mother.
The servants bustled out of the room with the dogs in tow, and Lady Longford stood there wringing her hands and opening and closing her mouth like a fish gasping for air.
“Mother, should you go change?” Lady Constantine offered. It was sly the way the lady had given the suggestion but made it sound like she honestly did not know what her mother should do.
“Of course,” she sputtered, “but I don’t suppose I should do so while the duke is calling. Let me ask your father to step—”
“Papa has gone to Town, as has Miss Hollymirth,” Lady Constantine said. “Oh dear.” She looked to Asher. “I suppose you will have to return another day since there is no one available to chaperone us.”
He narrowed his gaze upon the lady. Her words conveyed regret, but her eyes conveyed relief.
“Let’s not be so hasty, Daughter!” Lady Longford patted the large wet spot upon the front of her skirt. “I shall leave the drawing room door open, and the servants will be back and forth in the short time I’m gone, so it is all perfectly proper still. Yes?” She looked to Asher as if she needed reassurance.
Whether it was proper or not according to the ton, he couldn’t say, nor did he care. The lady taking her leave, even if for only a short time, was far preferable than posing the marriage of convenience to her daughter in front of her mother.
“I think it within the bounds of decorum,” he said, offering a smile, “and I vow not to move from my chair until ye have returned.”
“Such gallantry!” Lady Longford twittered, to which her daughter’s lips pressed together in annoyance. Lady Constantine’s facade was slipping.
The moment Lad
y Longford departed, Lady Constantine spoke before Asher had thought of a good way to present his idea in a way the lady would not find offensive. “Your Grace, may I have leave to speak plainly?” she asked.
It seemed that was the question of the day. “I am a Scot at heart, Lady Constantine, and though we have only just met, I can assure ye I prefer blunt talk to prevarication.”
“Excellent. So do I. We do not have long, so I must ask, why are you here? I’m not as foolish as my mother to think you have been lured to my doorstep by my charms or my dowry, which is only passable. And I take it you are not desperate like Lord Charolton.”
He’d passed the lady in the dark passage last night on his way to the library, and then he’d seen her skittering away beside Guinevere when Guinevere had stormed out of the library. Lady Constantine must have hidden after Guinevere came to her rescue instead of immediately fleeing.
“I’m nothing like Lord Charolton,” he said.
“In case you are musing,” she said slowly in a firm tone, “I am not normally a foolish woman who is easily lured into dark libraries in the middle of a ball.”
He liked how truthful she was being. He arched his eyebrows. “And yet…”
“And yet,” she said, clearing her throat, “I was foolish last night. Lord Charolton used my greatest weakness against me.”
“Which is?” Asher asked, deciding he liked Lady Constantine. She awoke no desire, which made him like her even more. He would never lose his senses in her presence. One woman with the power to render him a fool was enough for this life, plus ten more.
“A secret,” she returned as the servant from earlier popped into the room with a new tea tray. While the servant refreshed their cups, which had not been touched and did not need refreshing, Lady Constantine showed off her impeccable skills at subterfuge in conversation. She talked of the weather, food, and embroidery, but the minute the servant disappeared, so did her facade. She got a direct look upon her thin face. “If you see Lady Guinevere, please convey again my utmost gratitude for her aid. I cannot imagine what brought the both of you into that corridor—” she gave him a look that said she could imagine, though she politely said otherwise “—but I’m very glad you both aided me. I am eternally grateful, and oh! It only just occurred to me, are you here to beseech me for discretion regarding you and Lady Guinevere?”
Lady Guinevere And The Rogue With A Brogue (Scottish Scoundrels: Ensnared Hearts Book 1) Page 8