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

by Julie Johnstone

  Guinevere nodded.

  “I wanted to be an actress.”

  That certainly explained Mama’s love of drama, but Guinevere kept that thought to herself.

  “Naturally, it was forbidden, and I was not brave enough to pursue my dream. My mother told me they would cast me out of the family, and I’d be alone and penniless or wed to a destitute man, and I became fearful.” Mama shrugged. “I met your father in my first Season, and I accepted when he asked for my hand.”

  Guinevere felt her mouth slip open. “You did not love Papa?”

  Her mother’s sigh made Guinevere’s gut twist.

  “Not at first, Guinevere, but don’t misunderstand. I was vexed—more with myself than anyone. I don’t think I could have loved anyone until I made peace with the choice I had made. And so I did. I love your father immensely now, and in my mind, I thanked my mother later for guiding me in that direction. So I did the same to you, forgetting how I once felt. I am sorry. I feared for your future so I pushed and needled and criticized. I—Well, since you were discovered in a compromising situation with the duke, I assume you have feelings?”

  Guinevere didn’t hesitate to nod. She had longed for years to be close to Mama, and now that the opportunity was presenting itself, she did not want to let it slip by. “I love him,” she blurted.

  Mama smiled gently. “Have you told him?”

  “No, but I did tell him I did not accept any other offers of marriage because I did not love those men. Surely, he can conclude I love him from that.”

  Her mother snickered. “Men can be very dull-witted at times, my dear. Don’t assume anything. Oh, and they can be very much like children, in my experience with your father. They appear utterly confident, but they want very much to know they have your love and devotion. If the duke has yours, which I suspect he does, my advice to you is to tell him. It will set your marriage off on the right path. I set my own marriage off on a terribly bumpy path that almost tore your father and me apart. I don’t recommend it.”

  Guinevere nibbled on her lip as she thought. Laying her heart open to Asher scared her, but failing to grasp the love she longed for between them scared her more. She would tell him as soon as they were alone. She just prayed he did not trample roughshod over her heart once more. The fragile organ could only handle so much before it broke forever.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Asher cursed as he knelt in the muck and pouring rain, staring at the broken wheel of his carriage in disbelief. Not only was he leaving Scotland later than he had planned but now he had a broken wheel, which would delay him further. Concern stirred that he would be unable to return to London by Saturday as he had promised Guinevere he would.

  Everything that could have gone wrong in the last week had gone wrong. The fire at his distillery that had called him back to Scotland had not been an accident as originally thought, nor had it been overly destructive. Luckily, it had happened when no one was there. He had been unable to discover who had started it, and he’d had to hand over the task of investigating to his right-hand man, Alec. It was yet another bit of ill luck in the past six months, but at least now that his inheritance was at his disposal, he had been able to move funds over to his two smaller distilleries so they could continue operating.

  Asher sighed. Examining the wheel and surrounding area, he could not see what could have caused such a break. Not that it mattered a damn bit at the moment. The only important thing was that he would likely not reach London when he had promised he would. He worked quickly to release his horse from the conveyance, and then he mounted the beast. It neighed and reared up, nearly throwing him off. He gripped the reins, managing to stay on and calm the beast. Once the horse was still, Asher dismounted quickly and scanned its body for injuries. It was holding up one of its legs as if not wanting to put pressure on it. He knelt in the sludge and gently lifted the animal’s left leg to examine it.

  “Damnation!” He clenched his jaw at the sight of the slipped shoe. “How the devil could that be?” he muttered. The stablemaster had told him the new farrier had reshod Wolferton four days ago.

  His temper started to rise as the rain pelted him harder. An image of Guinevere as he’d last seen her in the garden filled his head—her hair flowing over her shoulders, her eyes glistening in the darkening shadows. With her was the only place he wanted to be.

  He stood and patted his horse on the flank with some reassuring words. He’d have to tether Wolferton to a tree and walk to get some help. After completing the task, he set off in the rain as the light of day slipped away. Thoughts of Guinevere filled his head as he trudged along the sodden trail. Four offers of marriage, and she’d not said yes to one of them.

  I did not love them.

  That made him grin until her mother’s words entered his mind.

  They were not Kilgore, I suppose.

  Devil take the woman and her poisonous tongue. He logically knew she had been trying to needle him and that he should not give it another thought, but logic meant nothing where Guinevere was concerned. Still, he muttered to himself as he trudged along, striving to repress the doubts that had taken their happiness before.

  “Are you nervous, Guinnie?” Vivian asked as she put the finishing touches on Guinevere’s hair for her wedding.

  Guinevere’s stomach squeezed at the question. “Oh no,” she said, not even trying to keep the sarcasm from her voice. “Whyever would I be nervous?” Before her sister could reply, Guinevere stood and swung toward both of her sisters. “Hmm…let me see.” She set her hands on her hips, her pulse spiking. “Carrington did not return last night as he said he would. Neither his servants nor his brother have heard a word from him.” And Kilgore had been gone all week, as well, so she still had no idea what mo ghraidh meant, nor had she gotten any answers from him as to why he’d done the things he had.

  She could hear her voice rising, but she honestly did not care. She was beyond nervous. She was nearly beside herself, which was not at all like her—at least not like her unless Asher was involved. Frederica and Vivian exchanged a long glance, and then Vivian stepped toward Guinevere and slid her arm around her sister’s shoulder while Frederica moved to the window.

  Guinevere wilted like a flower into Vivian’s comforting embrace as she stared at her other sister’s back and thought of Asher. He vexed her. He put her at sixes and sevens and made her the sort of woman she strove to save from themselves—all emotion and no logical thinking.

  She tried to focus on the latter. Logically, her mind told her, Asher would not jilt her. He would not ask her to wed him only to jilt her. It would not be logical. Except she would not be the first woman to whom such a thing occurred. Her mind also reminded her that Asher had memorized Shakespeare because of her. Didn’t that mean something important?

  If it’s true.

  The thought was there before she could stop it. Why was she doubting Asher and what he’d told her now?

  Because today is your wedding day, and he’s not yet here. Because five years ago, he kissed Elizabeth and wed her.

  “Guinnie!” Frederica exclaimed, turning toward Guinevere from the window. A grin lit up her sister’s pretty face. “He’s here! Carrington has just arrived!”

  Guinevere was through her bedchamber door and halfway down the steps to the first floor before her sisters caught up with her. As they reached the landing, Asher was stepping inside, and Guinevere came to a shuddering halt at the muddy, disheveled sight of him.

  “I’m so glad something happened to you!” she blurted.

  He glanced toward her with obvious surprise as the butler took his overcoat. He stepped toward her and grasped her hands in his warm ones. Looking down at her with a creased brow, he said, “That’s not exactly the greeting I was expecting.”

  She let out a shaky laugh, her emotions roiling inside her. “I was worried when you did not return yesterday as you said you would,” she admitted in a near whisper, spotting her mother and father walking toward them.


  Asher gave her a smile that, to her, seemed loving and her stomach fluttered.

  “I’m glad to know ye care,” he said with a wink that made her heart skip several beats.

  Before Guinevere could respond, Mama was upon them, exclaiming over Asher’s muddy state and how he could not possibly expect Guinevere to wed him like that. It was on the tip of Guinevere’s tongue to protest, but Asher beat her to it.

  “I am sorry, Lady Fairfax, for my appearance. The wheel of my carriage broke in a storm, and I had to untether my horse in the mud. But if Guinevere does not mind, I’d like to proceed now with the wedding, and—”

  “I don’t mind,” Guinevere interrupted.

  Her mother gasped, and Guinevere understood suddenly that this was the role her mother had chosen to play—a woman at sixes and sevens most the time. Now that Guinevere understood, she could not stop the smile of understanding, and she saw her mother’s lips curl ever so slightly before she scowled and said, “But—”

  “I simply cannot wait another minute to wed yer daughter,” Asher interrupted. “So I beg ye to allow me, in this disheveled state, to have the honor of making Guinevere my wife.”

  Guinevere felt such a rush of gratitude and love toward him that it stole her breath. With those few words, he had obliterated all the doubt she had been feeling.

  “The vicar is waiting, my dear,” her father added.

  Her mother threw up her hands with a dramatic sigh. “I suppose all that matters in the end is that the two of you wed today.”

  Guinevere stepped toward her mother and threw her arms around her. “I love you, Mama.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Not long later, Guinevere stood by Asher’s side in the drawing room in front of the vicar, surrounded by her parents, her sisters, and Lilias. She leaned toward Asher, her cheek brushing his broad shoulder, and her belly clenched.

  She was going to be his wife. Her. Awkward Guinevere. Who chattered on about things ladies ought not discuss. Who could not, until recently, even dance passably. She didn’t knit. She detested small talk. She ran a secret society.

  Good heavens! Would he be vexed to learn of SLAR? Would he want her to quit the society? She could not imagine giving it up.

  She slid a glance at him and found him staring at her, unbridled longing in his eyes. He took her hand in his strong, warm one and gave her a gentle squeeze before saying, “Lass, it will be perfect. Ye are perfect.”

  Those two sentences took away her worry. Asher thought her perfect, and she’d not tell him otherwise. As the vicar finished his preparations for the ceremony, it occurred to her that Asher might want to wait for Talbot, if he was coming.

  She glanced at Asher. “Is Talbot coming?” she asked in a low voice.

  Asher’s brows dipped together. “I don’t suppose so. I’ve not seen him since before I left for Scotland. I did send word to him at the Mayfair house and heard nothing in return.”

  She saw the consternation on Asher’s face, and it was her turn to comfort him. She squeezed his hand. “We will bring him round together,” she whispered.

  “Together,” he echoed with a smile as the vicar cleared his throat.

  The vicar began the ceremony, and Guinevere found herself wondering what her and Asher’s children would look like and how many they might have. Would they look like her or him or a mixture of them both? She was so engrossed in her musings that she was startled when the vicar said, “Lady Guinevere, do you wish to wed?”

  She blinked, realizing everyone was staring at her. Her face heated, and she hastily nodded and said her vows.

  Once the ceremony was over, and they were pronounced man and wife, Asher turned her toward him, cupped her face in his hands, and said, “Lass, from this day forward, ye are bone of my bone, blood of my blood. I give ye my body that we may be one. I give ye my spirit till my life be done.”

  She was so stunned by his words that she could not speak. He smiled gently and pressed a chaste kiss to her lips, one full of promise of pleasurable things to come.

  “That,” he said, his Scottish brogue heavier than normal and his voice low for her ears only, “is part of the traditional vows in Scotland. We are one now—the gentle lady and the rough Scot.”

  She realized then that was how he saw himself. Not as the new duke but as a man who had scraped and worked for everything he had. Pride filled her. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him as he had her. “We are one,” she agreed.

  The ride to Asher’s home after the wedding and luncheon was quick, but Guinevere found herself filling the time with mindless chatter. She was anxious. Not about going to the marriage bed—he had already made her his—but about telling him how she truly felt about him. The look of amused tolerance on his face as he listened to her babble on about the weather and the wedding ceremony, and then as she peppered him with dozens of questions about his distilleries, indicated he likely knew she was nervous. She considered blurting her feelings to him in the carriage, but it was a conversation she preferred to have in complete privacy. Though they were alone in the carriage, the coachman was just outside on the bench, and somehow that made her feel less alone.

  When they arrived at Asher’s home, the butler greeted them with congratulations, followed by news that Talbot was home. Before either she or Asher could respond, Talbot appeared, looking as if he had slept in a carriage, but he swept a dramatic bow, rose, and surprised Guinevere when he stepped toward her, took her hand, and pressed his lips to her skin.

  “Sister,” he said, his words a bit slurred and the scent of liquor wafting from him, “you look stunning.”

  She cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

  He was clearly foxed, but he was harmless, and he’d always been kind to her. She would never forget how he had defended her once, long ago, when she was being teased. She had impulsively kissed him on the cheek in thanks that day, which had earned her a sound scolding from Mama. He had never mentioned it and neither had she, but she’d fretted over it afterward when her mother had told her she would find herself betrothed to him if she acted untoward with him again.

  Looking at him now, Guinevere felt sorry for him. He seemed sullen and withdrawn, and she knew from Huntley that Talbot imbibed and gambled far too much. But he always had a smile for her and a kind word, and he’d asked her more than once to dance at balls the past few months since his father’s death, which made her wonder if it had not been his father who made Talbot withdrawn. She had hoped, she supposed, to hear word of Asher, even as she had hoped she would not, so she had accepted a few dances from Talbot, but he had never mentioned Asher. Maybe now they could grow closer. She wished that for Asher and Talbot.

  She gently tugged her hand away and glanced at Asher. A shadow of annoyance was on his face as he stared at his brother.

  “I assumed ye’d taken up residence at Mayfair since it’s the townhome Father left to ye and ye were nowhere to be found before I departed for Scotland. I sent word there of the wedding today. I assume ye received it?”

  Guinevere’s breath caught. She prayed Talbot did not mention that he’d seen Ballenger at Kilgore’s townhome.

  To Guinevere’s utter relief, Talbot seemed more concerned about releasing his knotted cravat than anything. “I have not taken up permanent residence yet,” he said. “I’m having the place redecorated. My taste never did match our father’s. And I did receive word of the wedding, but I had business that kept me away. I do apologize, but as Lady Guinevere will be your wife for your lifetime, I feel certain I can find a way to make amends to the lady, and to you, for missing today?”

  Talbot looked to her, and she nodded. He sounded sincere enough.

  Asher, however, did not look convinced. Or pleased. He wore a dark scowl. “How long will this redecoration take?”

  Talbot’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Eager to be rid of me now that you have everything, Brother?”

  She blinked with bafflement. What did he mean now that Asher had everything?r />
  “Guin,” Asher said, using the pet name she quite loved, though she had always protested about him using it before. “Why don’t ye let Thornhill show ye to our bedchamber, so ye can refresh?”

  She nodded eagerly. She didn’t need to refresh, but she could also use a moment to compose herself, to think about how and when to reveal how she felt to Asher. Besides, if she was out of Talbot’s sight, maybe he’d forget the fact that he’d seen her lady’s maid in Mayfair.

  She offered a quick curtsy to Talbot. “If you’ll excuse me.”

  “If I must,” Talbot said, which seemed odd. It had to be the drink.

  “Ye must,” Asher replied and then to her said, “I’ll be up shortly.”

  She nodded and was about to ask where to find the butler when he appeared from a side hall, as if he had been waiting. “Your Grace,” he said.

  She startled but then grinned. It was the first time someone had addressed her by her new title, other than the priest who had announced it formally. She didn’t give a fig for the title, but she cared very much that it meant she was wed to the man she loved.

  “If you’ll follow me,” the kindly butler said.

  “Of course,” she replied, falling into step behind him.

  They got two steps up the stairs when he paused and turned toward her. “Might I inquire if your lady’s maid will be coming, or shall we hire you a new one?”

  She bit her lip, casting her gaze toward Asher and his brother. Talbot had his back turned and was looking toward the front window, but Asher’s gaze was on her.

  “Her lady’s maid will be coming,” Asher answered for her, likely thinking that because she was staring at him, she wanted him to reply.

  “I’ll give you the details,” she hurriedly added, barely resisting the urge to tug on the man’s arm to get him to move. Her heart pounded as she climbed the stairs once more, thanking God above that Talbot had been preoccupied.