Chapter Nineteen
He felt the silly grin on his face, but he didn’t care. He was happy. He even started humming as his horse pulled his conveyance toward the mews that stood behind his townhome. The grin slipped, though, when he caught sight of his coachman, Digby, rushing toward him with a fierce frown.
Asher pulled up on the reins and came to a stop. “Is there a problem?” He couldn’t imagine what had occurred since he’d left this morning to go into Town to purchase a proper wedding ring for Guinevere, but something had occurred.
Asher’s mind went immediately to Pierce, and he wondered if his brother had done something foolish.
“Her Grace refused to allow me to drive her on an errand to Dorner’s to procure ribbons.”
Ah, Asher understood immediately. He’d given Digby orders before he’d left that from now on, his main duty was to see to Guinevere’s desires. When she wished to go somewhere, Digby was to accompany her. Asher had an overwhelming need to ensure Guinevere was safe, and he’d undoubtedly overstepped. She was independent like he was, and she had likely been displeased to hear she was to have someone accompany her everywhere. She was not one to embrace all the strictures Society forced upon women, and that was one of the many things that drew him to her.
Asher waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll explain my reasoning to her when she returns. How long has she been gone?”
“Hours, Your Grace. That’s why I met you out here when I saw you returning. I’m concerned.”
Immediate worry knotted his neck muscles. He knew Guinevere was a very capable horsewoman, but myriad fears filled his head, the greatest of which was that a ruffian could have happened upon her and—
He cut off the thought. It would do no good to let fear rule his actions. “I’ll go to the milliner’s shop. I know where it is.” It was actually next door to the jewelry shop he had been in today.
“Very well, Your Grace. Do you wish me to accompany you?”
“Nay. If she returns, advise her I went after her and will be back shortly.”
Asher started out, the trip to Dorner’s not overly long, but the sun was setting and the thought of Guinevere riding alone in the lengthening shadows, or perhaps stranded and fearful, made the knots in his neck spread between his shoulders and down his back.
By the time he reached the milliner’s shop, it was closed. Cursing, he stood at the door, banging upon it in the hope that someone would answer and could at least tell him if Guinevere had been in the shop that day. It was not inconceivable that they would remember the Duchess of Carrington. Shopkeepers tended to recall when wealthy clients visited, as it was often a source of idle gossip.
“Damnation,” he cursed again when no one appeared.
He turned and swept his gaze around the shops, trying to decide where Guinevere might have gone. Had she visited a friend? Before he could even contemplate the question, the door creaked open behind him. Swiveling back around, he met the curious gaze of a plump, matronly woman.
“Might I help you?”
“Aye.”
She frowned, a common reaction here in London when people first heard his Scottish brogue.
“I’m the Duke of Carrington, and—”
“Oh!” The woman flushed. “Oh yes, of course, of course. I’ve heard about you being Scottish, and oh, dear me. Do come in. How might I help you?” She stepped aside and waved a hand toward the dark store. “A hat for your new wife perhaps?” She smiled. “Rumor has it you’ve wed.”
He was certain rumor had speculated greatly given his and Guinevere’s hurried wedding and the compromising position they had been discovered in. “Actually, Mrs.…”
“Forrester,” she provided.
“I was wondering if my wife had been in the store today? I—” Hell. There was no good way to ask without stirring up more gossip.
The woman gave him an understanding smile. “Did you have a row with Lady Guine—Oh, beg your pardon, I mean with the duchess? ’Tis so hard to remember to call her that now. I have known your wife since she was a slip of a girl.”
“It’s no concern,” he replied, trying to decide how to answer her about whether he and Guinevere had a row. It seemed almost easier to say they had than to explain she was missing, but Mrs. Forrester saved him the trouble by speaking.
“No matter, no matter. Mr. Forrester says I’m too nosy by half.”
Mr. Forrester was undoubtedly correct, but Asher shook his head. “I’m certain that cannot be true.”
The woman blushed. “Oh, it is. Your wife did not come to the shop today, but as luck would have it for you, I did see her.”
He frowned. “Where?”
“Driving a curricle all alone.” She gave him a look that said she did not approve but would not say so, on which he was more than happy not to comment. He didn’t love Guinevere out and about alone, but he had never understood all the restrictions the English aristocracy placed on women. It wasn’t like that in Oban, where he had grown up.
“Do ye mean to say ye saw her on this street?”
“No. I saw her not half an hour ago at Hyde Park on the Ladies’ Mile.”
He could have kissed Mrs. Forrester.
“I had to make a delivery,” she went on, “so I closed the shop early and went through the park.”
He checked his pocket watch and grinned. It all made sense now. Guinevere had gone to Hyde Park during the hour he knew many in her set rode in their open carriages to see and be seen. It surprised him a bit that she cared at all for such a pastime. She had undoubtedly encountered friends and gotten caught up, though it did seem odd that she had been at the park for so long. It didn’t matter, though.
“Thank ye, Mrs. Forrester. I’ll bring my wife to yer shop next week to purchase some new hats.”
“Oh!” The woman beamed. “It will be my pleasure to serve you both!”
He nodded, offered a cursory bow, and climbed back into his conveyance, turning it toward Hyde Park and the Ladies’ Mile. It was a stroke of luck that Mrs. Forrester had seen Guinevere. The park was large, and even if he had gone there, he might not have found her before she set back for home. He would have to talk with her about being out alone so close to dark. He wanted her to have freedoms, but he also needed her to be safe, and neither the park nor the road was a safe place for a woman alone when the sun went down. He’d have to cool her temper, no doubt, but he could think of a million pleasurable ways to do that. He loved her too damn much to let her risk herself, even if it angered her.
Loved her.
It was the first time he’d actually allowed the thought to settle. He loved her in a way that gave her power over him, but he was ready to accept that.
Guinevere followed the butler to the parlor where Lady Constantine was, and when he opened the door and announced her, she almost turned and fled. She didn’t want to know the truth, but she had to know. Not knowing would be worse, wouldn’t it? She could hardly think straight, and driving around the Ladies’ Mile for hours had not ordered her thoughts or calmed her racing heart as she had hoped.
The moment the door behind her shut, leaving her alone with Lady Constantine, Guinevere’s reservoir of patience burst before the woman could even properly greet her. She abandoned every rule of etiquette that had been hammered into her since birth and blurted, “Did Carrington ask you to wed him?”
Lady Constantine fell back on the settee with an oof, as if she had been shoved back by the truth. Her lips parted, and she looked toward her lap.
Guinevere sucked in a sharp breath as her heart ripped in half. The woman’s face was truly all the confirmation she needed, but she would hear the words. She couldn’t say why she needed to hear it. Perhaps it was simply because she could not believe, did not want to believe, that Asher had wed her for his inheritance, and yet, she would be an utter fool if she continued to deny it. The hysterical thought made her want to fall to the ground and cry, or maybe rage, but she pressed her lips firmly together until she was certain she wou
ld do neither.
Her face grew hot with her humiliation, and she was helpless to stop it, but she would not flee, not yet. She cleared her throat, and Lady Constantine slowly looked up.
“Will you sit?” the lady asked.
Guinevere shook her head. “I’d rather stand, if you don’t mind.”
“No. No, of course not. I… I’m unsure I should be speaking with you about this. I—Where is Carrington?”
“I currently cannot say,” Guinevere replied, her anger simmering. “I saved you, Lady Constantine, so I do believe you are indebted to me, but more than that, we are—you and I both—women trapped in a world that is wholly unfair to women. I feel certain you would wish to know if your husband had failed to mention that he had asked another woman to wed him before asking you.”
“Yes,” the woman agreed. “Yes, I would.” She studied Guinevere for a long silent moment. “You love him,” Lady Constantine said with a small smile.
It was true, but in the current situation, Guinevere wholeheartedly was wishing it were not. “That is of no import at the moment.” She felt the edges of her control fraying at an alarming pace. She could imagine giving Lady Constantine a tooth-rattling shake if the woman did not answer her quite soon. “Did he ask you to wed him?”
“You really should sit for this conversation,” the woman said, arching her eyebrows in a show of surprising steel.
“Does your answering hinge upon my sitting?”
“I’m afraid it does.”
Guinevere strode to the nearest seat, which happened to be a settee facing Lady Constantine, and sat. “Well?” she demanded. “You may explain now.”
Lady Constantine cleared her throat. “He did ask me to wed him, but it was hardly a proposal of love.”
Guinevere had a sudden wish for the settee to swallow her into its plush blue cushions. “I could say the same about his proposal to me,” she muttered.
“I think not, Your Grace,” Lady Constantine said. “He offered me a marriage of convenience.”
That did not make her feel better. Lady Constantine’s revelation only served to reinforce what Talbot had told her.
“He offered for you, and you turned him down, Lady Constantine, so he came after me.” Guinevere didn’t care that she was relaying personal information. She didn’t care that it flew in the face of all the rules. She didn’t care about anything. Her heart hurt too much.
Her anguish peaked to shatter the last bits of her control. She rose on shaky legs as grief overwhelmed her. “He had to wed,” she bit out. When Lady Constantine did not deny it, Guinevere stilled, her grief mingling with burning anger. “You knew. You knew, and that’s why you jumped at the opportunity to aid him in being alone with me that night after supper.”
Lady Constantine reached toward her, but Guinevere jerked backward. She didn’t blame the lady, but she did not want a comforting hand.
“I, well… Yes, he did admit he was compelled to wed, but—”
“What else did he tell you?” She might as well get all the daggers plunged into her heart at once.
Lady Constantine offered a defeated sigh. Looking miserable, she said, “He admitted that someone had laid rules before him and that you were an acceptable candidate to them—”
“To them,” Guinevere interrupted, rocking back on her heels with the pain that assailed her.
Lady Constantine winced. “Well, yes, those were his words, but I am certain he cares for you.”
“Oh, truly?” Guinevere said, her voice rising in sarcasm. “What makes you certain?”
She’d been certain, too. She was a fool. Lady Constantine was a fool. Perhaps all women were fools led by their foolish hearts.
“Was it that he asked you to wed him first that makes you certain he cares for me?” she went on. “Was it that he said I was an acceptable candidate to the person who laid the rules before him but did not say I was an acceptable candidate to him? Was it the word acceptable?” she flung out, moving toward the door in blind fury and sorrow.
Why? Why had he played at being tender and caring? Did he think to make a fool of her? Was it some sort of game? Her emotions were too wild to consider anything but fleeing right then. She flung open the parlor door but was stopped by Lady Constantine’s hand upon her arm.
“I vow to you that I would have said something if I did not firmly believe you have his heart.”
Guinevere shoved Lady Constantine’s hand away. “His heart!” Her fury was scalding now. “He has no heart! You are as big a fool as I am!”
With that, she passed gaping servants to depart the house, and she managed to hold back her tears until she was in the curricle and headed once again to the park. The sky was darkening, and she should surely return home, but how could she go back there? She could not face him knowing what she now knew. She loved him. She loved him, and she did not want to feel that way. The wheels turned onto the path of Rotten Row, which seemed to be abandoned.
Her heart pounded mercilessly, and her throat ached with the need to scream. She wanted to flee from what she had learned, flee from her heartbreak, flee from her confusion. Before she knew it, her curricle was flying down Rotten Row. The wind whipped her hair and stung her face as she drove through the last rays of light. She squeezed her stinging eyes shut, and suddenly her curricle jolted and her horses neighed. With a scream, she opened her eyes and pulled back on the reins only to find a phaeton commanded by none other than Kilgore at the side of the row. Blackhearted rogues were everywhere.
The horses came to a shuddering halt.
“What the devil?” Kilgore bellowed as he dismounted, closed the distance between them, and snatched the reins from her. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”
She didn’t know what she’d been trying to do, and her emotions were too much to contain. She burst into fresh tears, and before she knew what was occurring, Kilgore had pulled her down from her seat and tugged her into his arms to hug her.
“There, there,” he said in the most surprisingly soothing tone. It was one that bespoke of a man who had soothed a woman before. “Tell Kilgore what is the matter,” he said in a teasing tone as he patted her back as one would a child. “Have you found marital life to be more misery than bliss?”
Asher would not have believed it if he were not seeing with his own two eyes. His wife stood in Kilgore’s arms in the middle of Rotten Row for anyone to see. Not that there was anyone present at that hour.
Black rage swept through him, and he started to signal to his horses to go so he could confront them both, but then something stopped him. He held the reins tightly, keeping the beasts in place at the edge of the park. He would not give Kilgore the satisfaction of seeing him enraged, jealous, and a fool for Guinevere—again.
It didn’t matter where he confronted her. He knew the truth now. His wife had come to Town for a rendezvous with Kilgore.
He snapped the reins and swung the conveyance around before sending the horses into a gallop, the wheels crunching first over the gravel path, then grass and dirt. Why? Why had she wed him and not Kilgore? Had the bastard not offered? Had her parents forced her, after all, thinking wedding Asher was the best option for her sisters to secure a good future?
The park flew by and gave way to nothing but the lane home as he tried to outrun his thoughts. They could not be left behind, though. He recalled every touch, every moment of this week, as well as his plans for tonight, the words he had wanted to say. The faster he went, the higher his fury mounted until he took a turn so quickly that the conveyance went up on two wheels, nearly tipping.
He slowed but did not stop, and the decrease in speed seemed to reduce the furious burn of his temper. As his head cooled, questions hit him like bullets. Why pretend to love him if Kilgore had her heart? It didn’t make sense. She could have simply wed him and had a marriage of convenience. It burned in his mind on the trip home through the lengthening shadows. Despite telling himself not to be concerned for her traveling alone at night, he was
, damn her, but he refused to return to the park like a fool.
Instead, when he arrived at the mews, he sent Digby to look out for her from a distance. He gave the man orders to find her in the park and follow her home without Guinevere realizing she was being followed. Once that was settled, Asher made his way to his study, poured a generous serving of Scotch, and settled into the chair behind his desk to wait for her.
What the hell was he going to say? Would she even tell him the truth? He could confront her about seeing her, but he wanted her to tell him. He wanted to know she could be truthful, that there was something to believe in, that everything had not been a lie. Maybe she’d gone to the park to bid Kilgore a final goodbye.
A bitter laugh escaped Asher. Maybe he was a sodding idiot.
He slung the rest of his drink back, welcoming the burn down in his throat and into his belly, but when it faded, he was left feeling cold once more. He had known she was his weakness. He had known letting her in would be opening himself up to heartache once more, but he had done it. Or perhaps it was truer to say he had not prevented it from happening.
Hell…
He shoved his fingers through his hair. He’d courted it, courted her since they’d wed. He had even learned Shakespeare years before because it reminded him of her.
He would hear what came from her mouth, truth or lies, and then he would decide whether they had any hope or he’d been dwelling in a fool’s paradise of his own wishful making.
Chapter Twenty
“Carrington lied to me,” Guinevere sobbed and then proceeded to blurt what she had discovered.
“I’ll kill him for you,” Kilgore muttered.
She was just about to thank him when her senses came back to her and she remembered that Kilgore had lied to her, as well. She shoved him away and slapped him. It stung her fingers in a most excellent way.
His brows dipped together as his hand came to his cheek, gratifyingly already reddening. “What the devil was that for?”
Lady Guinevere And The Rogue With A Brogue (Scottish Scoundrels: Ensnared Hearts Book 1) Page 24