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

by Julie Johnstone

  Crystal clanked against crystal as Pierce clumsily poured himself another drink, back still turned to Asher, which afforded him a few moments more to think of her.

  So the lass wanted to be called Lady Guinevere, did she? He clenched his teeth on the desire to smile. She was just as bold—no, bolder—than she’d been when they had met. When he had come to London five years earlier because of his mother’s dying wish—and shockingly then his father’s, as well—that he meet the father who had abandoned him, about whom she had deceived him, Guinevere Darlington had hit him like a storm. He’d meant to court her simply because his father, whom he’d just met two days before, had told him not to, had tried to act as a parent when the man had no right to do so.

  Instead, Asher had been shown just how deceitful the toffs who made up London Society were. It was a lesson he would never forget. Guinevere and her sharp wit, throaty laugh, and keen eyes that were as brilliant a green as the lushest hills in Scotland. Guinevere, who had charmed him and disarmed him, and then betrayed him by kissing Kilgore on a balcony, whom she had apparently desired all along. The irony that he had, at first, intended to use her, but it was she who had used him to lure Kilgore to her, no longer filled his mouth with a bitter taste.

  Pierce wobbled back to the chair and fell into it once more, his liquor lapping over the edges of his glass again, this time dampening his coat. He didn’t seem to notice. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair and took a long drink. “You’ll detest being the new duke.”

  “Likely,” Asher replied as he studied Pierce’s sullen expression. It was very likely that Pierce resented Asher. Pierce had been raised to be their father’s heir, only to discover at twenty that he wasn’t. And more than that, Asher suspected that their father had made Pierce feel like a failure. In the time Asher had spent with his family in England, he’d seen the way the old duke had belittled or dismissed every effort Pierce had made and how it had affected his brother. He’d seemed almost desperate for their father’s approval. Undoubtedly that desperation was partly the reason for Pierce’s current distasteful state. He paused a moment but decided being blunt was the only choice.

  “I imagine ye resent me. If our father had never claimed me, ye would now be the duke.”

  Pierce laughed at that. “I never wanted the title.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “Look how bloody miserable it made our father.”

  That was true enough.

  “Now the fortune, I’d be a liar to say I would not like as much of that as possible.”

  “At least ye’re honest,” Asher said, glad he had chosen to be blunt, and that Pierce was doing the same.

  Pierce shrugged and then offered a smirk. “I do not possess many envious qualities anymore, but I have managed to hold on to my honesty.”

  Was Pierce referring to the drinking and gambling? “Pierce—”

  “I suppose you will want me out of the house immediately,” Pierce cut in, draining the remaining contents of his glass and then slamming it down on the desk.

  “This is yer home, too, Pierce.”

  “You should call me Talbot,” Pierce said, peering past Asher as if there were more to see than the wall. “Father always did, as if he did not know my Christian name. I asked him about it once, and he told me I was lucky to have his surname Talbot. He said—” Pierce paused, but did not look at Asher “—he said, given how disappointing I was, that if I had not been born a Talbot, I would be of no consequence whatsoever.”

  Damn their father. “Pierce,” Asher started, but Pierce kept talking.

  “You’ll find it hard enough to fill Father’s shoes, I’m certain. Perhaps if you act like him, the ton will be more forgiving of you.”

  Asher pressed his lips together, thinking on how to comment. Pierce had just revealed something very personal, but Asher didn’t get the feeling his brother wanted him to comment. So, instead, he said, “Ye think people will hold it against me that I’m half-Scot?”

  Pierce snorted. “Of course, they will. It’s the bloody ton. They’ll smile to your face but stick a knife in your back when you turn it.”

  “I suppose I should never turn it, then,” Asher replied. He was struck, as he had been when he’d first visited five years ago, by how difficult it must have been to grow up here. His own childhood had been difficult, thinking himself a bastard and carrying that stigma for years, but at least the friends he’d had were true ones. And his mother had loved him. Pierce’s mother had died when he was young, and clearly their father had not been warm.

  Pierce frowned before raking his fingers through his hair. “It will be difficult, but Father managed it winningly. Of course, he was superior to us all, as he told me often.”

  Asher felt a pang of sorrow for his brother. He was obviously struggling, though to say so would undoubtedly make things worse than they already were. Pierce’s eyes met Asher’s. “Do you think he left me much? Perhaps a bit of unentailed property?”

  Pierce was worried, as Asher had suspected he might be. He had grown up knowing nothing but luxury. It wouldn’t kill him to know hunger, to have to strive for what he had. It hadn’t killed Asher. Hell, he was proud that everything he had thus far he had earned, built, and sustained by wit and determination. And that pride was what had made it so hard to come here and accept money and land he’d done nothing for. But he’d done so for the sake of his employees and his company. Just because he was prideful didn’t mean he was a fool.

  A knock came at the half-open study door before Asher could assure Pierce he’d not let him starve. Asher looked over to see the footman, Beers, standing at the entrance. “Your Grace, Mr. Benedict is here.”

  “Show him to the study, please.”

  With a nod, Beers departed, and the moment his footfalls no longer echoed in the hall outside Asher’s office door, Pierce said, “A duke does not say ‘please’ to a footman.”

  “This duke does,” Asher replied.

  “They’ll laugh behind your back if you act like a commoner.”

  Asher shrugged. He knew by “they” Pierce was referring to the ton, Pierce’s set. Guinevere’s set. False people. Asher did not consider himself one of them, though he knew technically he was. “Ye assume I care, but I don’t.”

  “How nice to have such a luxury,” Pierce replied. The envy in his voice was unmistakable.

  “Ye’ve the luxury, too, Pierce. It’s a choice not to care.”

  “A choice for one who knows he’s about to be incredibly wealthy,” Pierce replied, his tone tight.

  “Your Grace,” came Beers’s voice once more before Asher could reply to Pierce.

  The footman appeared in the doorway again, but now there was a short man with dark cropped hair, glasses, and an observant expression on his face. The man looked from Pierce to Asher as Beers announced him. Once the introduction was over, Asher waved his father’s—and, he supposed, now his—solicitor into the room and to a chair.

  “Your Grace, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’ve heard a great deal about you over the years.”

  The comment surprised Asher, and from the corner of his eye, he could see his feelings mirrored on Pierce’s face. “My father spoke to ye about me?”

  “Indeed, he did,” Mr. Benedict replied.

  “And did he speak to you of me, Mr. Benedict?” Pierce asked, his tone mild but his face intent.

  The arrested expression on the solicitor’s face was his answer.

  Pity stirred for Pierce. Asher knew what it felt like to be overlooked by their father. The man had purposely forgotten him for years. But it seemed to him, in this moment seeing Pierce, that being ignored by someone you saw every day was likely worse.

  With a clearing of his throat, Mr. Benedict opened the leather case he was holding, rose to his feet, and placed a series of news sheets in front of Asher.

  Asher looked down, picked one up, and scanned it, surprised to see it was about him and when he’d opened his first distillery. Each paper he looked at was ano
ther write up about him. There was one from when he’d opened his second distillery and another from the third distillery being opened. Then there was an article that mentioned that he was the son of an English duke. He’d hated that article.

  Asher set the papers down and met Mr. Benedict’s frank gaze. “What’s all this about?”

  “After you left England with your wife, your father followed your progress.”

  Asher’s frown deepened. “Do ye mean to say he had someone watching me?”

  “Exactly so. He had a man under his employ to watch you from the day you departed.”

  “What the devil for?” Pierce demanded before Asher could voice the same question.

  “I believe,” Mr. Benedict said, “he wanted to ensure that you were getting along with ease, given you refused to take any of the funds he’d offered you. I speculate here, as your father was not a man to share his innermost thoughts. However, in my observations from our meetings, I think he felt partly to blame for your being forced to wed Lady Elizabeth. Pardon, I refer to her as I did when she was unwed. Your father mentioned on several occasions that if you had been under his care, he could have guided you more, molded you better to be the duke you were meant to be, and then you might not have found yourself in such a compromising position.”

  “Knowing the old devil as I did, however briefly, I’d say it was more that he wanted to control me and was irritated when I left England and hoped to see me fall on my face.”

  “I’m obliged to disagree, Your Grace, even if you become angry with me. Your father was a complicated man, and I grant that he was upset when you left England and would not return or communicate with him, but he was beside himself with pride every time you had an accomplishment. He would call me to the house to save the article so that one day you would know he cared. He was proud. Those were his words.”

  “Ye will have to pardon me,” Asher said, “if I find that difficult to believe given the circumstances.”

  “The man was impossible to please,” Pierce slurred, tipping up his drink to consume every last drop. As he got up and made his way to the sideboard to pour another finger, Asher and Mr. Benedict exchanged a knowing look. Pierce needed to get himself in hand, whether he was enraged at his lot or not. But that was not a discussion to have in Pierce’s current state, nor in front of Mr. Benedict.

  “Your Grace, I find myself yet again in the difficult position of being forced to point a few things out to you that you may not wish to hear.” Mr. Benedict gave Asher an uncertain look.

  Was the man concerned he would lose Asher as a client if he dared to disagree with him or tell him something he might not want to hear?

  “I’m half-Scot, Mr. Benedict. We pride ourselves on plain speaking and disagreeing. There’s no need to concern yerself with repercussions in relation to either with me.”

  “Excellent. Consider these things, then, if you will. Your father was ordered to divorce your mother before you were born. He defied his father so you would be born legitimate and, therefore, risked his fortune.”

  “Are ye suggesting I should be grateful that he did not make me a bastard, just fatherless?” Asher asked, feeling a tic begin at his right eye.

  “No, I’m suggesting you might want to think upon these things. As I said, he was complicated. No man is all good or all evil, Your Grace. I suggest that your father was capable of both, as we all are.”

  “Point taken, Mr. Benedict. Continue.”

  “He did, unfortunately, agree to divorce your mother on the grounds of infidelity, which he later confessed to me had been false, but he also made certain to say the infidelity happened after your birth, thereby ensuring you were his legal heir.”

  “I feel so fortunate,” Asher said dryly. “My father abandoned me but not quite fully. He was a weak man, not strong enough to defy his father’s command and not brave enough to face years of hardship when my grandfather threatened to pull back the purse strings. And yet—”

  Asher did not finish the thought. He wasn’t even sure how to finish it. He didn’t quite despise his father as much as he once had since learning the man had not completely forsaken him. Yet not totally despising him somehow felt disloyal to his mother.

  “He was a devil.” Pierce dropped back into his chair. “I know it. Carrington here knows it. And you know it, Benedict. So can we just move along to the will?”

  It dawned on Asher that Pierce hated their father with the same ferociousness Asher had when he’d left England wed to a woman for whom he did not care rather than the woman who affected him in a way no woman ever had. He had blamed his father for his predicament until he’d had a chance to cool off. It was then that Asher had admitted that his father had not forced him into the library with Elizabeth the night he’d been thought to compromise her. He’d been driven there by the desire to rid himself of the memory of Guinevere kissing another man mere moments earlier. Yes, Elizabeth had beseeched him to follow her there, but he never would have if he’d not seen Guinevere in Kilgore’s arms. He’d wanted to hurt Guinevere as she had hurt him. Instead, he’d put an unwanted marriage noose around his neck and hung himself.

  Asher shifted restlessly. The blame for returning Elizabeth’s kiss that night lay solely on him. And Guinevere. He was not so chivalrous as to dismiss the part she had played. Pierce needed to realize that whatever he’d made of his life thus far, or hadn’t, was his own doing, not their father’s.

  “Your Grace,” Mr. Benedict said, politely clearing his throat and yanking Asher from his musings. “Would you like me to simply proceed to the will, as Lord Pierce has suggested?”

  “Aye,” Asher replied.

  “It’s about sodding time,” Pierce grumbled. “I tire of waiting to see how Father likely cut me out.”

  Asher motioned to Mr. Benedict to proceed.

  “Do either of you gentlemen have a weapon on you?” Mr. Benedict asked.

  Asher and Pierce frowned, first at each other and then at the solicitor. “Nay,” and “No,” they answered in unison.

  “Excellent.” Mr. Benedict tapped the papers he now held in his hands against the gleaming mahogany of Asher’s desk, then looked from Asher to Pierce and back again. “Please, do try to remember that your father was, as I mentioned earlier, a complicated man.”

  The laugh Pierce let loose was full of bitterness. “What has the old devil done?”

  “Let the man speak,” Asher said.

  Pierce pressed his lips together.

  With a nod, Mr. Benedict continued. “All the property, entailed and unentailed, except Knotting House in London, and the entirety of the family fortune, except for an allowance Carrington deems fit, shall be bequeathed to Carrington. Knotting House will belong to Lord Pierce.”

  “How gracious of Father,” Pierce quipped. “He’s managed to unman me from his grave by leaving me the smallest home we own and an allowance to be given by you.” Pierce’s gaze met Asher’s, and the ire was unmistakable.

  “Possessions do not make the man,” Asher said.

  “Says the man who sits with the bulk of the possessions,” Pierce snapped.

  “I’ve worked all my life for everything I have, Pierce.”

  “Except this,” Pierce shot back. “You did not work for what you are now given, simply by being born first.”

  That was true, and there was no arguing it. Pierce needed to learn to work for things himself. Could it be their father had recognized that? Who the devil knew…

  “We can discuss the arrangements later, Pierce. I’ve no desire to be yer keeper.” Though until Pierce got himself under control, Asher may well need to be.

  “How nice to hear,” Pierce grumbled.

  Mr. Benedict cleared his throat as before, but this time, it was a nervous sound and not as polite. “There is a caveat to what I have just told you.”

  “Of course, there is,” Asher replied. “Get on with it.”

  “In order for you to inherit all the unentailed property and fortune, you must
wed one of the ladies on your father’s list”—Benedict held up a piece of foolscap—“in the next three months.”

  The slight tic in Asher’s right eye sped up and intensified, his jaw tightening. On the other side of the desk, Pierce began to laugh like a lunatic but paused to say, “It’s nice to discover he’s trying to unman you as well.”

  Asher clenched his teeth. He had vowed to never let his father affect him again, but damn the man for trying to control him from the grave!

  “There is no amount of money that can force me to wed a woman I do not wish to wed.” Again. But immediately, Asher’s mind was filled with the faces of all the good men and lasses who worked for him and would be detrimentally affected if he did not somehow keep his company intact.

  As Mr. Benedict nodded, Pierce slapped the desk with a grin. “Excellent! I’m so glad you have such principles, Carrington. I’m not afflicted with such bothersome things.” His brother chuckled while scooting forward on his chair. “Do I need to sign some papers to inherit the money and unentailed property?”

  “Your Grace.” Mr. Benedict’s steady gaze bore into Asher. “Your father suspected you might respond as you have. He wrote you a letter. Would you like to read it privately?”

  Asher had to unclench his teeth to force words out. “Nay. I don’t give a damn what’s in his letter.” That was a lie. He did not have the luxury to be so flippant. He slid his teeth back and forth, fury now pumping through his veins.

  Mr. Benedict nodded. “He also said you would not wish to read it privately.”

  “Read the letter,” Asher bit out.

  “Son—” Asher tensed and Pierce scoffed at the unexpected personal opening, but Mr. Benedict continued, seemingly unperturbed. “Before you relinquish much of your inheritance, think upon this: this money could greatly aid Loch Glen Distilleries.”

  Asher inhaled deeply.

  The sodding devil… His father had known Asher’s company was in trouble.

  “Not to mention, you do not even know the women on my list yet—” Mr. Benedict continued.