Lady Guinevere And The Rogue With A Brogue (Scottish Scoundrels: Ensnared Hearts Book 1)
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“Why should you think I would care?” she lied, not able to get her voice above a threadbare whisper.
“Because I have seen the way you look at him now and the way you looked at him then,” Kilgore replied, his gaze matching his soft voice.
Her shame, her embarrassment was so great she wanted to disappear. It was senselessly and sickeningly familiar. “Why should I believe you?” she asked, abandoning all pretense, still ridiculously desperate to find a reason not to take him at his word, not to take Asher’s own father at his word. Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked them back. She was a fool.
“Why should I lie?” he shot back.
“You wish to seduce me.”
“I have come to the conclusion that I could never accomplish that.”
“You sound relieved,” she said faintly.
“I am both relieved and irritated that you are a woman of such character. You are a rare species amongst the ton and only the second such female I am not related to who I have known in my life. The two of you make my life more complicated.”
“Are you referring to Lady Constantine?”
“I never said that.”
“You are protecting her,” Guinevere stated, firmly believing it.
“Forgive me, Lady Guinevere.”
It was the closest she would get to a confession from him. She knew it to be so.
“For what?” she asked, cold bitterness filling her. She wished a man loved her so much that he’d do anything to protect her. Quite obviously, Kilgore loved Lady Constantine just that much.
He looked suddenly as weary as she felt. “For telling you,” he said simply. “I did not want to.”
He sounded so miserable, it was impossible not to believe that he had not wanted to reveal what Asher had done, which meant Kilgore was almost certainly telling the truth.
Her knees felt suddenly weak. “I need to sit,” she said and fairly shoved past him to go to the closest chair which faced his aunt.
The woman looked up from her knitting and smiled. “Hello, Lady Constantine,” she said, seeming to confirm Guinevere’s suspicion.
Kilgore plopped into the chair next to Guinevere. “Auntie, this is Lady Guinevere. You are confused.”
Guinevere’s head and heart ached, and there was a heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“Lady Guinevere?”
She had not even realized that she was staring at her slippers until Kilgore called her name. She took deep breaths until she was strong enough to raise her head and look at him. “Why did you choose this act for today? To make people think we are having some sort of liaison?”
He simply stared at her, which vexed her greatly. “It could ruin me, you know, if you follow today with more attention toward me. That is, unless you mean to follow it with an offer.” She could hardly believe she had said that, but in the moment, she was beyond caring about propriety.
“Is that what you want?” His stare delved into hers. “An offer from me? You do not strike me as the sort of lady who wishes to be shackled to any man just to have one.”
“For myself, I do not care,” she admitted, “but I have sisters.”
“Ah, I see.” He nodded. “Do you want an offer from me?” he repeated.
“Are you extending one?” Her heart had stopped beating, not out of anticipation but dread. She was about to enter into a union devoid of love.
“I will if you wish it, or I can vow not to give you a bit of attention after our skit so that anyone of reason will assume the skit was just a skit.”
Anyone of reason? She had no notion what he meant by that, and she was mentally too taxed to try to dissemble his words. For herself, she no longer cared about love. Her heart felt dead. But what of Lady Constantine? She could not ruin someone else’s chance at happiness. She would simply have to find someone else to marry for her sisters’ futures to be ensured.
“No, do not extend me an offer,” she said, a suffocating sensation tightening her throat.
She thought she saw him relax a bit, though she could have been imagining it.
“What of the skit?” he asked. “Are you willing to portray it with me?”
The tension in his voice cut through her own worries for a moment, and she studied him. There was a tic at the right side of his jaw. His left hand was relaxed, but his right was clenched. Understanding gripped her. “This has never been about you trying to seduce or wed me. It isn’t even really about me.”
He simply stared at her silently.
“You are trying to protect the woman you love,” she said, prodding.
“You have read too many of those Gothic novels,” he replied, his tone affecting boredom. “I love no one but myself. You have escaped wedding a monster.”
She was right. She knew she was, but he would never admit it. “I’ll play my part for the skit, but afterward, no more attention. I have my sisters to think of, though I wish you and your cold heart future warmth.”
He grabbed her hand then, surprising her, and an earnest look came over his face. “If you should decide you need my sooty self to offer for you, I will. You have my friendship, though I understand it likely does not seem of great value, from this moment forward.”
She squeezed his hand, noticing then that it was scarred. Kilgore was a man of many secrets, but one she thought he had just unwittingly revealed was that he did not think much of himself. “I will gladly take your friendship. Now come, let us make everyone believe we are bound to be lovers.”
Chapter Twelve
Asher stared slack-jawed as Kilgore portrayed a seducer and Guinevere portrayed a woman on the brink of succumbing to the seduction. Fury burned within him, and an invisible hand pressed against his chest. It might as well have been Guinevere’s hands pressing down, crushing him, crushing hope. Lost hope in someone wasn’t new to him, but being intimately familiar with the emotion did not lessen how deep it could cut. His chest was on fire.
Damn Kilgore for choosing this scene.
He was quite obviously trying to seduce Guinevere, and she appeared to welcome it. Asher had thought their heated encounters indicated that Guinevere wanted him, but seeing her now, he suspected he had not been in danger of Guinevere making him a clot-heid once more because she’d already done it. She’d managed to shred his pride twice in his lifetime.
The need for self-preservation flared hot and bright. Growing up without a father had instilled that need deep within him, and it made him feel almost feral now. He no longer wanted an end to this or answers from Guinevere. He simply wanted distance. Still, he couldn’t leave yet. He would warn the little fool that she was swimming in dangerous waters with Kilgore. Even after all that had occurred, he didn’t have it in him to simply let her drown.
Around him, people whispered furiously around the parlor, speculating, no doubt, on the relationship between Kilgore and Guinevere. To his right, Guinevere’s mother kept gasping and looking as if she was going to faint. Finally, the play ended. Shattering silence descended for a moment. No one clapped. It was as if he were watching Guinevere’s downfall in slow motion. He could not allow it. He wished he could be that cold, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t let her be destroyed that way. He stood, and at the same moment, Lady Constantine stood, as well, from her place directly across the room from him. They exchanged a look that no one but the two of them would understand. It was shared between two scorned fools, and they began to clap.
The rest of the guests joined in slowly until the clapping was deafening. When it started to die down, Asher cried out, “Brava!” to ensure those around him would believe they had just witnessed an amazing performance rather than the possibility of barely veiled truth.
As the guests in his row began to disperse, Pierce leaned toward Asher. “I’m sorry, Brother,” Pierce said. “What will you do now?”
That was a fine question and one to which Asher did not yet have the answer. He would figure something out to save his company, though. He had to.
“
I’ll leave after the foxhunt,” Asher said. He would give Guinevere the warning about Kilgore and then depart. He couldn’t stand to stay and see whether she succumbed to Kilgore or not.
Not long later, after dodging her mother, sister, and Lilias, Guinevere found herself upon a horse and chasing a fox as if her life depended on it. The judgmental faces of the other guests, the hurt look on Lady Constantine’s face, Asher’s dispassionate expression, the shocked faces of Lilias and Vivian, and Mama’s appalled look drove Guinevere to urge her horse faster and faster and deeper into the woods that surrounded Farthingate Manor. What had she done? What had she been thinking? Could she even make it right for her sisters?
Her horse’s hooves pounded against the hard dirt of the forest floor, jarring her each time they made contact. Her very thoughts felt as if they were rattling around in her head. She was aware she was riding recklessly, but she did not care. She started to feel numb, and she welcomed the feeling. She led her horse charging through a stream, the water splashing up and over her skirts as she went, and then she drove the beast up a steep incline before sending it plunging down the opposite bank through thick limbs and over fallen branches. Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision. She didn’t see the low-hanging branch until it was too late. She ducked, managing to avoid being hit in the forehead by it, but one of the limbs snagged the top of her hair, yanking her backward.
She cried out, flailing her arms as she lost her balance. She was thrust forward once more, and then a strong hand settled against her back and steadied her. As her mind cleared, she registered Asher atop his own panting horse alongside her. He snatched her reins from her hands and pulled her horse to a stop.
Glowering at her, he said, “What the hell are ye doing?” His broad shoulders heaved with his breath. “Trying to get yerself killed?”
“Of course not,” she snapped, the shock of him, of her intense attraction to him, running through her body.
“Then why are ye riding yer horse like ye are hell-bent on dying?”
Everything Kilgore had told her burned in her mind. She wouldn’t shout it at Asher as she wanted to. She would never give him the satisfaction of seeing how hurt she was. “It is none of your concern why I do what I do, Your Grace. I am not your concern.”
“Ye are correct,” he replied, the words sharp and brittle as he ground them out between his teeth. “Ye are not my concern, and sitting here now, I don’t know why I’ve bothered. Ye have clearly chosen yer path. Goodbye, Guin,” he said, turning his horse to depart.
Her heart plummeted and her mind cried out, making her cringe from her own weakness to want a man. She pressed her lips together, feeling as if she were dying as he turned his horse from her, but then he cursed and stilled. Her heart thumped wildly, waiting to see what he was doing.
After a long moment, he turned his horse back around and led it to where they were side by side, facing each other. “Ye damn well deserve what ye get, but damn it if I can allow myself in good conscience not to warn ye.”
His nearness, the heat of him, the overwhelming smell of him—grass, whisky, and smoke from a fire—made it almost impossible to form a coherent response. “Warn me?” she finally managed, trying to swallow the lump in her throat.
“Aye,” he growled, his leg brushing hers. The desire that flared in her at the simple touch dismayed her. “Kilgore will never come to heel for ye. Ye are a conquest, nothing more.”
Fury nearly blinded her. “You think because I am a game to you, that no one can want me? For your information,” she flung out, “Kilgore has already come to heel, Your Grace.” Her rancor sharpened her voice like a dagger.
His brows furrowed together. “What?”
It was sinful to enjoy this moment so much, but she knew—she positively knew—that the hurt would set in later. For now, though, she refused to hurt. She wanted to be the one to wound him, make him think that she could bring a man to his knees, even one such as Kilgore—even if it wasn’t true.
“Yes,” she said, trying to sound bored. “He was on the verge of offering this morning, but…but he was interrupted. So you need not waste your breath warning me.” She did not bother to tell him that she knew he’d been lying to her in the garden yesterday because he was playing a game with her once more. What was the point? “I suppose only you think I’m not desirable enough to offer for.”
“Damn it, Guin!” His voice lashed her and caused her to jerk. “He is lying to ye to get ye to lower yer guard and give him yer innocence! He wants to use ye, not wed ye.”
“You blackguard! Not every man is like you! Just you watch how I can tempt a man to—”
His mouth covered hers as his hands encircled her waist and yanked her off her horse and onto his. Outrage filled her even as yearning did. She shoved at his chest with one hand while threading her fingers into his thick hair to pull him closer with the other. She was all contradiction and roiling emotion. His tongue parted her mouth on a guttural groan, and she opened with a whimper, roiling in a sea of anger, need, hurt, and lost hope. Her blood rushed and roared through her veins like an awakened river as he locked an arm against her spine while sliding his other hand up between them, over her quivering stomach and around to the back of her head.
His lips left her mouth to burn a fiery path down the slope of her neck, and she threw her head back to give him better access while arching her body, her chest, into his. All she could think in the moment was how much she had loved him, how much hope she had once had, how he had given it to her, taken it away, then dangled it once more. She wanted him to desire her as unreasonably as she did him. His uneven breathing bathed her neck, then her chest, as his lips pressed warm kisses to the top of her exposed skin. Her breasts grew immediately heavy and tight, her belly knotted, and an ache grew deep within her at her center.
“Guin,” he moaned, his fingers rubbing over the material of her hard nub.
She sucked in a deep breath, shocked at the piercing ache it caused between her legs. His whole palm was there then, skimming and gently squeezing, fingers circling and teasing while his lips tantalized her from her neck to her mouth only to plunge his tongue back inside and join them as one again.
A throat cleared behind them, and the present crashed in, stilling them both.
Voices erupted from behind her. Heat singed her cheeks as she straightened, but it was hopeless. She was ruined. She had spent five years protecting women from such a fate, and she’d run to her own destruction with her eyes wide open, thanks to her blasted pride and heart. She shoved away from him, and he caught her by the wrist, giving her a subtle shake of his head.
“My ladies and lords,” he said, raising his voice above the rapidly increasing din. “I am pleased to announce that Lady Guinevere has agreed to become my wife.”
Her gaze collided with his as shock rendered her speechless.
“How could you?” Guinevere’s mother wailed the next day for what had to be the millionth time.
Her father, definitely the more reasonable of her parents, lowered his paper and gave Guinevere a sympathetic look before focusing his attention on his wife. “My dear,” he said, his tone the perfect combination of soothing and stern, “cease your fretting. No one will remember in a month how it came to pass that Guinevere was wed.”
“If she is wed, Fairfax!” Her mother shrilled her father’s name.
“He will come,” her father replied, sounding certain.
Guinevere wished she felt as sure, but the fact was that Asher had not come yet. She tried to tell herself he probably had not had time, but his home in London was close to hers, so he most definitely could have gone there and then called on them this morning or even this afternoon. It was heading toward evening now, well past the calling hour, so perhaps once he was alone, he had reconsidered.
Her father’s lips pressed together momentarily, the only indication he was losing his patience with the fit that had not ceased since Guinevere had to tell her mother—or rather Vivian had told h
er, as Guinevere had been in shock—of what had occurred in the forest. Guinevere raced once more through what had happened after they’d been discovered in the woods. Her mother had demanded Asher appear before her to assure her that he intended to call upon Guinevere’s father. Had he agreed? At this point, her worry was so great, as well as her ire, that she was not sure she was recalling everything correctly. She felt certain, or nearly certain, that he had agreed to come to see her father, but it had been insinuated, not stated, that he would formally ask for Guinevere’s hand. It was mortifying, given what she knew of how he truly felt about her.
She stared down at her lap as her parents proceeded to argue and tried to find something bright in the darkness. She supposed at least nothing could ever be as painful as what she had endured in the past day; Asher could never hurt her again. She would not allow it. She had cried every moment that she was alone, and she would not—she could not—cry any more. She no longer loved him. She would tell herself that every single day until her heart understood it. It was neither wise nor healthy to love someone with every fiber of one’s being if they did not return the emotion in similar strength.
“She will be ruined if he does not wed her!” her mother shrieked, pointing at her as if Guinevere’s father did not know whom she was talking about. “And then she will take your other daughters down with her into the pit of spinsterhood. What shall we do if it comes to pass?” Mama clutched her chest, leaned her head back against the settee, and slapped a wet cloth over her eyes. “Ruined!” she wailed and sniffed at the same time. “And the day is all but gone! It was perfectly and plainly insinuated that he should call to formally ask for her hand!”