Asher no doubt was waiting in hopes that she would be the one to break the informal betrothal. Tears pricked her eyes.
Her father studied her for a moment, then said, “If you do not wish to wed him, if your affections are engaged by Kilgore, we will not force you.”
“What?” Mama cried out.
“No,” Guinevere whispered, her heart squeezing at her father’s kindness. “I would not only ruin myself but Frederica and Vivian, too. I cannot allow that.”
“What of Kilgore?” her father asked.
“It’s very complicated,” she whispered, burying her face in her hands. “He—” The tears started trickling down her face. “His affections belong to someone else.” She could not explain it all, for she did not really understand all the intricacies of why Kilgore had pursued her. He had used her, to be certain, but he had done it for love—of that much Guinevere was certain, so she would forgive his transgressions.
“Hmph,” her mother said. “He has a most odd way of showing such a thing.”
“There is only the one offer,” Guinevere clarified, her heart aching so bad that she wanted to wail.
Her father hooked a finger under her chin and lifted it until she was looking at him. “I do not think your future is as dire as you think.”
“Oh, Papa! If you only knew!”
“Do you wish to tell me?” he asked.
The prospect was most mortifying. How did one tell their father they were but a game to a man? “No,” she replied, dashing at her cheeks. “It’s rather embarrassing,” she relented, sniffing.
He nodded. “Well, the duke will come to see he has gained a prize in you.”
Guinevere smiled faintly rather than tell her father she did not agree. “Do you wish me to go now and see if he’s still here?”
“No,” her father said quite quickly and soundly. “He can wait after what he did to you those years ago.”
“Papa!” Guinevere gasped.
He smiled gently. “Write the note requesting he come, and I will send it tomorrow. It is best for you to show him right away that you will not tolerate being ordered about.”
Guinevere felt her eyes go wide at her father’s protective showing, and they opened even wider when he glanced fondly at her mother and Mama beamed back. She came to stand by him, and in a rare show of affection, she took his hand and looked at Guinevere. “Listen to your father, dear. He knows best in this one matter.”
“I’m surprised to see you here.”
Asher looked up from the full glass of liquor that he’d been staring down into. Beckford stood before him dressed as usual in head-to-toe black. Candlelight flickered across his friend’s face.
It was dark in this particular corner of the Orcus Society, which was why Asher had chosen it. He was in a dark mood, and it seemed fitting. He had waited the previous night, all day that day, and most of the night for Guinevere to send word; she had not. He wanted to give up on her. He longed for it. And the inability to do so until the night was over, until he had his answer, was driving him near mad. So he’d come here thinking to wait until midnight. Until it was official. And then he had intended to rid himself of the green-eyed siren who had haunted him since the day he had met her. He’d intended to take another woman to bed. It was past time.
Hell, it had been past time four and a half years ago when Elizabeth had died. He’d been near celibate wed to her, having only slept with her the night they married. Discovering how vitriolic someone really was did not elicit desire, though after she’d died, he’d realized it wasn’t just Elizabeth that had been the problem. It was Guinevere.
It had seemed a damn fine plan at home a few hours ago after he’d had two drinks. He’d ordered Cushman to pack his bags so he could depart first thing on the morrow.
Asher looked around the club. He’d chosen this corner so he could take his time deciding with whom to end his celibacy if no word came from Guinevere, but no woman seemed quite right. They were too tall or too short. Hair too dark or too light. Their laughter too robust or too quiet. It was damned irritating.
“Did you hear me?” Beckford asked, pulling out the chair at the small table where Asher sat.
“Why should ye be surprised to see me here? I’m an investor in yer club, am I not?”
“You are, which is why you have a golden key and can let yourself in anytime you wish. That, and I count you as a friend.”
“As I do ye,” Asher replied, meaning it. They’d met five years ago by chance when Asher had first come to London after discovering his father was alive. He’d been so full of anger, so unsure how to proceed with his father, brother, and the ton, and he’d gone to Covent Garden looking for a fight. He’d found one in a dark room where wagers were exchanged and quid passed. After he had watched Beckford knock several men out cold with little effort, Asher had challenged the man.
They had bloodied each other good, then nursed their wounds over ale and eventually exchanged bits of their lives—stories that they had later retold in greater detail. Beckford grew up on the streets, an orphan left to survive by his wits and fists, and survive he had. He’d been a whispered name of someone to be reckoned with in Covent Garden five years ago, among those who lived and worked in the dark underbelly of London. He was a scrapper and then a prized fighter who became a champion, who had a vision to open exclusive clubs, dens of enticing hedonism, to lure the toffs to the dark streets of Covent Garden to give him—and others like him whom he employed—their money.
Beckford’s vision had fascinated Asher, and when he’d had enough money to do so, he’d bought into a partnership with Beckford to open his first club, the very one Asher now sat in, the Orcus Society, so named for the Roman god Orcus, the god of the underworld, punisher of broken oaths. Asher knew Beckford had some scores he planned to settle eventually, but he didn’t know the why or the how. His friend would tell him when he was ready.
Beckford raised his hand to indicate he needed a drink, and almost immediately, a tall, willowy brunette was there, tray in hand. She was all smiles and batting lashes, serving Beckford and then asking Asher if he needed anything. Anything at all. He took a long swig of his drink while shaking his head.
Once she departed, Beckford arched his eyebrows at Asher. “Why are you here? I heard you were betrothed to the Darlington chit.”
“I see gossips are still quick to relay news,” Asher replied, shoving his hand through his hair.
Beckford picked up his drink and finished it in one gulp. “They move like lightning when it’s as titillating as a newly titled widower duke and a beautiful lady being discovered in a scandalous situation. Especially if said duke has a history of being discovered in compromising situations and said lady was once an awkward duck now turned astonishing swan.”
Asher scowled. “She was always a swan.”
“So was she waiting for you, then?” Beckford asked. “Is that why she turned down so many offers of marriage?”
“Did she have many?” Asher asked, hiding his surprise at that bit of news. He refused to allow the belief that he was the reason she was still unwed.
“Rumor says at least a half dozen.”
“If she was waiting for me, she has had a most unusual way of indicating it. When I left her house last night, she was in the garden kissing Kilgore.” Asher’s fingers reflexively curled around his glass.
“Was the man unaware you were informally betrothed to her?”
“She’s not mine, and he was aware.”
“You want me to have him beaten?”
Asher did not even ask if Beckford was joking. The man was not. He controlled the underbelly of Covent Garden. Here, Beckford was a duke in his own right, and he could call in a marker in the blink of an eye. He could have ruffians at his command who would thrash a man without a thought.
“Nay,” Asher said. “Lady Guinevere has made her choice.” Or nearly made it. Damn hope. Was it midnight yet?
“It’s not Guin anymore?”
B
eckford was the only person who knew the truth about Asher’s past with Guinevere. He’d confessed it in a highly foxed state the night after he’d seen her on the terrace with Kilgore and gotten himself ensnared by Elizabeth. “Nay. I’m here to put her out of my mind.”
“You should have said you came for a woman’s company.” Beckford started to raise his hand toward one of the women employed there, but Asher shook his head.
“I’ve changed my mind about what I want,” he said.
Beckford dropped his hand and shot Asher a pitying look. “Somehow I think it was never firmly set.”
Asher neither denied nor agreed. Instead, he just said, “I’m leaving for Scotland in the morning.”
“I thought you might not stay. Taking your title and your fortune and heading back to Scotland, eh?”
“Just the title.” The entailed land was here, after all.
Beckford leaned forward. “Care to explain?”
Asher quickly told Beckford of his father’s will. When he was finished speaking, Beckford said, “And you are simply going to give up? Let Kilgore take the woman and lose your fortune, your company?”
“I’ll think of another way. I always have before.”
Saying the words stilled him. Damn. He’d good and truly lied to himself. He’d told himself he would wed to obtain his full fortune, but when he had learned Lady Henrietta was already married, his reaction had been relief. When Lady Constantine had turned him down, he had been relieved, as well. He had hoped she would, he realized. He had wanted an excuse to pursue Guinevere and keep his pride intact.
“Ah, I see,” Beckford said, too discreet to say more.
Just then, a tall redheaded woman dressed in a man’s trousers came up to their table. She flicked her eyes at Asher and then focused on Beckford. “Beck, there’s a very insistent uppity bloke in livery at the alley door demanding to speak with a man named Carrington. Do you know if there is a toff by that name in the club tonight?”
Asher and Beckford exchanged a look as Asher’s partnership in Beckford’s club was secret. Beckford waved a hand at Asher. “Blythe, meet the Duke of Carrington. Carrington, meet my sister, Blythe.”
Asher stared in astonishment, then slanted a look at Beckford. “Ye have a great many secrets, I see.”
Beckford’s mouth tugged upward for a moment, then fell. “Don’t we all?”
“I suppose so.”
Blythe raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow as she looked between the men. “I’ve things to do,” she growled. “Should I turn the bloke away or permit him into the club?”
“Did he give his name?” Asher asked, though only Cushman knew he was here.
“Cushman,” Blythe promptly answered.
“We’ll handle this, Blythe,” Beckford said. “Go back to counting the night’s earnings.”
Blythe nodded and departed as Carrington and Beckford rose from their seats. “A sister?”
“I never told you because you didn’t need to know.”
Asher laughed at the lie. “Does this mean ye now fully trust me?”
“I just told you who Blythe was, didn’t I?”
“I suppose ye did,” Asher agreed.
“Are you thinking there’s trouble with your brother?” Beckford asked, knowing Pierce’s love of liquor.
“Likely,” Asher said. He would not think it was anything else. Like a note from Guinevere. Still, his pulse spiked.
He followed Beckford as he wove around a group of men who had just entered the main room of the club. Neither of them spoke as they moved along the shadowy corridors to the alley door—the only entrance to the club—which was manned by the tallest gentleman Asher had ever seen. Asher was usually a good half a head taller than most men, and this man was taller than he was.
“Bear, this is Carrington.”
The man, though tall, was wiry. He extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, his tone soft with an undercurrent that somehow made him sound threatening. To Beckford, he asked, “Do you wish me to let the bloke enter?”
Beckford nodded, and Bear produced a key and unlocked the door. There on the other side, looking completely out of place in his uniform, was Cushman.
“Your Grace,” he said, offering a small bow while managing to give a look of superiority to Bear and Beckford. “I beg pardon for bothering you when you are…in this place.”
God save him from snobby valets. He shot his arm out to stop Beckford from advancing on Cushman and kicking him out into the dark alley. “He didn’t mean anything by it.”
“He did,” Beckford bit out, “but I’ll let him stay to finish what he came to tell you.”
“What brings ye here, Cushman?”
The man immediately produced a note that he held out to Asher. “This was delivered for you a short time ago.”
It couldn’t be. Asher took out his timepiece and checked the time. Just after midnight. Suspicion rose. “When was this note delivered?” he asked, taking it but not opening it. It had to be from Guinevere. He wanted to rip it open to see what she said, but he’d be damned if he did so. Instead, he tapped a finger impatiently against the foolscap.
“Directly before the hour of midnight, Your Grace. I came straightaway, as the coachman who delivered it said I must get it to you before midnight. I was here before that, but I was not permitted to enter.”
Asher nodded. She’d written him. But was it to tell him she was wedding Kilgore or that she wanted her betrothal to him to stand? “Ye can go, Cushman.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Cushman bowed out the way he had come, Bear following the man.
The door closed, leaving Asher and Beckford alone. Asher stared down at the note in his hands and forced himself to remain calm, to feel nothing.
“I want that,” Beckford said into the silence that had descended.
“What?” Asher asked, knowing Beckford did not mean the note.
“A stuffy servant bowing and scraping over me as if—” He waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind.”
“Ye have enough money to purchase as many stuffy servants as ye wish.”
“It’s not the same. You know it’s not.”
He clapped Beckford on the shoulder. “I know ye must stop giving a damn or ye’ll never be happy.”
“I don’t give a damn for me,” Beckford said, and Asher could not tell whether his friend was telling the truth or not. “It’s Blythe I worry for.”
“Of course,” Asher said.
“Are you going to open the missive?”
Asher nodded and did so, clenching his teeth as he looked at the looping handwriting of the letter. He scanned down to the end, and his damn chest constricted when he saw that it was signed by Guinevere. His gaze returned to the top of the page, and he began to read.
Carrington,
My father expects you to call upon him tomorrow to formalize our betrothal and my dowry. Noon will do nicely. If you wish to see me, as well, I will be home.
Yours,
Guinevere
Wordlessly, he handed the missive to Beckford to read as he turned Guinevere’s words over in his mind. She’d chosen him, but it was cold. Formal. Just as his marriage to Elizabeth had been. Except there was one distinct difference. He wanted more from Guinevere, and that gave her immense power over him.
“Go now,” Beckford said.
Asher frowned at his friend. “Why would I do that?” He wanted to. God, how he did.
“You obviously want more, and if you are not going to get more than this from this woman, you should not wed her, whether she’s ruined or not by that decision. If I were you, I’d want to know if she has put Kilgore behind her truly, and you cannot have that conversation in some drawing room with people hovering on the other side of the door.”
Beckford was right about one thing. Asher needed to know why she had chosen him. She’d just kissed Kilgore or allowed him to kiss her. Why had she chosen him, then? He wished he didn’t want to know, but he did.
C
hapter Fourteen
Guinevere could not sleep. She tossed and turned, punching her pillow, then staring at the ceiling. She squeezed her eyes shut for the hundredth time, but the blasted brown-eyed heartless Scot appeared behind her eyes again. She muttered the darkest curse she could think of, then kicked her covers halfway off. It wasn’t even very warm outside, but her bedchamber felt suffocating. It was ire. Ire was making her unreasonably hot. It was not her heart breaking. Upon seeing her puffy, tear-stained face in her looking glass earlier that evening, she had resolutely decided she would not allow her heart to break yet again for a man who was not worth it.
“Black-hearted scoundrel,” she hissed into the dark, shoving the last remaining bit of her coverlet off her legs. Still, she felt as if she was in flames.
She got out of bed, tugging her clothing down, and coiled her hair into a loose knot at the nape of her neck. How dare Asher play games with her life, not once, but twice! How dare he leave her house without making their betrothal official! How dare he not storm out into the garden and demand Kilgore quit kissing her? Or even better, he should have ripped Kilgore from her and claimed her as his own! She didn’t care if it was unreasonable. How dare he have stolen her heart five years ago and rekindled the hope she had struggled in vain to extinguish! She did not want to wed him.
And yet… She yanked on the knot she’d just made of her hair, and it unwound and fell down her back to rest at the curve of her spine.
And yet, she would wed him. Oh, how she hated him, even as part of her, she had to admit, still loved him. But he did not love her, so she needed to nurture that hate and kill the love.
The thought brought no comfort. It was not in her nature to hate, but she would make an exception for him. She wrapped her arms around her waist tightly as she leaned against her bed, thinking of the future that stretched before her. Loneliness. Longing. Unrequited love.
No! She clenched her teeth. Not that. She would not let him know she had ever loved him.
Tears pricked her eyes as she fought to overcome her feelings and be strong for her sisters. She blinked as she trudged toward her window, her vision blurry.
Lady Guinevere And The Rogue With A Brogue (Scottish Scoundrels: Ensnared Hearts Book 1) Page 17
