When Asher had first courted her, Guinevere had imagined what their life together might be like, and the week following their wedding met every dream she had conjured. Asher was attentive in the day and teasing and tempting at night, while being tender when they lay spent in each other’s arms. He would cradle her as they had long talks, making her feel closer to him.
She had embarrassingly told him of her girlhood fantasy to be proposed to in a field of lilies. She knew he had grown up thinking himself a bastard, but she had never known how he’d discovered he was actually the legitimate son of a duke. Her mouth hung open when he started to relay the tale of how his parents met and then came to be divorced, and hearing how Asher’s father had denied him for years until his mother had died made her chest ache.
She propped herself up to better see his face, setting her head against her hand as she lay on her side. His jaw was set and anger filled his eyes, and it struck her just how deep the wound of his father’s treachery was.
“And when did you learn you were not illegitimate?” she asked.
“My mother told me shortly before she died. She said that, at first, she kept it a secret from me, allowed me to think I was a bastard and she a woman of easy virtue because she thought it better than knowing that my own father had not wanted me, had denied me. But my grandfather died shortly before my mother, and when he did, my father sent a solicitor to my mother to tell her my father wanted to—and was prepared to—claim me as his.”
Asher paused, took a long breath, and released her hand to curl his own hand into a fist upon his chest. His gaze came to her, full of anger and agony. “My mother gave me the letter from my father, told me it was up to me whether I responded or not, but then told me it was her dying wish that I meet him and forgive him.”
Asher paused again, and Guinevere could hear him sliding his teeth back and forth.
“Even after everything he had done to her, even after all she had endured so I would not know the truth that my father had denied me, had not wanted me, and was too fearful to disobey his own father and be cut off, she still wanted me to forgive him.” Asher’s voice shook, and Guinevere felt it to her core. “She said it did no good to hold a grudge and that if he had finally understood the wrongness of what he had done and wanted to claim me as his, I should make peace with him.”
“So you came to London after she died,” Guinevere said into the silence.
Asher nodded. “I couldn’t deny her dying wish. I had already started my distillery business, but it was struggling and I needed more backing. I suspected right away that my father’s relationship with Pierce was not a good one—he already imbibed too much and gambled—and I thought perhaps that was why the old devil had finally conceded to acknowledge me.”
Guinevere sucked in a sharp breath of realization. “Your brother was a disappointment to your father.”
“Aye. I will not say my father didn’t feel guilty about what he’d done to my mother and me. I think he did. He did not come out and say it in those words, but he said he wished he had been stronger. But when I got here, he wanted to control me, and—”
“And you were not like your father.” She pressed a kiss to his chest, then his mouth. “You are not a man to be controlled.”
His lips curled up slightly. “Nay, I’m not. So when he told me not to pursue ye, I did.”
She frowned for a moment at the reminder, but Asher gave her a long, deep kiss, and said, “But within a moment of listening to ye speak about the plight of the orphans in London, which ye informed me Parliament needed to take up, I was captivated.”
“Did I really say that?” She honestly did not remember what she had said when she had first been introduced to him. She’d been utterly struck foolish by his handsomeness.
“Aye, ye did,” he said, kissing her nose, forehead, and lips. “Ye know the rest.”
She certainly did, and she did not want to think on it for another second. “Did you go back to Scotland after that because of your distilleries?”
“Aye, but it was not the only reason.” He let out a long sigh and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Once everything occurred with us and Elizabeth, I didn’t want to stay. I did not want any part of the ton or, honestly, my father. I wanted to succeed or fail on my own.”
“Unlike him,” she said.
“Unlike him,” Asher echoed.
“So why come back?” she asked. “Why return to London when he died? I assume he reached out to you over these last five years.”
“He did.”
“You did not respond?” she asked, though she knew the answer from the hard look in his eyes.
“Nay. I denied him as he had denied me so many years before. I suppose that was why I came back in the end—guilt and a realization that in doing what I was doing, I was behaving just like him, which made me no better than him. I wanted to be better, as my mother had wanted me to be, too, so I returned to claim the title and try to find forgiveness.”
“And have you forgiven him?” she asked, watching him.
“I want to.” Asher looked contemplative and grim. “But he made it hard. Even from the grave, he tried to control me.”
She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
Asher stared at Guinevere for a long moment, thinking about what to say. He did not want to tell her of the will and have her think he had married her because of the money. It had been, and always would be, about her.
He stroked his fingers over the silken skin of her shoulder. The trust growing between them was new and fragile. He wasn’t about to jeopardize that.
When they had more time together, he would tell her. When he trusted that she would not be hurt, that she would believe, when he had told her what mo ghraidh and mo chridhe meant.
Instead of answering her question, he kissed it away, which led to much more than kissing.
When they were spent once more and lying with their damp bodies molded together, Guinevere yawned and her eyes fluttered shut. Asher traced his fingertips over her back and into her hair, enjoying the feel of her, the smell of her, the gift of her as his wife. He could trust her.
She opened her eyes, looking so lovely while on the verge of sleep, and said, “Tell me one of your fantasies. I told you one of mine.”
“My fantasies are not sweet as yers, mo ghraidh.”
Her lips curled into a fetching, wicked smile. “Tell me, Husband. Maybe I will be willing to make one of your fantasies come true.”
God, but he loved the sound of that from her persuasive lips. He thought for a moment and settled quickly on one of the many fantasies he’d had of things he would do with her since they had met. “I do not wish to shock ye.”
“I wish it,” she said, stroking her fingernails down his stomach to his groin. She gripped him.
Oh, she was a wee wicked lass, and he loved it.
“I’ve a fantasy of taking ye in a private pleasure room at the gaming hell where I am partial owner.” It was a dream he’d had ever since a woman with Guinevere’s coloring had proposed he take her in one of the private pleasure rooms at the Orcus Society.
Her eyes went wide, and he instantly regretted telling her until she said, “I’m deliciously shocked and eager to make your fantasy come true.”
Every ounce of blood in his body went to his groin. “Ye would not be afraid to—”
“I will wear a mask!” she interrupted, scrambling to her knees and leaning over him, eyes bright, hands on his chest. “It will be wicked! When can we go to this club? I didn’t know you even owned one.”
“Saints preserve me, I’ve wed a bean bhàsail.”
“I am no temptress,” she said, yawning again.
Asher frowned. “How do ye know what bean bhàsail means?”
Guinevere looked uneasy, which made him uneasy. Silence stretched for a moment, and then she said, “Kilgore called me that at the Antwerp ball, and I asked him what it meant.”
“I see.”
And he did see. His
fist in Kilgore’s face over and over.
And how the devil was Kilgore familiar with Gaelic?
She leaned toward him, her bare breasts brushing against his chest, and she kissed him. His body stirred in immediate response. “I’m your temptress, Asher. Not his. I’m your wife.” Wickedness gleamed in her eyes. “And as my husband, you have the right to take me again if you wish it.”
“I wish it,” he said, hoisting her over to straddle him, forgetting everything else in the moment but the two of them.
The day was perfect from the moment she awoke, which was indulgently late. The sun was high in the sky, sending rays of bright light into their bedchamber, and when she sat up, she gasped at the sight of vases full of lilies all over the room.
Asher was gone, but in his place on the bed was a green silk mask and a note. The bond between them seemed to be growing stronger every day. Maybe tonight he would tell her that he loved her. She picked up the rolled parchment, untied the ribbon, and read the note.
I’ve gone to attend to business. I’ll return by six for supper. Be dressed to go to the Orcus Society. The mask is for tonight.
Asher
A thrill shot through her at the thought that tonight she would get to make Asher’s fantasy come true.
“My lady,” Ballenger called from the door, making Guinevere smile that her life here was truly starting. “Will you break your fast now?”
Guinevere made the spontaneous decision to eschew normal tradition. “I’ll come to the drawing room this morning.”
“Very well. I’ll tell the downstairs maids.”
Anticipation filled her as she scrambled off the bed, washed, dressed, and rushed downstairs to calm her growling stomach. She smiled as she strode toward the drawing room for breakfast. She would need plenty of strength for tonight, after all. When she entered the room, she came to a halt, surprised to find Talbot at the table, teacup in hand. He rose and offered a leg before sweeping a hand toward the chairs and smiling at her. For the first time in quite a while, he looked bright-eyed and presentable.
“I see we both indulged in our sleep today,” he offered affably.
“Yes,” she said, exhaling a relieved breath that he seemed in a pleasant mood. She sat beside him as a servant approached her. Guinevere requested a cup of hot chocolate, and once she was served and the servant departed, she chose a honey cake from the tray on the table. When she looked up, Talbot was staring at her. “I was up late with—” She stopped her confession, blood heating her face.
Talbot laughed. “As you should be.”
She took a bite of the honey cake, wanting to give herself time to recover from the embarrassment of practically admitting she was engaged in marital bliss in her husband’s arms into the late hours of the night.
“I’m happy to hear that the marriage between you and Carrington seems to be going so well, considering.”
Guinevere swallowed the food in her mouth, which suddenly tasted like dust. “What do you mean ‘considering’?”
He looked wholly uneasy, which did nothing to help Guinevere’s sudden discomfited feeling. “I—Well, I—Please forget I mentioned it,” he said, starting to rise.
She couldn’t say what made her do it, but she reached out and put a hand on Talbot’s arm to stop him. “Please,” she said, “what do you mean?” He was surely speaking of her and Asher’s past, and she should not be allowing herself to worry at all, but it was an odd comment for Talbot to make.
With a wary yet resigned look, he sat with a sigh. “I wish I had not said anything,” he muttered more to himself than to her.
“Talbot,” she said, now determined to hear what he had to say. “We have been friends of sorts for a great many years. If you know something you think I should—”
“I thought you knew,” he interrupted, jerking a hand through his hair. “I would not have said a word if had I known that Carrington had not…” He let his words trail off, and he started fidgeting in his chair as if he wanted to be anywhere else.
“I’m very pleased to see that you feel loyalty to your brother,” she said, meaning it, her heart now thudding a loud, hard rhythm in her ears, “but a marriage cannot prosper with secrets.” The minute the words left her mouth, she thought of the secret she was keeping from Asher. She was a hypocrite. Guilt snaked through her stomach and coiled into a hard ball. She had to tell him—and she would.
“I suppose you are correct,” Talbot said, his tone heavy with reluctance. “What I meant by considering was, well—This is deuced hard to say.” He gave her a pleading look. “I fear it may hurt you.”
“Please just tell me,” she murmured, her body now trembling. She threaded her hands together in her lap so that Talbot would not take notice.
“Very well,” he said, sounding defeated. “I was referring to my father’s will and Carrington’s other marriage proposal.”
A tumble of confused thoughts and feelings assailed her at once, and all she could do for a moment was sit there.
Finally, Talbot broke the silence. “Perhaps you ought to speak directly to Carrington about this.”
She somehow found the strength to shake her head. If Asher had intended to tell her, why had he not done so before the wedding? “Please continue.”
Talbot’s gaze darted to the door, as if ensuring they were still alone. “My father’s will stipulated that Carrington had to wed one of three women my father had selected before his death in order to inherit all the unentailed property and family fortune. If he failed to meet the stipulation, I was to inherit it in his stead.”
“No,” she said, the hardness of her voice startling her. “That cannot be.” She was horribly hot, and her blood had joined her heart to roar in her ears. “Asher would not relent to such a thing.”
When Talbot reached out, took her hand, and squeezed it, she felt she would lose the little bit of food that was in her stomach. “I’m sorry.” He paused, swallowing, his eyes glinting into hers with pity that made her want to scream. “I’m certain seeing the two of you now that he wed you for more than the inheritance.”
She was certain of nothing. She was going to be sick. She sucked in a long breath, then reached a trembling hand for her hot chocolate and drank a long swallow, allowing the liquid to push the horrid feeling lodged in her throat down a bit. “Who—” God above, she could not believe she was asking this. “Who, besides me, was on your father’s list?” She didn’t know why Asher’s father had created such a demand, except that he clearly had wanted to control Asher until the bitter end. Good heaven! That’s what Asher must have been referring to last night, and when she had asked him what he meant, he had not answered her. Her stomach clenched.
Talbot hesitated but finally said, “Lady Henrietta Burgh and Lady Constantine Colgate.”
Her mind immediately started racing. Lady Henrietta had scandalously eloped right before Asher had returned to London. He would have been told this, she was sure. But Lady Constantine… Guinevere heard herself groan, and she compulsively pressed a hand over her mouth to hold in anymore horrid, wounded animal sounds. Her throat ached with a ferocious need to cry as memories fell. Asher unexplainably showing up in the library the night she had intended to rescue Lady Constantine from ruination. Asher and Lady Constantine seeming friendly. Lady Constantine inexplicably aiding Asher in stealing a moment alone with Guinevere at the house party. Asher’s sudden attention to Guinevere.
A raw, primitive grief threatened to overwhelm her, but she fought it. She didn’t want to accept that the love she thought was within her grasp was not. That the man she loved was a liar, an opportunist. Was just like all the other men who had not wanted her at all.
“Was I—” She paused, struggling to ask the embarrassing question. “I wish to know, do you know, well, did Carrington ask Lady Constantine to wed him before he asked me?”
It occurred to her then quite painfully that Asher had not initially asked her. He had compromised her. Never mind that she had been a willing pa
rticipant. He had followed her on the hunt, he had kissed her, and she had been compromised.
“I do not know, Guinevere,” Talbot said, using her familiar name. She did not have the heart to protest. Her heart was breaking.
“You do not know, or you will not say?” She had to choke out the words. The room was spinning a bit, and she blinked several times to bring it still.
“I, well—Devil take it, Guinevere, don’t make me hurt you like this. Please talk to Carrington, or even Lady Constantine, but I cannot do this. I cannot stand to hurt you.”
Talbot shoved up from the table then and was out of the room in the blink of an eye. She was too distraught to stop him. Her rebellious emotions got away from her, and tears of humiliation and anger overflowed, streaming down her face. Every breath she took burned her throat as she tried to think of what to do, how she could have possibly been so foolish to believe Asher loved her.
No. No, she would not give up on them—on him—yet. She needed confirmation.
And if you get it? her mind screamed at her.
She didn’t know. She knew nothing. Denial rioted within her, along with the words Talbot had said to her. She sat, swiping at her tears, her increasing rage and shock making her feel almost numb. Behind her, she heard someone approach and then leave once more. A servant, no doubt. They likely wanted to clear the buffet, and yet, she sat. All her hopes seemed to be floating away from her like particles of dust floating in the rays of sunshine, impossible to grasp.
Her breath came out ragged, impotent anger and shame making it so hard to do such a simple natural thing. She had to move. Asher would eventually return, and she had to know… She had to know before he came back if he had wed her simply to gain his fortune.
But no, he had been so tender. He desired her.
Lust is not love.
She buried her face in her hands and wept silently until her eyes felt swollen and her nasal passages felt blocked. Anger slowly built to cloud her despair for a moment, and she shoved away from the table and stood, determined to get answers. She would find out if she had been used in the worst sort of way and had willingly bound herself to a despicable rogue.
Lady Guinevere And The Rogue With A Brogue (Scottish Scoundrels: Ensnared Hearts Book 1) Page 23
