“That,” she seethed, “was for kissing me five years ago on the balcony because you wagered with someone that you could seduce me!”
“Duchess,” Kilgore said, his voice a proper entreaty. He was so conniving even addressing her as such. “I can explain.”
“Then by all means, do,” she flung out.
He opened his mouth, shut it, growled, and opened it once more. “That wager was a cover.”
“So you did not kiss me for a wager?” Guinevere asked, frowning.
“No, the kiss was a means to an end.”
She crossed her arms. “Explain.”
Now he looked positively pained, and she knew he was going to claim he could not.
“I cannot, but—”
She turned on her heel and heaved herself into her curricle. She was through with lying, too handsome rogues, especially ones with Scottish accents. She was through with tears. She was—She was simply through.
“Please wait!” Kilgore frantically called. “I’m trying to find a solution to an enormous coil of my own making, and—”
“I do not care!” she spat, clicking her tongue and nearly running over Kilgore in her haste to get away from him. It felt very good indeed to take back a bit of control. She raced her conveyance out of the park, past a lone curricle, and started home.
Home. The word put a sour, bitter taste in her mouth. It was not her home. It was Asher’s home, the blackguard, lying manipulator.
She had no notion what she was going to do. She needed time to think and plan. Should she confront him? Should she flee him? He had his inheritance firmly secured now, he would probably not even come after her since…since—Her throat tightened as if she was going to cry again, but she refused to allow it. She was not some simpering, weepy, helpless lady! She was a strong woman. She had a mind of her own. She did not need Asher to be happy, despite how her heart protested the thought. He had lied to her. He had deceived her. She would harden her heart to him if it killed her, but when she got home, she would lock herself in one of the bedchambers first. She was not a fool, after all. She needed time to harden her heart.
The drive home was faster than she had hoped, and she had the oddest sense of being followed. Yet, every time she glanced over her shoulder, she saw no one. After handing off the curricle to one of the stable boys, she entered the house hoping to make for the stairs unseen. Asher was no doubt awaiting her, given they were to go to the Orcus Society tonight, but she no more than set one foot on the first step than Asher’s voice came at her from behind. “I’ve been waiting for you, mo chridhe.”
The endearment—was it even an endearment?—did not sound natural. How had she missed that before? Had she simply heard what she had wanted to? Her heart tripped at having to face him and at the edge in his voice. He was vexed. Well, his ire at her returning late was nothing compared with her rage. Clenching her jaw, she thrust back her shoulders and turned toward him.
His cool gaze swept over her and settled on her face. “Where are yer ribbons?”
For a moment, she didn’t know what he was talking about, and then she blinked, recalling her lie to the coachman earlier. She could rail at him now, tell him she knew he did not love her, had not married her for anything other than his own gain, but she couldn’t bear it. She suddenly felt desperate to get away from him. Swallowing, she said, “They did not have the color I wanted.”
His cold gaze hardened, and his mouth grew grim. “Nay?”
Her breath quickened at the thread of anger in his voice. Did he know she was lying? Perhaps he suspected it. Let him wonder as she stood wondering now why he had wed her.
“No,” she said simply, warily.
He stepped toward her, and she found herself backing up to keep distance between them. His gaze narrowed a bit more, but he stopped, his mouth twisting unpleasantly. “It took ye a long time for a trip to get ribbon. Did ye encounter someone ye know?”
She thought immediately of Kilgore, but she would not tell Asher that. She didn’t want him going to Kilgore and confronting him until she was ready to confront Asher. “My sisters,” she said, dismissing any guilt. She would need to tell her sisters so they would not give her away.
“I see.” His voice, though quiet, had an ominous quality that made her shiver.
She needed distance before she blurted what she had discovered and he possibly gave her false, soothing answers that she feared she would be too weak to question and, instead, would simply accept. She needed time to think everything through.
“Asher—”
“Guinevere—” he said at the same time.
She had intended to tell him she had a megrim and could not go with him to the club tonight when he said, “I’m afraid my plans for tonight have changed. I’ve some business to attend to, so…”
Her stomach dropped that he was abandoning the plans they had made. Perhaps he was tired of the charade? Perhaps now that he had slaked his desire for her, he simply did not care to pretend.
“Yes, of course,” she forced herself to reply, going up another step. The sting in the back of her eyes alerted her to the fact that tears would come, no matter what she had promised herself. “I’ve a megrim anyway,” she offered before turning and starting up the stairs.
Behind her, he said, “That’s convenient.”
That’s convenient!
She paused. He was apparently not going to bother to pretend at all anymore. The desire to turn around and screech at him that she knew the truth, that he was a scoundrel, a louse, the worst sort of rogue to break her heart not once but twice burned her lips, but she gritted her teeth until pain lanced across her jaw. He did not deserve to see how he had hurt her. She would tell him when she could remain calm and aloof, when she could think of the precise words to prick his pride. Standing as tall as she could, she continued her ascent without comment as tears flowed from her eyes and trickled silently down her face.
Asher could not rid himself of the image of his treacherously beautiful wife lying to him so easily. He tried to wash it away in the darkest corners of the Orcus Society, and when that did not work, he tried to forget her in the pleasure room among the press of bodies of willing women and eager men. But no woman had ever been able to make him forget Guinevere, and tonight was no exception.
Cursing, he waved away a woman as she approached him, yet she kept coming, not stopping until she stood before him. She surprised him by twining her hands around his neck.
“I’m not interested,” he said.
She smelled of too much perfume and wore heavy face powder, and all her finer bits were on display. She was the opposite of Guinevere. He crushed the thought. He didn’t know who Guinevere really was. She had stood before him and lied to him without any indication that she was deceiving him. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She had looked slightly uncomfortable with her deceit, but that hardly made her a saint, not to mention trustworthy or loyal.
“If you weren’t interested,” the woman purred, rubbing her hips against his, “you would not have come here.”
Irritation flared, and he unlatched her fingers, bringing her hands away from his neck. He released them as he met her eager gaze. “It was a mistake. I’m sorry.”
She arched her blond eyebrows. “A coin for my trouble?”
He produced several coins, pressed them into her hand, and said, “Go home for the night.”
He didn’t care for the fact that the women who worked in here had no choice, but Beckford had assured him, he gave each woman who was employed in the pleasure room the opportunity to choose another job at the club. But the women always chose this room as they were eager to gain sponsors. He understood desperation—he’d grown up in it—and it drove people to do things they’d otherwise never do.
The woman’s eyes widened as she looked at the coins, and then she grinned. “This is a good start to my evening, and I thank you, but going home is not for me.”
With that, she sauntered off, and he turned and exited the
pleasure room, passing Pierce along the way. But his brother was quite occupied with a woman on his lap. Asher sighed. This room was most assuredly not to his taste. The only appeal it had held was being in it with Guinevere.
The thought of her worsened his mood, and he strode into the low-lit gaming room. He snaked around tables where dealers held court every night, taking the money of men too foolish to know when to quit.
Asher spotted Beckford at a hazard table where men were rising as if the game had just finished, so he made his way over and sat. Beckford’s keen blue gaze flicked over him for a moment before he focused on the ivory dice he was pulling toward him. He picked them up and jiggled them in his hand as he focused on Asher once more.
“Why are you here and not with your new wife?” Beckford asked around the cheroot hanging from his mouth.
Asher leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “My wife is a liar.”
Beckford arched his dark eyebrows, stilled the hand shaking the dice, and took out the cheroot to set it down. Then he said, “Expand.”
The man was not one to jump to quick judgments. Asher took a moment to decide how much to reveal. He trusted Beckford completely, but more than that, he didn’t give a damn about London Society and all the rules they lived by, either.
“She’s made a cuckold of me.”
Beckford whistled and raised his hand, circling his fingers in the air once. “You have proof, I assume?”
“I saw her.”
Beckford’s eyes flicked wider. “You saw your wife in the throes of passion with another man?”
“Nay,” Asher said as a serving girl set a drink down in front of him and one in front of Beckford. They clinked glasses as she departed, and Asher took a sip of his whisky, as Beckford took a sip of his own drink. “But I saw her in the park in Kilgore’s arms, and she lied about where she had been and who she had seen.”
“Maybe she ran into Kilgore and feared your reaction. You are a bit possessive and jealous, my friend.”
Asher scowled and quickly told Beckford about what Pierce had revealed.
Beckford sat silent for a moment, then held up his index finger. “First, you’re being an ass. Second—” he popped up another finger “—perhaps you should simply confront your wife. Third, I’m surprised you’d take your wastrel brother’s word for anything, let alone something as important as his exchange with your wife’s lady’s maid. And fourth—” Beckford offered a grin now “—Kilgore just strolled into the room, and he’s headed this way.”
Kilgore. Finally.
He was going to kill the sodding bastard. Asher shoved to his feet, his chair tipping backward and clattering to the floor. He swung around and barely ducked in time to miss the fist flying at him. He came up and threw his own punch, grazing Kilgore’s jaw. Asher begrudgingly had to admit the man moved well, but he was still going to kill him.
As the two men danced in a circle, fists up, Asher said, “Ye might have warned me, Beckford.”
Beckford laughed as he rose. “I might have, but this seemed inevitable, and better here where I can stop you from killing each other if need be.”
“He’ll need you to. I’m going to rearrange his face,” Kilgore snarled.
“Since I’m going to kill ye, it will make it difficult for ye to rearrange my face,” Asher shot back as Beckford skirted around them and started shouting orders for the men in the card room to depart.
Kilgore’s punch caught Asher on the left side of his jaw, and he gave himself a hard shake, angry that he’d allowed himself to be distracted. He came back with a punch to Kilgore’s gut and another to his nose as he straightened up, but then the man swiveled left and caught Asher with a cross punch to his right eye.
Asher charged, barreling into Kilgore and sending them both flying into the table he’d been sitting at with Beckford. They rolled off the wood, landing on the floor with a thud. As Asher went to scramble to his feet, a pair of hands grabbed him from behind and locked his arms behind his back. He looked up to see the club guards had Kilgore in a lock hold, too.
“Beckford!” Asher growled, knowing it had to be his friend who had commanded the guards to intervene.
“Calm yourself, Carrington. And you, too, Kilgore. Though the fight is certainly entertaining, I don’t wish for the two of you to destroy the club. Now, you can talk civilly, or I’ll order both of you thrown in rooms and the doors locked until the morrow.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Kilgore growled as blood trickled from his nose.
“He’d dare,” Asher said, glaring at Beckford. “I won’t forget this,” he spat.
“I should hope not,” Beckford countered.
“Release me,” Asher demanded of the men who held his arms behind his back, and immediately, his command was obeyed. And it damn well should be. He was part owner of this club, and it was one thing to do as Beckford had asked, but quite another to keep Asher bound after he demanded to be let go.
He stepped toward Kilgore and said, “Release him.”
As soon as they let go, Kilgore jerked away from the guards, yanked on his cravat, and then used the material to stop the flow of blood from his nose. “I’m here for Guinevere.”
“Ye’re here for my wife?” Asher balled his hands into fists once more.
“Yes. She loves you, you bloody idiot, and you wed her simply to gain money and land. She’s my friend, despite the slap,” Kilgore said, which made no sense. “I’m here to ensure you pay for what you’ve done to her.”
“Loves me? What sort of game is this? My wife is cuckolding me with ye! I saw the two of ye today on Rotten Row, and I know her lady’s maid went to see ye. Tell me, was she delivering a request to meet?” he snarled.
The look of utter confusion and then disgust that swept Kilgore’s face made Asher’s stomach feel suddenly hollow. “Guinevere did not request ye meet her?” he heard himself mutter.
“Not that I know of,” Kilgore bit out. “I ran into her by happenstance, and I know nothing of her lady’s maid coming to see me. I have been out of Town. His gaze darted away, but not before Asher saw a guilty look upon Kilgore’s face.
“Start from the part where ye said I wed Guinevere for money. And leave nothing out, or I vow it, no number of men will stop me from coming for ye. And just to be clear, I did not wed my wife to gain anything but her.”
“No?” Kilgore looked and sounded incredulous.
“Nay,” Asher bit out.
“Then it was not a requirement of your father’s will for you to wed one of three acceptable women, and your wife was not the last person on that list of candidates that you asked to wed you? Do you really intend to stand here and claim that you did not intentionally compromise your wife so that she would be forced to wed you?”
Yes, he’d intentionally kissed Guinevere but not to force her to wed him. He could not resist her. But that was none of Kilgore’s damn business. So instead of answering the man’s posed questions, he asked, “How is it ye have personal knowledge of my father’s will?”
“I’ll have an answer to my question before you get one to yours.” He leaned close so that they were almost nose to nose. “Did you wed your wife to gain land and money?”
Asher stepped back and sent his fist into Kilgore’s face again.
“Damn it, man!” Kilgore growled and raised his cravat to his nose to stop the blood once more. “Should I take that as a no?”
“I can make the answer louder if ye wish it,” Asher seethed.
Kilgore held up a hand. “No, that will do nicely. I thought you cared for her, but this afternoon, she was so certain you didn’t that she had me questioning myself—something I’ve been in the annoying position of doing a great deal lately.”
Kilgore’s revelation was crushing. Guinevere had learned about the will, and she was certain that he did not care for her. Damn it all. That could explain a great deal. But before he got distracted by that point, he still needed Kilgore to answer his question. “Now, how do ye know
about my father’s will?”
Kilgore lowered his cravat and motioned to the table where the chairs were turned over. “Do you mind if we have a drink and I sit first? It’s been the longest bloody day of my life.”
Asher looked to Beckford because it meant keeping the gaming room empty a bit longer, and he nodded. The three of them turned up the chairs, sat, and before Asher even found a comfortable position, a drink was set before him. Drinks were also set before Beckford and Kilgore. They each took a long swig, and then Kilgore spoke.
“I want to preface what I say with this: everything I’ve done, I’ve done to protect Lady Constantine, and I will still do all in my power to protect her when needed. Though I did vow to myself after I ran into your wife on Rotten Row today that I would not be your brother’s puppet any longer—”
“My brother?” Asher asked, confusion and suspicion slamming into him at once.
“Yes,” Kilgore said, his tone full of fury. “Your brother, the devil.”
Asher’s hands curled into fists. “Tell me,” he bit out.
“It started when my father died and left me, much to my shock, a penniless title.” Kilgore offered a self-deprecating laugh. “Mind you, had I taken any interest at all whatsoever in my title or the running of our lands, I would have known my father was in a dire position.”
“If yer father was like mine, he probably gave ye reason not to want to be involved with him.”
“That he did,” Kilgore agreed, “but I cannot lay all the blame at his feet. I should have been more of a man and set my feelings aside in the interest of family and self-preservation.” Kilgore shrugged. “If only we could see the future and know the best course of action in every moment. But I digress. Instead of immediately rolling up my proverbial sleeves and digging into the work of making my lands profitable, I wagered them away to your brother one night when I was deep in my cups like the fool I am.”
More unease pressed down on Asher. He nodded for Kilgore to continue.
“I tried to persuade him to return the lands to me, but he refused. Then shortly after you first appeared in London as the celebrated new heir, your brother found me at White’s and offered me a wager that I could not seduce Lady Constantine, whom he himself had tried and failed to seduce.”
Lady Guinevere And The Rogue With A Brogue (Scottish Scoundrels: Ensnared Hearts Book 1) Page 25
