Lady Guinevere and the Rogue with a Brogue - Julie Johnstone Page 0,12

He did actually have an idea, which ironically was a tack he would be taking directly from his dear old father. He could wed one of the ladies to gain his inheritance, but that did not mean he had to stay wed to her, which would likely suit her, as well. Divorce was an option, though an admittedly difficult one.

“Who is on the list?” he asked.

“Lady Henrietta Burgh—”

Pierce let out a whistle. “Ill luck, Carrington. She eloped last week.” Pierce rested his hands on his knees, and an intent look came over him. “Who else is on the list, Benedict?”

Mr. Benedict inhaled deeply and then said, “Lady Constantine Colgate.”

Pierce shook his head. “That woman has ice where her heart should be. Damn, Father. It seems he’s set you up to fail.”

It did seem that way, but why would he go to the trouble to create this stipulation if he wanted Asher to fail?

“Who is last on the list?” Pierce demanded. His tone was now as tight as his face.

Mr. Benedict pressed his lips together for a moment, appearing grim. “Lady Guinevere Darlington.”

Asher’s jaw slipped open, and he noted that Pierce looked as astonished and outraged as Asher felt. Pierce let out a loud breath. “If I ever doubted Father was a cruel devil, this proves it. I’m sorry, Carrington. Perhaps you can persuade Lady Constantine. Unless you intend to try to approach Lady Guinevere, but you did throw her over for her best friend.”

“I do not intend to approach Lady Guinevere, nor did I throw her over,” Asher growled. Besides, the lady damn well had not cared. She herself had kissed another, kissed Kilgore—the swine—that same night Asher was discovered with Elizabeth in his arms.

Pierce stood and grabbed his empty glass. “What will you do?”

All the faces of all the people who would be harmed if he had to sell any of his distilleries filled Asher’s head, not to mention the years of work he had put in to build the company and make a name for himself. Damned if he wanted to have his hand forced by his father, but it seemed he had no choice. This was not about just him. “I’ll gain an introduction to Lady Constantine, and try to persuade her to wed me.” The words left him feeling hollow.

“And if you cannot persuade her?” Pierce asked, pouring more liquor into his glass. “Will you actually approach Lady Guinevere?”

Her face filled his mind. The gentle slope of her cheeks. Her plump, pretty lips. The way her eyes had always sparkled when she laughed. He’d once thought her charmingly innocent before she’d slain him with duplicity. Would he approach her? The mere thought sparked an odd combination of ire, wariness, and searing lust. If there was such a thing as an enchantress, Guinevere was it. She was dangerous to him because of that. Would he approach her? “I’ll do what I must,” he finally said.

Pierce tipped up his glass as he strolled over to Asher and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Welcome to the ton, Carrington, where we are ruled not by desire alone but by desperate need. Whatever you do, do it with a stiff upper lip and never let them know what you’re really thinking.”

Chapter Three

Guinevere’s bedchamber door burst open with such force that it clanked against the wall and caused the normally unflappable Ballenger to pause in working Guinevere’s unruly hair into something presentable for the Antwerp ball that evening. In the looking glass, Guinevere watched as both of her younger sisters proceeded into the room—Vivian in a swirl of blue silk and Frederica in her nightclothes. Both wore determined expressions.

“You have been avoiding us!” Frederica announced, striding across the room.

The megrim Guinevere had falsely claimed to have in order to avoid her sisters since the ball two nights prior began in truth directly behind her right eye. With a sigh, she pressed her fingertips to her temples as a very vivid picture of Asher filled her mind.

He now wore his rich brown, thick hair shorter than he had five years ago. No more curls upon his neck. Pity, that. But sinfully dark stubble still grazed his wickedly handsome face. The man never had liked a proper shave, and she always had liked that about him. He’d been averse to the rules of society, and she’d been daft.

His image flashed once more in her memory, dark eyes that were altogether too knowing. Well, at least she thought they still were. She had not