Lady Guinevere and the Rogue with a Brogue - Julie Johnstone Page 0,14

her penchant for talking politics. And perhaps that she’d been about as graceful as a newborn colt. She supposed her inability to feign her dislike of gossipmongers and men fawning after her for the coin her dowry could add to their coffers had been a factor, as well. Oh, and old, eagle-eyed, tight-lipped matrons who looked down on any woman with an ounce of life in her.

Her mother had been beside herself at Guinevere’s miserable start to the Season, and then he had appeared and turned it around before he had flipped it upside down. He was a Scot but also a marquess, so he was allowed to court her. The blurting of quotes had stopped as the courtship had begun. But…

There was always a but, wasn’t there? She despised the word.

She nibbled on her lip as the memories assaulted her. He had made her feel womanly, graceful, interesting, and understood. He had filled her with hope that a real love match was possible. She had fantasized they would be wed by the end of the Season and have their first child by the end of the next. Their grand love would fall from the aged lips of gossipmongers for years to come. She actually had been giddy at the prospect. Giddy!

The story would have gone like this:

Once upon a time there was a misunderstood, overlooked, slightly plump young lady who was wrongfully ignored at worst, tolerated at best. Then one day, a handsome, mysterious Scot appeared in Town, and of all the women he could court, he chose her because she was like no other. An undiscovered diamond of the first water. He was irrevocably and hopelessly besotted by her, and he got down on one knee in the middle of a field of lilies, her favorite flower, and asked for her hand! She’d always wanted to be proposed to in a field of wild purple lilies, just as her grandfather had proposed to her grandmother.

“Guinevere Darlington!”

Frederica’s exasperated voice, as well as her fingers snapping in front of Guinevere’s face, jerked her back to the moment. A flush immediately covered her from her yet-to-be completed hair all the way down to her slipperless feet. She curled her toes at her embarrassment.

Frederica pointed an accusing finger at her. “You were daydreaming about Carrington.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Guinevere replied in the most unaffected tone she could muster. “Viv, please repair my hair. You know Mama will call on us to depart for the Antwerp ball at any moment, and she will have a fit if—”

“Girls!” came Mama’s shrill voice. It shot up the stairs, down the hall, and straight under the door of Guinevere’s bedchamber to pierce their ears, as only their mother’s voice could do. Each of them winced. “We must depart! We do not wish to be late. Let us all pray, especially you, Vivian, that Guinevere will finally concede to make a match this night.”

Guinevere rolled her eyes as her sisters gave her sympathetic looks.

Vivian patted Guinevere’s hand before she moved behind her to finish her hair. “I do not mind, Guinnie, that you have not wed yet,” she said in a soothing voice.

“I know you don’t, darling,” Guinevere replied, smiling at each of her sisters in turn with true affection. Only sisters who truly loved her would not be bothered that their mother had declared that Vivian, who their mother had finally allowed to be presented this Season, could not be courted until Guinevere was betrothed. Their mother was very clever. By allowing Vivian to come out, she was effectively forcing Guinevere’s hand.

And it would work.

What choice did she have? If she did not get herself betrothed, then Vivian could not be courted, and if Vivian could not be courted and become betrothed, then Mama would not allow Frederica to make her appearance at Almack’s to find a suitable husband.

Guinevere bit the inside of her cheek to quell her desire to scream. She’d been trumped by her mother. But Guinevere was determined to take back as much control as she could. If she finally must wed, she would do so on her own terms. Somehow.

“There!” Vivian said. “Guinevere, I swear you are too beautiful for your own good.”

Guinevere stared at herself in the mirror. Brown hair. Green eyes. Yes, her hair did shine, and her eyes were bright. Her lashes were dark and passably long. A straight nose and teeth helped the overall appearance. The years had been kind to her looks, she supposed, and had been good