Lady Guinevere and the Rogue with a Brogue - Julie Johnstone Page 0,19
failed to succumb to my charms.”
In Guinevere’s side vision, Lilias’s eyes popped wide. Were Guinevere’s eyes like twin saucers, as well?
She was just about to flay Kilgore, but something occurred to her. Perhaps she was dismissing him too quickly. He was handsome, and he smelled rather good, but it was neither of those things that truly had her attention now. What she liked about Kilgore was that he did not make her feel as if a storm swirled inside her as Asher had once done. Her heart was deadly calm. She was supposed to be finding a man tolerable enough to wed, one who appreciated her wit and not just her face and dowry. Perhaps Kilgore was her prime candidate.
So, on a whim—a likely reckless whim, at that—she said, “And you wish to make me succumb this Season?” She hitched her eyebrows challengingly at him. She felt positive he’d been trying to shock her. What would he do now?
The playful look that had been on his face vanished, and his countenance became serious. “Quite the opposite, Lady Guinevere. I pray you don’t succumb and prove me wrong. So, might I have the next dance?”
Kilgore was most definitely intriguing, and that was more than she could recall thinking of any man since Asher, especially the four who had offered for her in the intervening years. If she had to take a husband wouldn’t it be far better to at least find him intriguing, but not to be in danger of his stealing her senses? “One dance,” she agreed, “but it will have to be the last one.” She needed time, after all, to foil Lord Charolton’s plans for Lady Constantine.
“I will stand by the terrace doors, alone and miserable, waiting for you.” If a man could purr, Lord Kilgore had just done so.
She laughed. It was not well-done of her, but he smiled, and she swore it was genuine. There was not even a hint of seduction in it.
It struck her suddenly that Kilgore was not any more affected by her than she was by him. Perhaps that was why he was seeking her out. Perhaps he’d decided it was time to wed but did not want the trouble of love, either. And that might be just the thing to bring them together—a nice dull marriage of convenience wholly unlike the passionate union she’d fantasized about as a young girl and thought was within her grasp with Asher. It was perfect.
“Who is your next set with?” he suddenly asked, as the music had already started.
Her mind froze. Drat him, and herself, and the fact that Asher was standing so near. She didn’t know how, but she felt her current predicament was surely his fault. He dizzied her. Never mind that she was caught by her own deceiving ways. She glanced swiftly around, praying to locate one of her brother’s friends, whom she might persuade to dance with her, but she saw none of Huntley’s chums, or even Huntley, for that matter. Heat creeped up her neck to her face, and then she did the unthinkable as her gaze drifted over Asher, who was still talking to the chestnut-haired gentleman with whom she was unfamiliar.
“‘Wherefore art thou, Romeo?’” she murmured, then slapped a palm over her treacherous mouth.
Chapter Five
Asher struggled to focus on the latest news his business partner and good friend, Gabriel Beckford, was telling him about their gaming hell, the Orcus Society. His attention was divided between Beckford and Guinevere. Damn her for looking so bonny and for still having the ability to stir his lust and unreasonable jealousy. Before he knew he was doing it, his hand tightened into a fist. She apparently also still had a tendre for Kilgore.
“Carrington?”
His name sharp from Beckford snapped his attention fully to the man.
“Aye?”
“Did you hear what I said?”
Asher hated to admit he’d not been fully paying attention, but there was no hope for it. He shook his head, and Beckford glanced to where Kilgore stood with Guinevere before looking back at Asher. “Kilgore frequents our club quite often.”
“Does he?” Asher’s curiosity was piqued. “Does he make use of the pleasure room?”
Beckford shook his head. “Never. He drinks two drinks, then leaves. There are whispers in the ton about his conquests of married, wealthy women, but—” Beckford shrugged “—I’ve seen no proof of it. He speaks to the girls in the club, mind you—very polite that one is—but it’s almost as if he’s waiting.”