Lady Guinevere and the Rogue with a Brogue - Julie Johnstone Page 0,23

than that, but he wasn’t.

He shrugged. “Elizabeth loved Shakespeare.” It was a guess. He and Elizabeth had barely tolerated each other. He didn’t know what she liked, only what she didn’t—Scotland and him for taking her there. She especially had despised him when he refused to accept his courtesy title or take the money his father had offered.

Guinevere looked stricken for a moment, and his chest felt as if it were being constricted by a band. He was the largest arse in the world. “Guin—”

“Lady Guinevere,” she corrected in a wooden tone. She bit her lip, looking away from him. “I’ve missed my next promised set, and I do believe my mother is striding this way to take me to task.” Her beautiful face turned to his, and he could not see a trace of the vulnerability he thought he’d glimpsed in her eyes a moment ago.

She regarded him now with all the impassive coldness of the women of the ton they had once made jest of together. “Thank you, Your Grace, for the dance and the interesting conversation on Shakespeare, whom your wife loved.”

She was gone in a twirl of silk and a swirl of lilies, and he was left standing there, disgruntled. He studied her progress through the crowd. She moved gracefully, head held high, shoulders back, not pausing, though he noted several men attempt to stop her. Perhaps she only deigned to halt for Kilgore?

Good God, he had to get control of himself. He needed to cease watching her, but where the devil was she going? Certainly not to meet her draconian mother…

He tracked her across the ballroom, keeping his gaze firmly on her as she paused a moment to glance around, and then she slipped from sight into a darkened passage. The perverse need to discover if she was slipping away to meet Kilgore had him glancing at the man to confirm he was no longer standing with Beckford, nor where he’d told Guinevere he would wait for her. He wanted to know for certain, though he was well aware he should not care at all.

Chapter Six

She’d made a cake of herself! No, he’d caused her to make a cake of herself. Whether it was true or not, it felt good to blame Asher. Guinevere rushed away from him and toward the darkened passage where she’d seen Lord Charolton maneuver Lady Constantine out of the ballroom. It had been difficult to keep those two in her sights with her attention so diverted by Asher, but she’d managed it somehow. She weaved through the crowd in the ballroom, a smile planted on her face, and only nodding to several gentlemen who tried to stop her.

Once she gained the darkened passage, she rushed through the shadows that led to the library, but she paused when a sound, footfalls perhaps, came from behind her. She whirled around, facing back toward the ballroom, but could see nothing in the gloomy darkness.

Gooseflesh rose on her arms. She gave them a quick rub. “Do not be a ninny,” she muttered to herself. She had likely spent too much time indulging Lilias by allowing her friend to recount all the sordid details of whatever Gothic novel she was currently reading. Her mind was quite clearly playing tricks on her.

Even so, why didn’t Lord and Lady Antwerp have the passage properly lit? They were proper ton. They certainly had to know that unlit passages during a ball like this led to the perfect place for a rogue to ruin a lady. With that thought, Guinevere increased her pace toward the library, which she happened to know was at the end of this corridor. As did Lord Charolton, apparently.

The tight laces of Guinevere’s gown made it hard to take the proper breath needed to keep pace, but she pressed forward. Trying to split her concentration between Asher and Charolton had given her the beginning of a megrim, but there had been no choice when Lilias had been waylaid by Guinevere’s mother. Asher was the sort of man that demanded all of one’s focus, and trying to give him less than his due really had been a struggle. The scoundrel.

The dull ache behind Guinevere’s left eye grew steadily more persistent by the breath. She didn’t want to think of him now—truly, she didn’t—but he had discomfited her terribly from the moment he’d taken her hand. The warmth of his touch had worked its way through her gloves to make her fingertips tingle, and when he had