Lady Guinevere and the Rogue with a Brogue - Julie Johnstone Page 0,28
moment.
“I see.” She forced herself not to nervously clear her throat and tried to sound unaffected. “Well, thank you for your assistance.”
He arched a wry eyebrow. “With ridding ye of Charolton or making ye feel better?”
Heat suffused her cheeks. Blast the man. He knew which instance she’d been referring to. “With ridding me of Charolton. The other should never have occurred. I was… I was—”
“Swept away by desire for me,” he inserted, cryptic humor in his tone.
“You flatter yourself, Your Grace.”
“We’re back to Your Grace, are we?”
She had to unclench her teeth to respond. “We never left the particularly proper state we find ourselves in,” she boldly and ridiculously lied. If he was any sort of true gentleman, he’d simply go along with her and not point out how she’d contradicted herself.
“So ye kiss many men in secluded libraries, do ye? That’s what ye term a particularly proper state?”
He was not a true gentleman. He was a Scot. A rogue.
“Oh do be quiet!” she snapped, pressing her fingertips to her throbbing temples. After what had just happened, she deserved an aching head. “What I do where is none of your concern.”
“I agree with that,” he said with a nod.
“Excellent. Then we can part ways.”
“Did ye follow Charolton or Lady Constantine to the library?” he demanded.
She frowned. “Didn’t we just agree that what I do is none of your concern?”
“We did,” he replied, “and I’m not concerned, merely curious.”
“You can stuff your curiosity.”
“That’s not very proper of ye,” he said with a smirk.
“And it’s not very gentlemanly of you to point it out to me.”
“I never claimed to be a gentleman, Lady Guinevere.”
“No,” she said, angry with herself, “you did not.” He was exactly right. And she had no business standing in here with him. If Kilgore truly wanted to court her, she should let him. “If you’ll excuse me, Kilgore is waiting for me.”
“Ye did not seem to be thinking about Kilgore a moment ago.” Asher’s mocking tone made her blood boil.
“You…you,” she accused, so vexed she was stuttering. “You took advantage of the discomfited state in which the encounter with Lord Charolton left me.”
He opened his mouth, snapped it shut, and then opened it again, looking just past her now. “I suppose I did,” he relented, much to her surprise. His gaze touched her once more, but it was cold, distant. “I beg yer pardon. The kiss was a grievous mistake.”
That was the second time in one night Asher’s words made her feel horrid. Grievous? Why had he had to say grievous? The single word mistake would have sufficed. She would absolutely not let him see that he had injured her pride. Notching up her chin and shoving back her shoulders, she said, “I could not agree more. Now, if you will excuse me.”
He stepped aside, and she passed, forcing herself not to give him a parting glance to ensure he knew the kiss had been as grievous to her as it was to him. His lack of any parting words increased her self-consciousness and made her heart thud in her ears, so when he spoke as she unlocked the library door, she flinched at his deep voice at her back.
“Might I suggest next time ye offer a man for a duel, ye offer up the man ye are pursuing. Unless, of course, ye think Kilgore would not come to yer aid.”
Guinevere stilled, her hand upon the doorknob. How dare he! If she were not such a lady, she would point out he had offered himself first. She pressed her lips together on the desire but found herself whirling to face him once more. “I merely followed your lead, you unspeakable cad! And to clarify, I have no doubt whatsoever that Kilgore would be more than happy to satisfy whatever need I have.”
And before he could say more to injure her, she whirled around, flung open the door, and stepped into the hall, almost running smack into Lady Constantine, who was sliding out from behind a curtain directly beside the library door. The woman looked as startled as Guinevere felt. Then, as if a silent mutual agreement to keep the secrets of this night had passed between them, they fled toward the ballroom together without a word or parting farewell once they entered the noise and revelry.
Chapter Seven
The next morning Asher was in a damned terrible mood. He recognized it, and he knew the cause—a green-eyed, brown-haired, tart-tongued temptress who had haunted him for five years.