Lady Guinevere and the Rogue with a Brogue - Julie Johnstone Page 0,29

bed plagued by Guinevere’s image, their kiss, their exchange of well-placed barbs, and her in Kilgore’s arms as they danced the last set of the ball. He had a strong desire to do bodily harm to Kilgore, though Asher knew the yearning was misplaced. Yet, knowing something did not change it. Life had taught him that lesson well enough.

He had known his father was manipulative, but that had not changed the man’s character. He had known he did not wish to wed Elizabeth, but he had still done so. He had known he should not follow Guinevere the night before at the ball, that it should not matter to him if she was slipping away to meet Kilgore, but it had, and he’d followed. And he sure as hell had known he should not kiss her, but he had been consumed by some sort of madness only she had ever caused in him.

He dressed quickly and made his way downstairs, nearly crashing into his valet in his unfocused state.

“Your Grace,” Cushman said, “you dressed yourself again, I see.”

His valet was exceptionally good at conveying his dislike of something with only his tone. It made Asher wonder if Cushman had done that with Asher’s father, and if so, why had the old duke kept him on? Asher had a difficult time imagining his father allowing any impertinent behavior, which was how his father would have seen it. To Asher, who had grown up in Scotland without servants and where most people freely expressed their opinions, he was still adjusting to the reality that his servants would not speak frankly with him, even though he’d given them leave to do so.

“Aye, and ye can expect it will continue, Cushman. Why don’t ye see if Pierce needs to be dressed?”

A flicker of a smile pulled at the man’s mouth, but he managed to suppress it. The English were really lacking in humor.

“Lord Pierce rose very early this morning and departed not long ago,” Cushman said.

“He did?” Asher found that hard to believe. If the noisy state upon which his brother had entered the house in the predawn hours that morning was an indicator, then Pierce had been deep in his cups when he’d come home.

“Yes, Your Grace. Quite unusual, that. I’m always wary myself of curious comportment and make it a point to carefully watch the person displaying such behavior.” Cushman gave him an unmistakably pointed look. Was the man referring to him or Pierce?

“Are ye telling me I should keep an eye on my brother?”

Cushman looked affronted. “I would never presume to tell you such a thing. I’m merely the valet, not a member of your family.”

“I wish ye English would not prevaricate,” he said, thinking of Guinevere and how she’d never answered his question as to who she’d followed to the library last night. He didn’t know why he felt it mattered, only that his gut told him it somehow did.

“Prevarication is a way of English life, Your Grace. Best to embrace it, as you are English, as well.”

“I’m a Scot,” he said, choosing to ignore that he was half-English. He had lived in Scotland all his life, and that was what he considered himself. “Did Pierce mention where he was going?”

“No, Your Grace. Do you wish to break your fast now?”

“Nay,” Asher said, distracted once more, but this time it was the task before him that was heavy on his mind. He’d allowed Guinevere to divert him from his sole purpose of attending the ball: to introduce himself to Lady Constantine and ferret out if she’d be amenable to a marriage of convenience. Guinevere disrupting his life ended now. There was nothing between them except his lust for her, which he would keep a tight rein on from this moment forward. Whatever game she and Kilgore both still seemed to be playing was not his concern.

“I’m going for a ride and then a call,” he said, brushing past Cushman and the footman and opening the door himself, which he heard his valet muttering about the impropriety of at his back.

Once outside, he breathed in the fresh air, attempting to order his thoughts. His focus needed to be on securing Lady Constantine and his inheritance, and nothing—or no one—more.

“My heavens!” Lady Constantine’s mother, the Countess of Longford, exclaimed as Asher was announced and then shown into the drawing room. The woman patted at her half-pinned hair with one hand while scrambling to stand and set the small dog she had been