Lady Guinevere and the Rogue with a Brogue - Julie Johnstone Page 0,40

words spouted by a man in danger of falling again.

“That’s what I think, as well, Your Grace. It is my fondest hope, as her dearest friend, that she makes a match this Season with a man who will appreciate all the things about her that make her unique.”

“Ye are a good friend to have such hopes for her.” He searched Lady Lilias’s face for a sign of what she was after from him.

“What do you think of Kilgore?” she asked, darting her gaze past Asher for a moment. He did not have to look to know she had glanced at Guinevere and Kilgore.

“I do not believe he can be reformed,” Asher said, recalling her words from the other side of the door last week. It seemed to be another indicator that Guinevere wanted to reform Kilgore, but maybe he had misinterpreted it as Lady Constantine had suggested.

Lady Lilias’s eyes widened. “I see. Do you like the pianoforte, Your Grace?”

“Nay.”

“What of embroidery?”

She shot the question at him like an expert marksman. He studied her with newfound respect. The woman was slight in stature but full of confidence. He could only imagine the trouble in which she and Guinevere must embroil themselves.

“What is your position on women who don’t embroider?” she asked.

“I would say they are smarter than most. Seems a devil of a boring way to spend one’s time.” He winced, realizing she might well embroider. “Ye do not happen to embroider, do ye?”

She grinned. “I do actually. It calms me.”

“I beg yer pardon,” he replied, his impatience with the conversation rising. He didn’t see how this was a mission to uncover information for Guinevere.

“Do you know Guinevere does not embroider? She finds it tedious.”

“Is that so?” Women were so damned confusing. What were Lady Lilias’s intentions here?

She nodded. “It is. She also detests the pianoforte. She’s a horrid player, to the bane of her mother.”

“Her mother has always been a fool,” he replied, not meaning to have spoken so carelessly, but he could not retract the statement now. It would call more attention to it.

Lady Lilias blinked with feigned innocence. “I will defer to your opinion, Your Grace, as a man.”

He nodded at that, though he wanted to laugh. They were playing a game now, and it was one that the ton lived their lives by. Never say plainly what one thinks. It was utter shite, but he was here to play by the rules until he got what he wanted, and the rules demanded a dance around the truth instead of plain, practical speech.

“I have heard it said that most men require their wives to be accomplished in pianoforte and embroidery. Tell me—” she tilted her head “—do you think that’s true?”

“I think most men in yer set are dull wits, so it could well be true.”

The lady smirked. “Your Grace, I beg pardon, but are you not now in my set?”

He chuckled at that but grew serious as the supper bell rang and he noted how Kilgore held his elbow out for Guinevere. Jealousy ripped through him. He had no use for the emotion when it came to Guinevere unless she became his wife. Even if he was only wedding her to save his company, he damn well would expect loyalty. “I cannot speak for a set of which I have only just recently claimed to be a part.”

“Then speak for yourself.” Lady Lilias’s voice was a near whisper but underlaid with a distinct sense of urgency. People were starting to move around them toward the door.

He proffered his elbow to lead her into the dining room and allow them a moment to finish the conversation. “As for myself,” he said, keeping his own voice equally low, “I will require honesty and fidelity.”

“Well, of course,” she said, blushing. “Those should naturally be given when two people wed.”

His thoughts rarely went to Elizabeth’s revelation to him soon after they wed that she was enceinte, but they went there in this moment. How many times since she and the babe had died had he counted the weeks and come to the same conclusion that the child could not have been his? He would never know, but he suspected he had been good and trapped by Elizabeth.

“What should be and what is, ye might one day find—though I hope ye do not—are sometimes two different things.”

Mercifully, before she could remark on what he might have revealed, they had to separate to take their places at the table. He somehow found himself