Lady Guinevere and the Rogue with a Brogue - Julie Johnstone Page 0,76

to learn to choose his words with more care, especially where Guinevere was involved.

“Kilgore’s complicated,” she muttered.

Sodding bastard. Why was Kilgore in her dreams?

He inhaled deeply, her flowery scent surrounding him, her body pressed warmly against his. He would not be jealous. She had chosen him, had given herself to him, was wedding him. She had explained what had happened on the terrace that night years before and tonight, and that was where he wanted to leave his doubts about her and Kilgore—in the past. He had a bone-deep certainty that those doubts would destroy them if he didn’t bury them.

“I forbid it!” Guinevere’s mother shrieked in the early evening of the next day.

Guinevere stood beside Asher, who had just come to call, in the parlor. He looked especially fine this evening in dark breeches, top-boots, and a dark coat cut to fit his broad chest to perfection. So much so that she had trouble pulling her gaze away from her soon-to-be husband. She ran a smoothing hand down her green silk skirts, anticipation for their wedding rising within her. Ever since Asher had woken her that morning with a kiss and a promise to return this afternoon to tell her parents their plan, the only thing she had been able to think about was what had occurred between them the night before and all that had been revealed.

“You cannot wed in a week!” her mother cried.

Guinevere loved how unperturbed Asher looked by her mother, and she especially loved when he said, “I assure ye, Lady Fairfax, we can. I arranged it this morning with the Archbishop—”

“But we did not consent,” her mother groaned.

“I did,” Guinevere’s father said, speaking up.

Mama gasped. “What!? Fairfax, how could you?”

“Simple, my dear,” he replied with a surprising air of nonchalance. “Carrington called on me very early this morning.”

Her father’s gaze landed on Guinevere, and she squirmed, feeling utterly certain he somehow knew about last night. But that was impossible. Asher had successfully slipped away unnoticed. He must have returned while she was still abed to call on her father.

Her father smiled gently at her, and she exhaled as he focused on her mother once more. “He made a case for a special license, and I saw no reason not to consent.”

“But it will make the scandal worse!” Mama cried. “What will people think?”

Guinevere winced. She knew exactly what her mother meant. People would think that she was enceinte, and the fact that she well could be made a blush heat her cheeks.

“They will think,” Asher said, surprising her when he spoke, “that I am besotted by yer daughter and do not wish to be parted from her any longer than necessary.”

Guinevere glanced at Asher, and their gazes collided. So much happiness filled her that she almost did not trust it. She did not think she would truly feel they were going to get the future she had longed dreamed of until they were actually wed.

“Oh. Well… Oh,” Mama said, at a rare loss for words. But then her face brightened and she nodded, giving Guinevere a scarce seen look of approval. “Well, of course you are besotted with our daughter! She is lovely! She has had many offers of marriage, so you can be assured that you have won a prize.”

It was all Guinevere could do to hold in her groan of embarrassment.

“I am honored she has agreed to wed me,” Asher assured her mother with just the right hint of smoothness to make her mother preen. “I am curious, though… How many offers of marriage did Lady Guinevere receive?”

“Four,” her mother supplied before Guinevere could steer the conversation in a different direction.

Exasperation touched her mother’s features for a moment, as it had each time Guinevere had turned down a marriage offer. Four offers, yes, but what her mother did not say, what she did not seem to care about, was they had been four offers from four men who had barely known her, nor had they cared to. They cared only that she had a sizeable dowry and was pleasant to look upon. None of those men had given her even a passing glance when she had first made her debut, when she had had yet to transform from girlhood awkwardness to womanhood.

Guinevere slanted her father a beseeching look to intervene, but he shrugged helplessly, which was an utter sham. Since yesterday, she had come to realize that her father was perfectly content to allow her mother to rule him, but if he