Lady Guinevere and the Rogue with a Brogue - Julie Johnstone Page 0,77

needed to take control, he could. He simply, for the most part, did not feel the need. For a long time, Guinevere had mistakenly thought that her mother was the stronger force of the two and bent Father to her will. But Papa allowed Mama to do so, which made him the stronger personality.

“Was there anything in particular wrong with these other men, do you think?” Asher asked her mother, a smile tugging at his lips. It warmed Guinevere’s heart that he was kind enough to indulge her mother, but she truly did not want to stand about, allowing Mama to hash her past over in front of Asher. Lord only knew what—

“Well, they were not Kilgore, I suppose,” Mama said with a titter.

Guinevere heard herself gasp. “Mama!”

Asher’s gaze went hard for a breath and then perfectly emotionless. She wasn’t sure which look concerned her more.

Her mother had the good sense to look regretful, and then she said, “I was, of course, simply goading you, Your Grace. It was not well-done of me.”

“I’d say it was perfectly done of ye.” Asher’s tone was easy but his posture stiff.

Knots formed in Guinevere’s stomach. He was vexed. Of course, he was! She was partly to blame. She had made it seem, at several turns, that she and Kilgore had a tendre for each other, and Asher had admitted it was Kilgore’s stolen kiss that had started the terrible chain of events that had become their lives. And Kilgore’s behavior had not helped matters.

“I will leave ye ladies to planning the events for the wedding day,” Asher said.

Guinevere’s stomach dropped. “You are not going, are you?”

His gaze came to hers, a little warmer yet still guarded and slightly troubled. “I’m afraid I must. I received word this morning of a fire at one of my distilleries. I need to travel to Scotland to check on the damage, discover what started it, and ensure my employees are all well. I’ll be gone for the week.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice. He had enough to be concerned with without adding her to it. Instead, she focused on the business that she knew so little about. “I’d love to learn more about your business.”

Asher slanted her a pleased look tinged with pride. “It’s the largest distillery enterprise in Scotland.”

Guinevere had not heard that in the whispers of the ton. The gossip had been more focused on the scandalous idea that the heir to a dukedom was working like a commoner. She grinned at the news that Asher had become so successful in his own right.

“Oh my heaven!” her mother exclaimed, pressing a dramatic hand to her bosom. “Must we stand here and talk about the fact that you work and own distilleries that produce illegal whisky?”

Guinevere winced as Asher’s lips pressed together in obvious annoyance. “I assure ye, my distilleries are legal. Ye have no need to vex yerself. I am, in fact, one of the suppliers for the legally consumed whisky ye find here in England.”

“I’m certain,” her mother said haughtily, “I would not look for such a thing. I know not a soul who drinks whisky. It is not the done thing. Men of the ton drink brandy, port, and other, finer liquors.”

“Mama!” Guinevere scolded, embarrassed and angry.

“Georgette, I drink whisky,” her father announced to Guinevere’s shock. She looked sharply at her mother, who appeared to be close to swooning.

“You certainly do not,” her mother said faintly. “I would know such a thing.”

“I do,” her father replied, his tone unbending. “And you would only know ‘such a thing’ if I told you, which I am now doing.”

“This is beyond bearing!” her mother exclaimed, fanning herself and collapsing into the chair behind her. She glanced up at Asher. “You must not talk of your distilleries amongst the ton.”

“Mama, he shall if he wishes,” Guinevere said, irritated with her mother.

“But if he does so, people will only gossip more! Dukes do not work, let alone own a distillery that produces whisky.”

“I own four distilleries,” Asher corrected, to which Guinevere’s mother groaned.

“Mama, have you forgotten that Carrington is half-Scot?” Guinevere bit out.

“I—”

“Never mind,” Guinevere rushed, realizing she had given her mother the opportunity to offend Asher again.

“Surely, you will sell this business now that you have properly assumed your role as duke?” her mother asked, her voice managing to sound both hopeful and disdainful at once.

“I surely will not,” Asher replied pleasantly. “It’s taken me seven grueling years to