Lady Guinevere and the Rogue with a Brogue - Julie Johnstone Page 0,84

flower into Vivian’s comforting embrace as she stared at her other sister’s back and thought of Asher. He vexed her. He put her at sixes and sevens and made her the sort of woman she strove to save from themselves—all emotion and no logical thinking.

She tried to focus on the latter. Logically, her mind told her, Asher would not jilt her. He would not ask her to wed him only to jilt her. It would not be logical. Except she would not be the first woman to whom such a thing occurred. Her mind also reminded her that Asher had memorized Shakespeare because of her. Didn’t that mean something important?

If it’s true.

The thought was there before she could stop it. Why was she doubting Asher and what he’d told her now?

Because today is your wedding day, and he’s not yet here. Because five years ago, he kissed Elizabeth and wed her.

“Guinnie!” Frederica exclaimed, turning toward Guinevere from the window. A grin lit up her sister’s pretty face. “He’s here! Carrington has just arrived!”

Guinevere was through her bedchamber door and halfway down the steps to the first floor before her sisters caught up with her. As they reached the landing, Asher was stepping inside, and Guinevere came to a shuddering halt at the muddy, disheveled sight of him.

“I’m so glad something happened to you!” she blurted.

He glanced toward her with obvious surprise as the butler took his overcoat. He stepped toward her and grasped her hands in his warm ones. Looking down at her with a creased brow, he said, “That’s not exactly the greeting I was expecting.”

She let out a shaky laugh, her emotions roiling inside her. “I was worried when you did not return yesterday as you said you would,” she admitted in a near whisper, spotting her mother and father walking toward them.

Asher gave her a smile that, to her, seemed loving and her stomach fluttered.

“I’m glad to know ye care,” he said with a wink that made her heart skip several beats.

Before Guinevere could respond, Mama was upon them, exclaiming over Asher’s muddy state and how he could not possibly expect Guinevere to wed him like that. It was on the tip of Guinevere’s tongue to protest, but Asher beat her to it.

“I am sorry, Lady Fairfax, for my appearance. The wheel of my carriage broke in a storm, and I had to untether my horse in the mud. But if Guinevere does not mind, I’d like to proceed now with the wedding, and—”

“I don’t mind,” Guinevere interrupted.

Her mother gasped, and Guinevere understood suddenly that this was the role her mother had chosen to play—a woman at sixes and sevens most the time. Now that Guinevere understood, she could not stop the smile of understanding, and she saw her mother’s lips curl ever so slightly before she scowled and said, “But—”

“I simply cannot wait another minute to wed yer daughter,” Asher interrupted. “So I beg ye to allow me, in this disheveled state, to have the honor of making Guinevere my wife.”

Guinevere felt such a rush of gratitude and love toward him that it stole her breath. With those few words, he had obliterated all the doubt she had been feeling.

“The vicar is waiting, my dear,” her father added.

Her mother threw up her hands with a dramatic sigh. “I suppose all that matters in the end is that the two of you wed today.”

Guinevere stepped toward her mother and threw her arms around her. “I love you, Mama.”

“I love you, too.”

Not long later, Guinevere stood by Asher’s side in the drawing room in front of the vicar, surrounded by her parents, her sisters, and Lilias. She leaned toward Asher, her cheek brushing his broad shoulder, and her belly clenched.

She was going to be his wife. Her. Awkward Guinevere. Who chattered on about things ladies ought not discuss. Who could not, until recently, even dance passably. She didn’t knit. She detested small talk. She ran a secret society.

Good heavens! Would he be vexed to learn of SLAR? Would he want her to quit the society? She could not imagine giving it up.

She slid a glance at him and found him staring at her, unbridled longing in his eyes. He took her hand in his strong, warm one and gave her a gentle squeeze before saying, “Lass, it will be perfect. Ye are perfect.”

Those two sentences took away her worry. Asher thought her perfect, and she’d not tell him otherwise. As the vicar finished his preparations for the ceremony,