Guinevere’s husky laughter brought his gaze to her once more. God, she looked ravishing in red. Like a ripe berry waiting to be plucked or a shiny red apple begging to be bitten. God save him. He hated her and lusted for her at the same time.
What were they talking about? He found himself staring. He should look away. Damn the loud chattering people around him.
“Who is your next set with?” Kilgore asked Guinevere.
Guinevere looked startled, as if her bluff had been called. He studied her as a lovely blush creeped slowly up the creamy expanse of her décolletage and continued on to wash a tempting rosy color over the long, graceful column of her neck and across her achingly beautiful face.
Her obvious agitation should be perfect, but it wasn’t. Why the devil didn’t he feel more pleasant about her misery? Her gaze darted around the room, as if searching for something or someone. Who she was supposed to dance with? Or had she lied? Was she attempting to avoid dancing a set with Kilgore? Maybe Asher had judged the situation incorrectly. Maybe Kilgore had hurt Guinevere, and though she’d once done her own share of damage to Asher, he didn’t like seeing her upset, as much as he’d thought he might.
“‘Wherefore art thou, Romeo?’” she blurted in the most charming way only she had ever been able to achieve when agitated. Her green eyes popped wide, and her delicate hand slapped rather unladylike over her pouty pucker. Did she still taste like fresh strawberries and cream? His body tightened at the memory.
Guinevere Darlington was a liar. She had not promised the next dance to anyone. That much was clear to any man who wasn’t blind. He should let her drown like the conniving cat she was and simply remind himself she was the cause of her situation. He should, but he wouldn’t.
“Ye called?” he found himself saying as if some lunatic had taken over his body. He was stepping toward her and taking her hand like a foolish valiant rescuer before he could think better of it. So much for searching out Lady Constantine. She would have to wait until the dance was over.
Guinevere’s mouth parted, and a fascinating display of shock, wariness, and begrudging acquiescence played across her face before it became a mask of sublime indifference. If it weren’t for her fingers so stiff in his or their previous encounter by the tree—he was still shocked about that—he might believe he didn’t affect her. But her chest rose enticingly with each subtle breath, and her eyes darted to Lady Lilias, who by her slack expression, was not as practiced at hiding her emotions as Guinevere was.
She let out a small sigh. Her jade eyes met his. Resignation flashed, but it was gone with a blink of her long, dark lashes. A brittle smile came to her lovely lips. “I had utterly forgotten you.” Her cool tone cut the silence that had descended on their small group. She pressed her lips together but failed to completely hide the fact that she was smirking.
That’s how it was going to be, was it? They were to cut each other with their rapier wit.
He offered his best disengaged smile. “And I ye, until ye called me.”
“Called you?” she nearly exclaimed, seeming to lose a bit of her composure. She gave him a look that could have withered a hillside of newly sprung bluebells.
“Guinevere,” Lady Lilias said, her tone pinched, “I do believe your mother is coming this way.”
Guinevere’s gaze flew behind him, widened considerably, and her fingers went from stiff in his hand to gripping him tightly. When she focused on him once more, she gave him a pleading look. “Oh, yes, Your Grace, I beg your pardon. I thought you might have forgotten our conversation about ill-fated lovers, but I’m pleased to find you remember it. Shall we continue it during our dance?”
He should let the little hellion flounder here to deal with her mother, who was marching toward them still, but he found he could not be that cruel, even to Guinevere. “By all means,” he replied and slipped her arm into his to lead her in the opposite direction of her mother and to the dance floor.
It wasn’t until they reached the dance floor that he realized they were to dance the waltz, which he’d heard had become more accepted by Society, not that he’d ever given a damn about what the toffs of thetonthought. She must have realized it, as well, because she backed up a step as if to run from him. He increased his hold on her fingertips while bringing his right hand to her waist. It seemed like a lifetime since he’d first rested his hand on the gentle curve of her body, but when his hand molded her shape, it felt as right, as meant to be, as it had the very first time he had touched her. Except now he was the wiser to who she really was.
She hesitated but a moment, her gaze focused on his chest in seeming indecision, and then her hand came to his shoulder and her eyes drew to his. God, she was stunning. She had been beautiful five years ago, like a new bud, but now she was in full bloom, her appearance causing a physical reaction in him he had to struggle to control.
Damnation, he’d not thought it would be this way. He’d thought he’d be apathetic with her when he saw her again.
“Ye’ve changed, lass,” he said.
She arched her eyebrows as they began the steps of the waltz. “Did you think to find me the same,Your Grace?”
His jaw tensed at her persistence in calling him by his newly acquired title. “Asher,” he reminded her.
Her lips pressed together in a hard line. “It’s hardly proper for me to call you by your given name, Your Grace.”
“Ye used to care little for propriety.”
She frowned as he started to twirl her around. “It’s not well-done of you to point out my past peccadilloes. Shall I categorize all of yours whilst we dance?”
He bit back the desire to grin. “That would likely require a second set.” He was careful to keep his tone neutral, though the discovery that Guinevere still had a penchant for blunt talk made him want to chuckle. Was that why she had not wed? Had she been relegated to spinster already? He couldn’t imagine it to be so, especially given Kilgore’s obvious continued interest in her.
She offered a genuine smile that made her eyes sparkle, and his chest tightened. He had to be careful with her. His body did not seem to give a damn what his mind knew.
“I think you underestimate your sooty reputation, Your Grace,” she said with blatant cheekiness. “I believe listing all your peccadilloes would require at least three sets.”
He was caught by an onslaught of heady sensations. “Scandalous,” he managed. “Ye smell of lilies,” he said, watching her face. “I believe I once told ye it was my favorite scent in the world.”
“Nonsense.” She leaned into him as he turned her once more. “I smell of roses. I’m certain I’ve never owned a lily scent in my life. I detest that smell.”
