Guinevere cringed. Lilias was calling Asher odious as a loyal friend would, but her timing for a strong show of allegiance was most unfortunate.
All the lightheartedness disappeared from Asher’s face, and his gaze narrowed upon her. What did he expect, that he could publicly stomp on her heart five years ago and she would praise his nonexistent virtues?
“Perhaps he left, as well,” Lilias continued, unaware that the man in question was listening to her every word. Guinevere wanted to expire on the spot. “Oh, and I forgot to mention that Kilgore approached me and asked, none too subtlety, after your whereabouts. He seemed most concerned that you keep your promise to dance the last set with him.”
Asher’s stare turned positively brutal and unfriendly. She did not fool herself that if he was jealous, it was no more than him wanting her attention because she was giving it to Kilgore.
“Should you not depart and tell my mother I’ll be straight to the ballroom?” Guinevere asked weakly.
“Of course, of course,” Lilias replied, “but I think you should consider Kilgore if he is truly pursuing you this time.”
“Lilias!” Guinevere hissed, aghast.
“Fine, fine. I’ll go soothe your mother, but the subject of you and Kilgore is not finished. He may be a rogue, but I have always said—” Guinevere squeezed her eyes shut, praying Lilias would not finish the sentence “—reformed rogues make the best husbands.”
Guinevere opened her eyes with a sigh to find Asher staring at her as if she had leprosy. Lilias’s departing footsteps echoed against the hardwoods for one moment before uncomfortable silence descended. She didn’t know what to say, but it occurred to her that she did have a question.
“Did you follow me from the ballroom?” she asked Asher.
“Nay.” His tone was disdain personified. She was foolish for having even entertained the notion for one moment.
“I see.” She forced herself not to nervously clear her throat and tried to sound unaffected. “Well, thank you for your assistance.”
He arched a wry eyebrow. “With ridding ye of Charolton or making ye feel better?”
Heat suffused her cheeks. Blast the man. He knew which instance she’d been referring to. “With ridding me of Charolton. The other should never have occurred. I was… I was—”
“Swept away by desire for me,” he inserted, cryptic humor in his tone.
“You flatter yourself, Your Grace.”
“We’re back toYour Grace, are we?”
She had to unclench her teeth to respond. “We never left the particularly proper state we find ourselves in,” she boldly and ridiculously lied. If he was any sort of true gentleman, he’d simply go along with her and not point out how she’d contradicted herself.
“So ye kiss many men in secluded libraries, do ye? That’s what ye term aparticularly proper state?”
He was not a true gentleman. He was a Scot. A rogue.
“Oh do be quiet!” she snapped, pressing her fingertips to her throbbing temples. After what had just happened, she deserved an aching head. “What I do where is none of your concern.”
“I agree with that,” he said with a nod.
“Excellent. Then we can part ways.”
“Did ye follow Charolton or Lady Constantine to the library?” he demanded.
She frowned. “Didn’t we just agree that what I do is none of your concern?”
“We did,” he replied, “and I’m not concerned, merely curious.”
“You can stuff your curiosity.”
“That’s not very proper of ye,” he said with a smirk.
“And it’s not very gentlemanly of you to point it out to me.”
“I never claimed to be a gentleman,Lady Guinevere.”
