She thought she saw him relax a bit, though she could have been imagining it.
“What of the skit?” he asked. “Are you willing to portray it with me?”
The tension in his voice cut through her own worries for a moment, and she studied him. There was a tic at the right side of his jaw. His left hand was relaxed, but his right was clenched. Understanding gripped her. “This has never been about you trying to seduce or wed me. It isn’t even really about me.”
He simply stared at her silently.
“You are trying to protect the woman you love,” she said, prodding.
“You have read too many of those Gothic novels,” he replied, his tone affecting boredom. “I love no one but myself. You have escaped wedding a monster.”
She was right. She knew she was, but he would never admit it. “I’ll play my part for the skit, but afterward, no more attention. I have my sisters to think of, though I wish you and your cold heart future warmth.”
He grabbed her hand then, surprising her, and an earnest look came over his face. “If you should decide you need my sooty self to offer for you, I will. You have my friendship, though I understand it likely does not seem of great value, from this moment forward.”
She squeezed his hand, noticing then that it was scarred. Kilgore was a man of many secrets, but one she thought he had just unwittingly revealed was that he did not think much of himself. “I will gladly take your friendship. Now come, let us make everyone believe we are bound to be lovers.”
Chapter Twelve
Asher stared slack-jawed as Kilgore portrayed a seducer and Guinevere portrayed a woman on the brink of succumbing to the seduction. Fury burned within him, and an invisible hand pressed against his chest. It might as well have been Guinevere’s hands pressing down, crushing him, crushing hope. Lost hope in someone wasn’t new to him, but being intimately familiar with the emotion did not lessen how deep it could cut. His chest was on fire.
Damn Kilgore for choosing this scene.
He was quite obviously trying to seduce Guinevere, and she appeared to welcome it. Asher had thought their heated encounters indicated that Guinevere wanted him, but seeing her now, he suspected he had not been in danger of Guinevere making him a clot-heid once more because she’d already done it. She’d managed to shred his pride twice in his lifetime.
The need for self-preservation flared hot and bright. Growing up without a father had instilled that need deep within him, and it made him feel almost feral now. He no longer wanted an end to this or answers from Guinevere. He simply wanted distance. Still, he couldn’t leave yet. He would warn the little fool that she was swimming in dangerous waters with Kilgore. Even after all that had occurred, he didn’t have it in him to simply let her drown.
Around him, people whispered furiously around the parlor, speculating, no doubt, on the relationship between Kilgore and Guinevere. To his right, Guinevere’s mother kept gasping and looking as if she was going to faint. Finally, the play ended. Shattering silence descended for a moment. No one clapped. It was as if he were watching Guinevere’s downfall in slow motion. He could not allow it. He wished he could be that cold, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t let her be destroyed that way. He stood, and at the same moment, Lady Constantine stood, as well, from her place directly across the room from him. They exchanged a look that no one but the two of them would understand. It was shared between two scorned fools, and they began to clap.
The rest of the guests joined in slowly until the clapping was deafening. When it started to die down, Asher cried out, “Brava!” to ensure those around him would believe they had just witnessed an amazing performance rather than the possibility of barely veiled truth.
As the guests in his row began to disperse, Pierce leaned toward Asher. “I’m sorry, Brother,” Pierce said. “What will you do now?”
That was a fine question and one to which Asher did not yet have the answer. He would figure something out to save his company, though. He had to.
“I’ll leave after the foxhunt,” Asher said. He would give Guinevere the warning about Kilgore and then depart. He couldn’t stand to stay and see whether she succumbed to Kilgore or not.
Not long later, after dodging her mother, sister, and Lilias, Guinevere found herself upon a horse and chasing a fox as if her life depended on it. The judgmental faces of the other guests, the hurt look on Lady Constantine’s face, Asher’s dispassionate expression, the shocked faces of Lilias and Vivian, and Mama’s appalled look drove Guinevere to urge her horse faster and faster and deeper into the woods that surrounded Farthingate Manor. What had she done? What had she been thinking? Could she even make it right for her sisters?
Her horse’s hooves pounded against the hard dirt of the forest floor, jarring her each time they made contact. Her very thoughts felt as if they were rattling around in her head. She was aware she was riding recklessly, but she did not care. She started to feel numb, and she welcomed the feeling. She led her horse charging through a stream, the water splashing up and over her skirts as she went, and then she drove the beast up a steep incline before sending it plunging down the opposite bank through thick limbs and over fallen branches. Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision. She didn’t see the low-hanging branch until it was too late. She ducked, managing to avoid being hit in the forehead by it, but one of the limbs snagged the top of her hair, yanking her backward.
She cried out, flailing her arms as she lost her balance. She was thrust forward once more, and then a strong hand settled against her back and steadied her. As her mind cleared, she registered Asher atop his own panting horse alongside her. He snatched her reins from her hands and pulled her horse to a stop.
Glowering at her, he said, “What the hell are ye doing?” His broad shoulders heaved with his breath. “Trying to get yerself killed?”
“Of course not,” she snapped, the shock of him, of her intense attraction to him, running through her body.
“Then why are ye riding yer horse like ye are hell-bent on dying?”
Everything Kilgore had told her burned in her mind. She wouldn’t shout it at Asher as she wanted to. She would never give him the satisfaction of seeing how hurt she was. “It is none of your concern why I do what I do, Your Grace. I am not your concern.”
“Ye are correct,” he replied, the words sharp and brittle as he ground them out between his teeth. “Ye are not my concern, and sitting here now, I don’t know why I’ve bothered. Ye have clearly chosen yer path. Goodbye, Guin,” he said, turning his horse to depart.
Her heart plummeted and her mind cried out, making her cringe from her own weakness to want a man. She pressed her lips together, feeling as if she were dying as he turned his horse from her, but then he cursed and stilled. Her heart thumped wildly, waiting to see what he was doing.
After a long moment, he turned his horse back around and led it to where they were side by side, facing each other. “Ye damn well deserve what ye get, but damn it if I can allow myself in good conscience not to warn ye.”
His nearness, the heat of him, the overwhelming smell of him—grass, whisky, and smoke from a fire—made it almost impossible to form a coherent response. “Warn me?” she finally managed, trying to swallow the lump in her throat.
