“Aye,” he growled, his leg brushing hers. The desire that flared in her at the simple touch dismayed her. “Kilgore will never come to heel for ye. Ye are a conquest, nothing more.”
Fury nearly blinded her. “You think because I am a game to you, that no one can want me? For your information,” she flung out, “Kilgore has already come to heel, Your Grace.” Her rancor sharpened her voice like a dagger.
His brows furrowed together. “What?”
It was sinful to enjoy this moment so much, but she knew—she positively knew—that the hurt would set in later. For now, though, she refused to hurt. She wanted to be the one to wound him, make him think that she could bring a man to his knees, even one such as Kilgore—even if it wasn’t true.
“Yes,” she said, trying to sound bored. “He was on the verge of offering this morning, but…but he was interrupted. So you need not waste your breath warning me.” She did not bother to tell him that she knew he’d been lying to her in the garden yesterday because he was playing a game with her once more. What was the point? “I suppose only you think I’m not desirable enough to offer for.”
“Damn it, Guin!” His voice lashed her and caused her to jerk. “He is lying to ye to get ye to lower yer guard and give him yer innocence! He wants to use ye, not wed ye.”
“You blackguard! Not every man is like you! Just you watch how I can tempt a man to—”
His mouth covered hers as his hands encircled her waist and yanked her off her horse and onto his. Outrage filled her even as yearning did. She shoved at his chest with one hand while threading her fingers into his thick hair to pull him closer with the other. She was all contradiction and roiling emotion. His tongue parted her mouth on a guttural groan, and she opened with a whimper, roiling in a sea of anger, need, hurt, and lost hope. Her blood rushed and roared through her veins like an awakened river as he locked an arm against her spine while sliding his other hand up between them, over her quivering stomach and around to the back of her head.
His lips left her mouth to burn a fiery path down the slope of her neck, and she threw her head back to give him better access while arching her body, her chest, into his. All she could think in the moment was how much she had loved him, how much hope she had once had, how he had given it to her, taken it away, then dangled it once more. She wanted him to desire her as unreasonably as she did him. His uneven breathing bathed her neck, then her chest, as his lips pressed warm kisses to the top of her exposed skin. Her breasts grew immediately heavy and tight, her belly knotted, and an ache grew deep within her at her center.
“Guin,” he moaned, his fingers rubbing over the material of her hard nub.
She sucked in a deep breath, shocked at the piercing ache it caused between her legs. His whole palm was there then, skimming and gently squeezing, fingers circling and teasing while his lips tantalized her from her neck to her mouth only to plunge his tongue back inside and join them as one again.
A throat cleared behind them, and the present crashed in, stilling them both.
Voices erupted from behind her. Heat singed her cheeks as she straightened, but it was hopeless. She was ruined. She had spent five years protecting women from such a fate, and she’d run to her own destruction with her eyes wide open, thanks to her blasted pride and heart. She shoved away from him, and he caught her by the wrist, giving her a subtle shake of his head.
“My ladies and lords,” he said, raising his voice above the rapidly increasing din. “I am pleased to announce that Lady Guinevere has agreed to become my wife.”
Her gaze collided with his as shock rendered her speechless.
“How could you?” Guinevere’s mother wailed the next day for what had to be the millionth time.
Her father, definitely the more reasonable of her parents, lowered his paper and gave Guinevere a sympathetic look before focusing his attention on his wife. “My dear,” he said, his tone the perfect combination of soothing and stern, “cease your fretting. No one will remember in a month how it came to pass that Guinevere was wed.”
“If she is wed,Fairfax!” Her mother shrilled her father’s name.
“He will come,” her father replied, sounding certain.
Guinevere wished she felt as sure, but the fact was that Asher had not come yet. She tried to tell herself he probably had not had time, but his home in London was close to hers, so he most definitely could have gone there and then called on them this morning or even this afternoon. It was heading toward evening now, well past the calling hour, so perhaps once he was alone, he had reconsidered.
Her father’s lips pressed together momentarily, the only indication he was losing his patience with the fit that had not ceased since Guinevere had to tell her mother—or rather Vivian had told her, as Guinevere had been in shock—of what had occurred in the forest. Guinevere raced once more through what had happened after they’d been discovered in the woods. Her mother had demanded Asher appear before her to assure her that he intended to call upon Guinevere’s father. Had he agreed? At this point, her worry was so great, as well as her ire, that she was not sure she was recalling everything correctly. She felt certain, or nearly certain, that he had agreed to come to see her father, but it had been insinuated, not stated, that he would formally ask for Guinevere’s hand. It was mortifying, given what she knew of how he truly felt about her.
She stared down at her lap as her parents proceeded to argue and tried to find something bright in the darkness. She supposed at least nothing could ever be as painful as what she had endured in the past day; Asher could never hurt her again. She would not allow it. She had cried every moment that she was alone, and she would not—she could not—cry any more. She no longer loved him. She would tell herself that every single day until her heart understood it. It was neither wise nor healthy to love someone with every fiber of one’s being if they did not return the emotion in similar strength.
“She will be ruined if he does not wed her!” her mother shrieked, pointing at her as if Guinevere’s father did not know whom she was talking about. “And then she will take your other daughters down with her into the pit of spinsterhood. What shall we do if it comes to pass?” Mama clutched her chest, leaned her head back against the settee, and slapped a wet cloth over her eyes. “Ruined!” she wailed and sniffed at the same time. “And the day is all but gone! It was perfectly and plainly insinuated that he should call to formally ask for her hand!”
Guinevere felt ill. She had not thought things could get worse than discovering what she had from Kilgore and then allowing herself to be carried away by lust and found in the woods with Asher. However, if he did not make a formal offer for her, things would become far worse because her mother would be correct. Guinevere squeezed her eyes shut on the thought that her actions may have set the course of her sisters’ lives. She may have taken prospects away from them that had not even been presented yet.
A scratch came at the parlor door, which blessedly sent Mama into momentary silence. Guinevere’s heart leaped with unreasonable relief that Asher had come, that he had not changed his mind.
“Enter,” her father called.
The door opened, and the butler appeared. “My lord,” he said, “the Marquess of Kilgore has come to call.”
Confusion blanketed her for a moment. Kilgore? Whyever would Kilgore be here?
“Send him in,” her father instructed before Guinevere’s mind could clear. If Kilgore was here, it had to have something to do with protecting Lady Constantine, but Guinevere honestly could not fathom how.
The butler shot her father a pained look. “Lord Kilgore insisted—”
