Her father stepped toward her and took her by the shoulders. “You must make a choice, Guinevere. Carrington has said that he will consider the informal betrothal brokenby youunless you contact him to return to make it formal. He will wait until tomorrow night.”
Asher no doubt was waiting in hopes that she would be the one to break the informal betrothal. Tears pricked her eyes.
Her father studied her for a moment, then said, “If you do not wish to wed him, if your affections are engaged by Kilgore, we will not force you.”
“What?” Mama cried out.
“No,” Guinevere whispered, her heart squeezing at her father’s kindness. “I would not only ruin myself but Frederica and Vivian, too. I cannot allow that.”
“What of Kilgore?” her father asked.
“It’s very complicated,” she whispered, burying her face in her hands. “He—” The tears started trickling down her face. “His affections belong to someone else.” She could not explain it all, for she did not really understand all the intricacies of why Kilgore had pursued her. He had used her, to be certain, but he had done it for love—of that much Guinevere was certain, so she would forgive his transgressions.
“Hmph,” her mother said. “He has a most odd way of showing such a thing.”
“There is only the one offer,” Guinevere clarified, her heart aching so bad that she wanted to wail.
Her father hooked a finger under her chin and lifted it until she was looking at him. “I do not think your future is as dire as you think.”
“Oh, Papa! If you only knew!”
“Do you wish to tell me?” he asked.
The prospect was most mortifying. How did one tell their father they were but a game to a man? “No,” she replied, dashing at her cheeks. “It’s rather embarrassing,” she relented, sniffing.
He nodded. “Well, the duke will come to see he has gained a prize in you.”
Guinevere smiled faintly rather than tell her father she did not agree. “Do you wish me to go now and see if he’s still here?”
“No,” her father said quite quickly and soundly. “He can wait after what he did to you those years ago.”
“Papa!” Guinevere gasped.
He smiled gently. “Write the note requesting he come, and I will send it tomorrow. It is best for you to show him right away that you will not tolerate being ordered about.”
Guinevere felt her eyes go wide at her father’s protective showing, and they opened even wider when he glanced fondly at her mother and Mama beamed back. She came to stand by him, and in a rare show of affection, she took his hand and looked at Guinevere. “Listen to your father, dear. He knows best in this one matter.”
“I’m surprised to see you here.”
Asher looked up from the full glass of liquor that he’d been staring down into. Beckford stood before him dressed as usual in head-to-toe black. Candlelight flickered across his friend’s face.
It was dark in this particular corner of the Orcus Society, which was why Asher had chosen it. He was in a dark mood, and it seemed fitting. He had waited the previous night, all day that day, and most of the night for Guinevere to send word; she had not. He wanted to give up on her. He longed for it. And the inability to do so until the night was over, until he had his answer, was driving him near mad. So he’d come here thinking to wait until midnight. Until it was official. And then he had intended to rid himself of the green-eyed siren who had haunted him since the day he had met her. He’d intended to take another woman to bed. It was past time.
Hell, it had been past time four and a half years ago when Elizabeth had died. He’d been near celibate wed to her, having only slept with her the night they married. Discovering how vitriolic someone really was did not elicit desire, though after she’d died, he’d realized it wasn’t just Elizabeth that had been the problem. It was Guinevere.
It had seemed a damn fine plan at home a few hours ago after he’d had two drinks. He’d ordered Cushman to pack his bags so he could depart first thing on the morrow.
Asher looked around the club. He’d chosen this corner so he could take his time deciding with whom to end his celibacy if no word came from Guinevere, but no woman seemed quite right. They were too tall or too short. Hair too dark or too light. Their laughter too robust or too quiet. It was damned irritating.
“Did you hear me?” Beckford asked, pulling out the chair at the small table where Asher sat.
“Why should ye be surprised to see me here? I’m an investor in yer club, am I not?”
“You are, which is why you have a golden key and can let yourself in anytime you wish. That, and I count you as a friend.”
“As I do ye,” Asher replied, meaning it. They’d met five years ago by chance when Asher had first come to London after discovering his father was alive. He’d been so full of anger, so unsure how to proceed with his father, brother, and theton, and he’d gone to Covent Garden looking for a fight. He’d found one in a dark room where wagers were exchanged and quid passed. After he had watched Beckford knock several men out cold with little effort, Asher had challenged the man.
They had bloodied each other good, then nursed their wounds over ale and eventually exchanged bits of their lives—stories that they had later retold in greater detail. Beckford grew up on the streets, an orphan left to survive by his wits and fists, and survive he had. He’d been a whispered name of someone to be reckoned with in Covent Garden five years ago, among those who lived and worked in the dark underbelly of London. He was a scrapper and then a prized fighter who became a champion, who had a vision to open exclusive clubs, dens of enticing hedonism, to lure the toffs to the dark streets of Covent Garden to give him—and others like him whom he employed—their money.
