“This is beyond bearing!” her mother exclaimed, fanning herself and collapsing into the chair behind her. She glanced up at Asher. “You must not talk of your distilleries amongst theton.”
“Mama, he shall if he wishes,” Guinevere said, irritated with her mother.
“But if he does so, people will only gossip more! Dukes do not work, let alone own a distillery that produces whisky.”
“I ownfourdistilleries,” Asher corrected, to which Guinevere’s mother groaned.
“Mama, have you forgotten that Carrington is half-Scot?” Guinevere bit out.
“I—”
“Never mind,” Guinevere rushed, realizing she had given her mother the opportunity to offend Asher again.
“Surely, you will sell this business now that you have properly assumed your role as duke?” her mother asked, her voice managing to sound both hopeful and disdainful at once.
“I surely will not,” Asher replied pleasantly. “It’s taken me seven grueling years to build this business.”
Guinevere bit her lip. She knew nothing of how hard it must have been for him, but she wanted to know everything. Every small detail. Every triumph. Every failure. “I’d love to go to Scotland and visit one of your distilleries,” she told him, wanting to convey to him that she was proud of him and thought it wonderful that he’d made a successful business.
His gaze came to her soft as a caress and stirred blazing heat within her. “I intend to take ye. I have, in fact, this day bestowed upon ye one of my distilleries as part of our marriage contract.”
“What?” Guinevere asked, astonished.
“Can you do that?” her mother cried out, clearly dismayed.
“He can, and he has,” her father answered. “We worked through the marriage contracts this morning. Guinevere, upon wedding Carrington, you will be the one who inherits his largest distillery, Lochmond, if he should die, so for all intents and purposes, you are the owner.”
“That’s a lovely name for a business!” Guinevere exclaimed.
“Bite your tongue, child,” her mother said.
Guinevere happily ignored her as she stared at Asher. “Where is Lochmond located?”
He grinned. “On the River Clyde, just outside of Glasgow.”
“Papa,” Guinevere asked, “have you ever tasted the whisky from one of Carrington’s distilleries?”
“Please,” her mother moaned, “let us not talk of whisky anymore. Let us forget the distilleries and concentrate on more acceptable pastimes. Carrington, do you hunt?” her mother asked, her voice high and hopeful while distraught.
“Guinevere, to your question,” her father said, ignoring her mother’s plea, “I was actually introduced to whisky by Carrington’s father.”
“What?” Asher slanted a disbelieving look at her father.
Papa nodded. “Yes. He paid me a visit a few months before he died, talked of your distilleries, and brought me some whisky as a gift.”
Asher frowned. “I’m surprised my father would share such information with ye. He kept to himself, as far as I knew.”
“He did,” Guinevere’s father agreed, “but at one time, your father and I were good friends—back in our university days.”
Asher frowned. “And he just showed up here one day uninvited? Without provocation?”
“We had business to discuss,” her father said rather evasively.
Asher apparently thought so, as well, because his gaze narrowed. “What sort of business?” Asher prodded.
If her father’s eyes had been windows, then someone had just slammed them shut. He got a shuddered look. “Personal business,” he replied, looking between Asher and Guinevere. “I will say this, though: your father could be a most insightful man when he turned his focus on something. He had the mind of a true tactician. It was, in fact, what drew us together in the first place.”
Asher nodded, and Guinevere could practically see his thoughts turning in his head. She wanted a moment alone with him before he left, and as if he read her thoughts—or more likely he noted the way she was staring with longing—he looked to her father. “Might yer daughter and I have a moment alone before I leave?”
