Chapter One
Kensington, England
1837
Never wear white to ruin a rogue.
It was a lesson Guinevere would not soon forget after tonight. Standing in her mud-soiled gown, she studied the ancient elm in front of her bedchamber window. Thick, sturdy branches reached to her balcony. She could make the jump. She’d done it before, though never in a ballgown. Anticipation and unease fluttered in her belly as she considered her choices once more.
Climb the tree to her bedchamber, or try to enter her home and make her way to her room without being seen?
Music suddenly drifted out from the ballroom. Another dance had started. Perhaps she could enter the house after all. A few steps backward offered a better view of the ballroom, the front entrance to her home, and the pleasure gardens, but her hope was snuffed out quicker than a cheroot under a Hessian.
Drat her mother. By the multitude of carriages lining the path to their home and the throngs of formally attired men and women spilling from the terrace and littering the moonlit gardens, it appeared that every last member of Society who had been invited to the ball had come. There was absolutely no chance she would make it into her house and to the privacy of her bedchamber unseen. As a member of the Society of Ladies Against Rogues, it would hardly do for her to be ruined when their whole mission was to prevent women from having their reputations and futures shredded to bits by heartless rogues. She knew a thing or two about that herself.
She smoothed agitated hands over the front of her white silk gown, stopping with a jerk when her fingertips grazed the still-wet mud that the rogue Lord Pratmore had splashed on her when she’d shoved him backward into that murky puddle. She didn’t regret the push. The man was a scoundrel and deserved to be in the muck where he belonged. She’d barely made it to the east garden in time to stop his ruining poor featherbrained Lady Fanny.
Guinevere glanced down at the large rip in the hem of her gown, proof of how recklessly she had run to intervene. If she had gotten wind of Lord Pratmore’s nefarious plan a few seconds later, Lady Fanny’s future could have been lost. Or she could have ended up being this Season’s on-dit. Having survived the latter once herself, Guinevere would not wish it on her worst enemy. A bitter smile turned up the corners of her lips. But she would wholeheartedly wish gossip and a nasty case of typhus or perhaps smallpox on Asher. Of course, he had not broken her heart and caused her enormous shame alone, but Elizabeth was now deceased, and it had to be the worst sort of sin to hold a grudge against the dead, even if she had proven to be no sort of true friend.
A light, cool, rose-scented breeze blew by Guinevere as she squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her fingertips to her throbbing temples. She hated that she’d been thinking about Asher and Elizabeth so much lately. Surely it was natural, given the news that Asher’s father had died, making Asher the new Duke of Carrington. She couldn’t seem to stop her mind from wondering how the past five years might have changed him. Was his brogue even more pronounced from his time back in Scotland where he’d grown up? Would he return to England now that his father was dead? She hoped he would not. In fact, she hoped he choked on his new title.
“Back ye go, ghosties,” she muttered under her breath in her best imitation of Asher.
Opening her eyes, she gave the tree one last assessment, then bent over to grasp her skirts. She struggled with the silk of her gown and its many underlayers, but once she had a firm grip, she tied the material in two large knots that would send her lady’s maid into fits. With the heaps of material settled on her thighs, she righted herself, the breeze now seeping through her thin stockings and making gooseflesh rise on her legs and arms.
If Mama happened upon her now, Guinevere would never hear the end of it. It had taken a full year after Asher had publicly humiliated her and wed Elizabeth for her mother to cease wailing every morning about Guinevere’s “doubtful future.”
No doubt her mother was currently snug inside Hawkford House’s ballroom with a glass of ratafia in one hand and a fan in the other as she gazed upon the eligible lords she hoped Guinevere might wed. After nearly five years of her mother’s unwavering and unwanted devotion to the task of getting Guinevere wed, she wished heartily that Mama would cease her efforts. It was a hopeless yearning. Her mother was not easily dissuaded. If only her father would be her champion against Mama’s demands, but Guinevere suspected her father found it easier to let Mama do as she wished than cause marital strife by disagreeing.
Guinevere moved toward the tree she intended to climb, eying it. It had been five years since she’d ascended its branches, but she held every confidence she could do so once again. After all, she was in top form—just as healthy at three and twenty as she had been back then.
The start of the climb was much more difficult than she had recalled. Bark scraped the tender skin of her palms, and perspiration gathered between her breasts and rolled down her back. At the nape of her neck, sweaty clumps of hair had loosened from the chignon Ballenger had fashioned for her. Guinevere paused to blow a strand away from eyes. Her lady’s maid would have apoplexy if she saw what a mess Guinevere had made of her hair. Thankfully, Guinevere had no intention of requesting Ballenger right Guinevere’s hair. Once she was done with this climb, and in the security of her bedchamber, she’d discard the evidence that she’d been up to less-than-ladylike behavior—her mud-splattered gown—and she’d seek out her younger sister Vivian. She was quite handy with hair.
Finding another foothold with a wiggle of her toes, she grunted and grasped above her toward an appropriately sturdy branch by which to pull herself up. Her fingers gripped the bark and—
Snap! She fell to the ground faster than gossip spread among the bored, vapid members of her set. The smack of her back against the earth snatched all the air from her lungs. And her head… Heaven above! It pounded so loudly her eardrums hurt. Her thoughts clunked together from the noise.
“Damn, damn, damn,” she cursed. She would never dare utter such a word aloud were she not alone, but now, satisfaction at using the forbidden expletive filled her.
A shadow suddenly blocked the stars above, and disbelief stilled her as she stared at the outline of what appeared to be a man.
A hundred horrible possibilities entered her mind in a whirlwind. The shadow moved, lowering in a swift descent, and the aroma of whisky washed over her. Men in London, men of the ton, did not imbibe whisky. In fact, she’d only ever known one man to do so. His taste and his scent would be imprinted on her mind until her dying day.
“It cannot be,” she said in a deplorable, shock-laden whisper that made her cringe.
“Hello to ye, too, Guinevere.”
The faint but memorably deep Scottish brogue punctured her thoughts at the same moment it pierced her heart, making the blasted organ squeeze.
“I see ye’re still scheming,” Asher said. Before she could reply to that unwarranted insult to her character, he continued. “What’s this? Speechless, are ye? I don’t remember there ever being a time ye were at a loss for words.”
Was that a compliment or a barb?
Drat her tongue. It was tied in a thousand knots of complete and utter shock.
“Take my hand, then, little muted bird.”
Her body seemed to relax and pull toward him like a magnet. It was as if neither time nor his betrayal had dulled her desire for him. No. She refused to allow the all too familiar reaction.