Guinevere shook her head. “Mama would blister my ears for days if I attempted such a thing, and Papa wouldn’t stop her.”
“But, Guinnie, Carrington is here. We saw him!”
“Lilias, do cease talking!” Guinevere snapped as the rope was thrown out the window to dangle down the side of her home.
“I take it by your terse tone you already knew?” Lilias asked.
“Verra astute of ye, Lady Lilias,” Asher said, stepping out of the shadows.
Guinevere moaned as a chorus of gasps came from above her.
“I’d normally love to stand and listen to the rest of this conversation, but someone is coming.” Asher delivered the dreadful news as casually as one would speak of the weather.
One glance to her right confirmed he had spoken the truth. For once.
“I cannot be caught alone with you,” she burst out. “My parents would force us to wed!”
“I’m sure neither of us wants that,” Asher agreed and fairly shoved her toward the rope.
Before she could obtain a good hold on it, he was hoisting her up. His strong hands gripped her hips, causing her heartbeat to soar. Just as her fingers found purchase, he released her and said, “Climb quickly. I’ll distract whoever is coming this way, and ye can reward my efforts later.”
“By what means?” she asked, her overactive imagination—the one only Asher had ever ignited—sparking like a well-tended fire.
“That, lass, remains to be seen.” And with those parting words, the man who’d once swept into her life and left her heartbroken disappeared yet again.
Chapter Two
“Where did you disappear to last night?”
His half brother’s question pulled Asher from his thoughts about Guinevere—tree climber, trouble finder, dangerous schemer.
His neck muscles tightened at the appearance of Pierce in his study, and Asher set his teacup down next to the mound of papers he’d been reading, which informed him of the new estates he’d inherited. Pierce plopped into one of two armchairs across from Asher and kicked his feet up onto the edge of Asher’s desk. The golden liquor in the crystal glass Pierce was holding sloshed over the edges as he settled himself.
“Still imbibing first thing in the morning?” Asher asked.
Wry amusement lit his brother’s face. “Since Father’s death, I can normally tolerate waiting until midday, but I’m making an exception this morning, given the solicitor will be here soon to read Father’s will. I feel certain I’ll want fortification against what I’m to learn.”
“Perhaps,” Asher agreed, studying Pierce for a moment. He looked like he’d just returned from all night at one of London’s clubs, which would not be unusual if his habits had not changed. His black hair was a disheveled mess, and bloodshot eyes stared back at Asher. Pierce’s shirt was untucked, and his cravat dangled untied down his chest. A woman’s lip paint stained Pierce’s neck and cheek, as well as the top edge of his cravat.
They hadn’t rubbed along well when Asher had been in London five years ago, for which Asher did not completely blame Pierce. Asher had been angry at his father and distrustful, and that wariness had tainted his willingness to bond with Pierce, so he’d not bothered trying. Then again, neither had Pierce, but that could have easily been because of how distant Asher had been. Now they had another chance and several unfortunate things in common that might draw them closer.
Neither of them had known about the other until they were grown. Hell, Asher hadn’t even known until he was two and twenty that his father was alive. Or English. Or a duke. He inhaled a long, slow breath as an image of his mother, frail and near death, floated in his mind. He’d been shocked when she’d confessed that he wasn’t a bastard. Wasn’t sired from a man long dead of the lung disease.
He’d even been furious for a moment. But she was dying. And she was his mother. And when she’d explained, there was only one choice—forgiveness. His father had, in fact, wed his mother long ago in secret after meeting her when he was in Oban with his father, Asher’s deceased grandfather. The man had discovered the marriage and given his father an ultimatum: divorce Asher’s mother or be cut off from all blunt and risk losing any part of his inheritance that was not entailed.
Under his desk, Asher curled his hand into a fist. His father had divorced his mother on false grounds of infidelity, but the divorce had not been final until after Asher was born. Still, his father had refused to acknowledge Asher or even see him, so Asher’s mother had thought to protect him by telling him she’d birthed him out of wedlock and his sire was dead. The old hatred did not sweep over Asher like a tide as it once had. It had lessened ever so slightly when his father had publicly set the record straight, and it had ebbed much more over the last few years as he’d built his distillery empire and proved his worth to himself. He didn’t have time for hatred. It took too much energy.
“So?” Pierce asked, rising and making his way to the sideboard that held the decanters of liquor. With his back to Asher, he went on. “Last night? The Fairfaxes’ ball? Where did you disappear to? I searched for you for quite a while before I left.”
Brilliant, sharp-green eyes and dark hair that glistened like polished wood flashed in Asher’s mind. Mounds of that silky chestnut hair, all unfortunately twisted up on top Guinevere’s head. He’d seen her immediately when he’d entered her parents’ ballroom. Of course, he had. Fate had been laughing. He’d stayed away from England all these years, not only because he was avoiding his father but because of memories of her, the vixen.
He should not have gone to the ball last night, but morbid curiosity as to what she now looked like, whether she’d changed greatly had driven him there. She shone brighter than the sun, just as she had when he’d met her five years prior. The fools that made up London Society had taken much longer to recognize what he’d discovered in moments after they were introduced. She was still a wondrous sight and apparently still scheming.
He’d cared for her—more than cared if he was honest. He’d been lost to her seemingly innocent charms. But he wasn’t going to sit there and dwell on how a slip of a lass had made him a fool and how his reaction to seeing her in another man’s arms had set the disastrous course of his young adult life.
He was older, and he damn well hoped he was wiser. He was here to ensure he did not lose the company he’d spent the past seven years building to his competition. Ill luck had been his constant companion the last six months, and he was dangerously close to having to sell a chunk of Loch Glen Distilleries to his competitors, the MacPhersons.
He couldn’t allow that to happen. The families that worked for him depended on him, depended on the jobs he provided them for their livelihood, and the MacPhersons were known to bring in their own people when they took over a distillery. For the people who relied on him, who had believed in him, he would swallow his pride and accept his father’s blunt, which he had refused for so long.
Pierce cleared his throat, reminding Asher that he’d not answered his brother’s question. “I left,” he said, which was partially true. He’d left the ballroom, just not the ball as Pierce would assume.