“He doesn’t want to hear the names,” Pierce snapped. “He’s made that clear.”
Mr. Benedict looked to Asher. “Your Grace?”
Asher felt as if he was at the precipice of something he didn’t fully understand yet. It was unnerving. He liked being in control, and even dead, his father was somehow managing the situation. His gut reaction was to say no, but his rational side, the side that reminded him of those whose livelihoods depended on him, told him to at least hear the names, meet the ladies, and then decide how to proceed.
He kept replaying one thing in his mind that his father had said. Perhaps you do not have the backbone to do what it takes to triumph, either. We shall see.
He felt his lips pull into a smile. He did actually have an idea, which ironically was a tack he would be taking directly from his dear old father. He could wed one of the ladies to gain his inheritance, but that did not mean he had to stay wed to her, which would likely suit her, as well. Divorce was an option, though an admittedly difficult one.
“Who is on the list?” he asked.
“Lady Henrietta Burgh—”
Pierce let out a whistle. “Ill luck, Carrington. She eloped last week.” Pierce rested his hands on his knees, and an intent look came over him. “Who else is on the list, Benedict?”
Mr. Benedict inhaled deeply and then said, “Lady Constantine Colgate.”
Pierce shook his head. “That woman has ice where her heart should be. Damn, Father. It seems he’s set you up to fail.”
It did seem that way, but why would he go to the trouble to create this stipulation if he wanted Asher to fail?
“Who is last on the list?” Pierce demanded. His tone was now as tight as his face.
Mr. Benedict pressed his lips together for a moment, appearing grim. “Lady Guinevere Darlington.”
Asher’s jaw slipped open, and he noted that Pierce looked as astonished and outraged as Asher felt. Pierce let out a loud breath. “If I ever doubted Father was a cruel devil, this proves it. I’m sorry, Carrington. Perhaps you can persuade Lady Constantine. Unless you intend to try to approach Lady Guinevere, but you did throw her over for her best friend.”
“I do not intend to approach Lady Guinevere, nor did I throw her over,” Asher growled. Besides, the lady damn well had not cared. She herself had kissed another, kissed Kilgore—the swine—that same night Asher was discovered with Elizabeth in his arms.
Pierce stood and grabbed his empty glass. “What will you do?”
All the faces of all the people who would be harmed if he had to sell any of his distilleries filled Asher’s head, not to mention the years of work he had put in to build the company and make a name for himself. Damned if he wanted to have his hand forced by his father, but it seemed he had no choice. This was not about just him. “I’ll gain an introduction to Lady Constantine, and try to persuade her to wed me.” The words left him feeling hollow.
“And if you cannot persuade her?” Pierce asked, pouring more liquor into his glass. “Will you actually approach Lady Guinevere?”
Her face filled his mind. The gentle slope of her cheeks. Her plump, pretty lips. The way her eyes had always sparkled when she laughed. He’d once thought her charmingly innocent before she’d slain him with duplicity. Would he approach her? The mere thought sparked an odd combination of ire, wariness, and searing lust. If there was such a thing as an enchantress, Guinevere was it. She was dangerous to him because of that. Would he approach her? “I’ll do what I must,” he finally said.
Pierce tipped up his glass as he strolled over to Asher and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Welcome to the ton, Carrington, where we are ruled not by desire alone but by desperate need. Whatever you do, do it with a stiff upper lip and never let them know what you’re really thinking.”
Chapter Three
Guinevere’s bedchamber door burst open with such force that it clanked against the wall and caused the normally unflappable Ballenger to pause in working Guinevere’s unruly hair into something presentable for the Antwerp ball that evening. In the looking glass, Guinevere watched as both of her younger sisters proceeded into the room—Vivian in a swirl of blue silk and Frederica in her nightclothes. Both wore determined expressions.
“You have been avoiding us!” Frederica announced, striding across the room.
The megrim Guinevere had falsely claimed to have in order to avoid her sisters since the ball two nights prior began in truth directly behind her right eye. With a sigh, she pressed her fingertips to her temples as a very vivid picture of Asher filled her mind.
He now wore his rich brown, thick hair shorter than he had five years ago. No more curls upon his neck. Pity, that. But sinfully dark stubble still grazed his wickedly handsome face. The man never had liked a proper shave, and she always had liked that about him. He’d been averse to the rules of society, and she’d been daft.
His image flashed once more in her memory, dark eyes that were altogether too knowing. Well, at least she thought they still were. She had not been able to see them well in the night, but his deep-timbered brogue had sounded as confident as ever. He was taller than she remembered, though. She could have sworn her head had once come above his shoulder, but it seemed it was not so. Everything about Asher—from his great height to his voice to, well, simply his mannerisms—made her feel fragile, devil take the rogue. She’d given up trying to think of him as Carrington. Her mind simply would not do it. She squeezed her eyes shut.
On a throat being cleared, she forced them open once more to find Ballenger staring at her questioningly.
“That will be all, Ballenger,” Guinevere said, her voice unusually weak. And no wonder! She’d slept horribly since her encounter with Asher.
She stared at herself in the mirror as Ballenger departed with a nod and a handing over of the hairbrush to Vivian. She’d thought to cut her hair more times than she could count, but she didn’t, and she wished she didn’t remember why, but of course, she did.
Him. Asher.
He had once told her she had the most glorious hair he had ever seen and that he wanted to pluck out every pin she vilely allowed to constrain it. He had said how he would then dearly love to let the silken strands—his words, not hers—slide through his fingertips. He never had, but she’d never forgotten what he’d told her.
The door shut with a soft swish, and her sisters launched at her like two well-seasoned agents of the Crown intent on discovering the enemy’s secrets no matter the cost.
“You said you had quite forgotten him!” Freddy exclaimed, taking the brush from Vivian and yanking it through Guinevere’s hair.
“Freddy!” Guinevere gasped, reaching behind her and snatching the weapon from her younger sister’s hands. “I do believe you’ve left me with a bald spot,” she muttered and dropped the hairbrush in her lap before rubbing her stinging scalp.
Vivian set a gentle hand on Guinevere’s left shoulder. “Are you unsettled from the encounter with Carrington?”
She was positively dizzied still, but she didn’t want to admit it. It irked her that a man she knew to be a liar could still give her heart palpitations. He was the very reason she’d started the Society of Ladies Against Rogues, whose primary purpose was to ensure no woman was ever duped by a villainous rogue again. They had not stopped all ruinations of women, of course, but they had halted a reasonable amount.