Page 29 of Lady Frederica and the Scot Who Would Not
In the distance, the gate clanged shut behind the duchess, breaking some odd spell both he and Frederica had been under as they’d stood there silently staring at each other. He had to speak, to tell her he couldn’t wed her but he would provide for her future, which is what he’d told her father.
Instead, he heard himself ask yet again, “What sort of mutually beneficial arrangement would you imagine us coming to, Frederica?” There was something wrong with his brain. Clearly, he’d taken one hit too many to the head if he could no longer enforce the will of his mind over his mouth.
“Just how much did you hear?” she asked.
Her bluntness spoke to his soul, which was part of the problem. She didn’t mince words as most ladies did. There was no subterfuge or coquettishness, and he’d never been one for either of those things.
“Enough to know I light you like a chandelier.” He could not remember a time bantering with a woman had made him desire her, but he was as hard as stone now.
“I’ll not apologize for that truth, though I wish you’d not heard me say it.”
He could understand that. It made her vulnerable to him, and he sensed in her the same dislike of being rendered vulnerable to anyone that he felt inside.
“If it makes you feel better,” he said, wanting with a foolish desperation to do so, especially given what else he had to say, “you lit me, too.”
“Ah, well, that does appease me a tad.” Her low, throaty voice was the sort a man wanted to hear in his ear whispering the things the woman wanted the man to do to her. It was a bedchamber voice. “About my father calling you here, Beckford…”
“I can’t wed you, Frederica.” He wanted to get that part over with as quickly as possible, but he’d actually flinched when he said the words, and his chest tightened at her slight stiffening. Her show of vulnerability caused a wave of regret to wash over him.
“Can we discuss this sitting down?” she asked. “I’m suddenly horribly tired.”
He was, too, and he was never exhausted because he didn’t have the luxury to be. “Where shall we sit?”
“Follow me.” She turned, and he fell into step behind her, trying not to watch how her hips swayed provocatively as she walked and failing miserably. Never had he been so enchanted by the sway of a woman’s hips in his life. Her skirts swished as she led him down a stone path, past orderly shrubs, scented flowers, thick vines, and around a corner past a fountain and out of the view of the house.
This was dangerous. For him. For her. For him keeping his hands off her. He should go back, and yet he went forward into the deepening shadows and onto a long path that was encased on both sides and overhead by an arbor covered in thick climbing vines. In the middle of the arbor was a bench, a wrought iron invitation to sin.
Chapter Eleven
“Is it done?”
Guinevere nearly jumped out of her slippers at her husband’s deep voice coming from the shadows of the solar in her parents’ home, which was bathed in moonlight. Her heart was still pounding in her gown from her deception of Beckford and her sister. She frowned at how horribly out of practice she was. Frederica had been correct. Motherhood had left little time for anything other than her children and husband. Though she would not change such things, Guinevere was glad she had been able to come here tonight. She was gladder still that Blythe Beckford had visited her that afternoon to tell her she thought her brother was falling in love with Frederica but resisting it. She was also the one who told Guinevere that Beckford had been summoned to meet with Guinevere’s father. The “falling in love” part was certainly welcome news, considering the scandal Frederica and Beckford now found themselves embroiled in.
Guinevere glanced toward the window where Asher’s form came into clearer view, and she smiled. “Were you watching me in the garden talking to Frederica and Beckford?”
Her husband waved her over. She went to him immediately, eager to have his strong arms around her. After he enfolded her in his embrace, he tilted his face to hers and brushed a gentle kiss on her lips. “Of course, I was. Ye know I like to keep a protective eye on ye.”
“You must know I’m perfectly safe in my parents’ garden with my sister and Beckford.”
“I do,” Asher replied, tightening his hold on her, “but I also know Beckford has a great many enemies. It’s why he wanted his sister to leave Covent Garden for a life in Mayfair.” He paused. “So is it as his sister suspects? And what of your sister’s feelings?”
Guinevere grinned at her husband. “They most definitely desire each other, and I do truly believe he would be perfect for her. A man like Beckford will appreciate the qualities in her that other men, stuffy men, would not. And I vow Frederica has a tendre for him, though I don’t think she’s recognized it yet.” Guinevere frowned then. “She seemed almost… Well, I cannot quite put my finger on it presently, but I will.”
Asher kissed her forehead. “I’ve no doubt ye will ponder it until ye have figured it out.”
Guinevere nibbled on her lip, thinking. Given the disaster at the ball with Frederica, Beckford, and Lord Brooke, giving Beckford and Frederica a push to come together seemed the best thing to do. If Guinevere was wrong about her belief that Frederica and Beckford would make a grand match eventually, there would be more than a short period of hell to pay for both Frederica and Beckford. There would be a lifetime of it.
Guinevere pulled out of Asher’s embrace but grasped his hand, intertwining their fingers and turning to the garden window. His arms came around her once more, and she leaned back against his solid chest. “They’ve moved from where they can be seen.”
“Yes,” Asher replied, “but Beckford followed Frederica, he did not lead her. I was watching. After you departed, they went in the direction of the veranda.”
Guinevere smiled. “Yes, that’s the most private place in the garden. Do you think we’ve done the right thing, coming here and intervening to ensure they had time alone?”
“Aye.” Asher kissed her neck. “Especially since Beckford reacted exactly as his sister said he would.”
“Yes.” Guinevere pursed her lips for a moment, contemplating everything. “That wasn’t very well done of him to refuse my father’s suggestion to wed Frederica.”
Asher snorted. “It wasn’t well done of us to eavesdrop at the door. And your father didn’t suggest, he demanded. No man likes to be told what to do, Guin.”
