Lady Guinevere And The Rogue With A Brogue (Scottish Scoundrels: Ensnared Hearts Book 1) Read online

  Series by Julie Johnstone

  Scottish Medieval Romance Books:

  Highlanders Through Time Series

  Sinful Scot, Book 1

  Sexy Scot, Book 2

  Seductive Scot, Book 3

  Scandalous Scot, Book 4

  Highlander Vows: Entangled Hearts Series

  When a Laird Loves a Lady, Book 1

  Wicked Highland Wishes, Book 2

  Christmas in the Scot’s Arms, Book 3

  When a Highlander Loses His Heart, Book 4

  How a Scot Surrenders to a Lady, Book 5

  When a Warrior Woos a Lass, Book 6

  When a Scot Gives His Heart, Book 7

  When a Highlander Weds a Hellion, Book 8

  How to Heal a Highland Heart, Book 9

  The Heart of a Highlander, Book 10

  Renegade Scots Series

  Outlaw King, Book 1

  Highland Defender, Book 2

  Highland Avenger, Book 3

  Regency Romance Books:

  A Whisper of Scandal Series

  Bargaining with a Rake, Book 1

  Conspiring with a Rogue, Book 2

  Dancing with a Devil, Book 3

  After Forever, Book 4

  The Dangerous Duke of Dinnisfree, Book 5

  A Once Upon A Rogue Series

  My Fair Duchess, Book 1

  My Seductive Innocent, Book 2

  My Enchanting Hoyden, Book 3

  My Daring Duchess, Book 4

  Lords of Deception Series

  What a Rogue Wants, Book 1

  Danby Regency Christmas Novellas

  The Redemption of a Dissolute Earl, Book 1

  Season For Surrender, Book 2

  It’s in the Duke’s Kiss, Book 3

  Regency Anthologies

  A Summons from the Duke of Danby (Regency Christmas Summons, Book 2)

  Thwarting the Duke (When the Duke Comes to Town, Book 2)

  Regency Romance Box Sets

  A Very Regency Christmas

  Three Wicked Rogues

  Paranormal Books:

  The Siren Saga

  Echoes in the Silence, Book 1

  Lady Guinevere And The Rogue With A Brogue

  Scottish Scoundrels: Ensnared Hearts, Book 1

  by

  Julie Johnstone

  Lady Guinevere And The Rogue With A Brogue

  Copyright © 2020 by Julie Johnstone, DBA Darbyshire Publishing

  Cover Design by Najla Qamber, Qamber Designs & Media

  Editing by Double Vision Editorial

  and

  Louisa Cornell

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notes

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

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  Dedication and Special Thanks

  This book is for all of my amazing readers who have asked me countless times when I’m going to write another Regency book. I had to wait for the perfect idea to come to me, and it finally did! Thank you to those of you who discovered me with my first published book, a Regency, then trusted me and my writing to follow me to my Scottish Medieval series, and are now returning with me to where it all began! I adore each and every one of you, and my books are really for you.

  The world changed immensely during the writing of this book with the pandemic. I honestly would not have been able to finish it in any sort of timely fashion had it not been for a very special group of writers and friends, the Morning Writer Chicks! These ladies rise with the roosters to get their work done, and they got me in that habit for this book! So thank you, Madeline Martin, Eliza Knight, Lori Ann Bailey, E. Elizabeth Watson, Brenna Ash, and Heather Webb. Thank you for your encouragement, and laughs, and for just simply being there!

  I want to give a shout-out to Louisa Cornell, who helped me edit for all things Regency, and I also want to thank my amazing editor, Danielle, who never fails to make my books immensely better with her keen eye.

  Finally, I want to thank my husband, my kids, and my mom. My husband and kids constantly put up with my long hours, and my mom supplies a seemingly endless abundance of wisdom and encouragement.

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  Table of Contents

  SERIES BY JULIE JOHNSTONE

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  DEDICATION AND SPECIAL THANKS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  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 fo
rmally 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.

  She smacked his hand away from her face. “I’d sooner cut it off you than take it,” she snapped, then added, “Your Grace.” After all, there was no reason to let him see he could make her forget her manners.

  “If I recall, we had moved past formalities last time I saw ye,” he said with the easy tone only a practiced rogue could affect.

  “And if I recall, you are not the sort of man I want to be on intimate terms with ever again, Your Grace.”

  He stiffened. She could feel it in the shift of air around him. It was subtle, but nonetheless, she sensed it. And she despised that she sensed it.

  With that thought, she scrambled away from him and to her feet. “If you don’t mind,” she said, waving a dismissive hand while turning away from him and focusing on the tree once more. Not only would it be disastrous to be discovered alone with him but she did not like how hard her heart was pounding or the hundreds of questions that now buzzed in her head.

  What had he been doing in Scotland all these years? Had he been heartbroken when Elizabeth and his unborn child had died? Why had he stayed away? Had he felt sad when his father had passed, or had he despised him until the bitter end? Did he regret what he had done to her? Had he ever looked back on it all and realized he had been an utter fool to set her aside so callously for Elizabeth? Elizabeth, who had knitted and danced with grace and never spoke of things like politics.

  Drat. She clenched her teeth until pain shot across her jawbone. She would never allow herself to ask these questions. If only she could stop herself
from even thinking them!

  “I mind,” he said in that same overly confident tone, his voice growing louder as he approached her. “It’s not safe for ye to be climbing a tree alone in the dark. Ye could break yer neck.”

  The nearness of him warmed her skin. He was impossibly, unacceptably too close to her. Asher never had cared a whit about the rules of Society that governed proper decorum. Possibly because he had not grown up in Society, and yet, she had been raised surrounded by Society’s rules and she didn’t care, either. She did, at least, try to care, tedious as it was.

  His heat enveloped her like a quilt and made it hard to hold on to her thoughts. She concentrated harder. “If one goes by your history with women, a fall from this tree is not the only thing that need concern me.” She forced a steadiness to her voice that was in direct contrast to the way her pulse danced. “You, Your Grace, are just as dangerous to a woman’s well-being as this elm—likely more.”

  Without warning, his firm hand gripped her right arm, and she found herself whirled toward Asher before she could even get out a proper outraged gasp. He towered over her, his presence impossibly more commanding than it had been years before. Her stomach clenched, and she became acutely aware of his fingertips touching her bare skin.

  His dark, dangerous outline against the pale moon taunted her. When he tilted his head down at her, her pulse spiked, and when he raised his hands and jerked them through his hair, her chest tightened at the frustrated gesture she’d once intimately known. But she’d never really known him, had she? She’d imagined once that he was honorable, that he would do anything to protect her. What a ninny she had been.

  “Yer life is not in danger with me, Guin, so ye can hardly compare the two.”

  She swallowed. She had never thought she would hear his pet name for her rolling off his tongue again. She wished to God it didn’t cause such a deep ache in her belly, but some things were meant as sharp reminders of treacherous waters.

  “Well, my reputation is most certainly in peril.” She strived to sound annoyed and not desperate to get away from him. “So do take your leave. I’m not sure why you are here in the first place.” In England. At my home. In front of me. “The ball is inside.”