Later, after his mother returned to their residence, it took nearly an hour to placate her with apologies and excuses as to why he’d needed to dash off from the dinner. She didn’t quite believe that he’d had a reaction to the soup course, but she let it go. Perhaps because her own head was aching from Lady Imogen’s operatic tones and a barrage of utterly deranged suggestions for the engagement ball.
“It will be in two weeks,” Lady Dunrannoch said as she finally gave up her anger and rose from a chair in the study.
“Very well,” Ronan replied, feeling smug. It would not come to pass. Lady Imogen would not last another few days.
His mother paused on her way to the door and peered at him. “You’re trying to push her away,” she observed. “The way you acted tonight… It is not you. You owe the Kincaids an apology for leaving as you did.”
He lifted a shoulder, already well into his third whisky and feeling the warm swell of it in his limbs. “Coercion brings out the worst in me, it seems. I’ll no’ apologize for it.”
She took a long breath, redolent with disappointment. “You could look at this marriage as an opportunity.”
“Oh, I do. I am.”
An opportunity to get the lass to run shrieking in the other direction. But his mother did not need to know that.
The following morning, a newly determined Ronan went to the Golden Antler. The place would be vacant, but the man he wanted to speak to lived at the club. Shane McClintock had brought the Golden Antler up from a hole-in-the-wall tavern to one of the finest gaming hells in Scotland. It was a gentleman’s club, yes, but it was also rough-and-tumble enough to see at least one brawl an evening. McClintock knew how to give men of good name and wealth a place to settle back and breathe easy, but he also knew Edinburgh and its people—those of all classes—down to their roots. If there was gossip to be had about Lady Imogen Kinley, McClintock would deliver.
The club was along Fountainbridge, the entrance an unassuming glossy black door beneath a shingle that portrayed the golden outline of a leaping stag. Ronan brought his hand down upon the wood. When the door opened to reveal McClintock’s burliest floor man squinting at him, Ronan clapped him on the shoulder.
“I’m sorry to rouse ye, Alfie,” he said, stepping inside the foyer. “Is McClintock awake?”
“In his office, Yer Grace,” he said, yanking hard on a bellpull. “I’ve rung ye in.” The big man then retook his porter’s chair, where he’d been sleeping, crossed his arms, and shut his eyes again.
Ronan took the darkened corridors and a stairwell to the office he and his brothers had congregated in a number of times. McClintock was friendly, once you got to know him, though he only warmed to certain members.
Ronan knocked on the door before opening it. McClintock sat behind his desk, his head wreathed in cheroot smoke, the drapes drawn to block out the rising sun.
“Dunrannoch. I should’ve kenned. Ye’re the only duke I’ve met who doesnae sleep until noon.”
Ronan heard the unmistakable sound of a pistol sliding back into a holster and closed the door behind him. McClintock had enemies to be sure, and Alfie could have very well been signaling a foe’s approach. “And when do ye manage to sleep?”
McClintock laughed, but he didn’t attempt to answer. His insomnia was common knowledge, and many joked that it was because he didn’t trust anyone not to slit his throat if he closed his eyes.
“What brings ye here, Yer Grace?”
“I’ve given ye leave to call me Ronan,” he said, taking the leather club chair across from McClintock.
“Well, I havenae given ye leave to call me Shane, so…” He shrugged. “We should be on common ground.”
McClintock, probably well into his fifth decade, hadn’t come this far in life without laying down rules and adhering to them. Business it was, then.
“I’m in Edinburgh to meet my betrothed.”
McClintock sat up a little straighter, his interest piqued. “I dunnae believe it. Ye’ve finally found a lass ye deem worthy.”
Ronan refrained from scowling. “No’ exactly. What do ye ken of Lady Imogen Kinley?”
McClintock cocked his head, his sarcastic grin frozen into place. “She’s yer intended?”
Ronan watched the man closely. “Aye.”
A moment passed as McClintock sucked on his cheroot, his eyes—a pair of near-black traps—assessed Ronan with lethal intensity. “What do ye want to ken that ye cannae ask her yerself?”
For the first time, Ronan hesitated. There was something behind McClintock’s reaction. Ronan couldn’t put his finger on it. Interest? Surprise? Or perhaps he saw an opportunity to capitalize on Society gossip. Whatever it was, it put Ronan instantly on edge.
“She’s nearly thirty but still unwed, even though she has a large dowry and she isnae plain,” Ronan said.
In fact, she was beautiful. If his ears had been lopped off at some point in his life and he’d met Lady Imogen as a deaf man, he might have been entranced by her alluring face and trim figure.
“Ye want to ken what’s wrong with her,” McClintock presumed.
Ronan sat still, resisting the urge to smooth over the question. “Yes.”
“No’ a thing. If she’s agreed to wed ye, then ye’re a lucky man.” McClintock stood from his chair, into the cloud of smoke from his cheroot. “She’s a good lass who does good things. Things her kind would rather turn a blind eye to.”
Ronan frowned, intrigued and not a little bit surprised at the spike of anger in McClintock’s tone. “What things?”
He stubbed out the cheroot. “She helps girls who need it. Ladies who’ve found themselves in bad places, thanks to bad men.”
Ronan sat forward in the club chair. “Helps them how?”
“A charity house. She funds it, runs it, and if the toffs dunnae like it, she pays them no heed.”
Lady Imogen? The frivolous, mindless woman he’d met the evening before funded and ran a charity house? Stevenson had mentioned that she volunteered, not that she spearheaded the thing. Ronan sat back in his chair to mull it over. The bairn she’d been speaking of to her maid the night before was perhaps not her own, then, but belonged to one of the women she had helped.
If so, then that changed things, and he was back to where he’d started.
“And she is public in this endeavor?” Ronan asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
“Should she no’ be?” McClintock retorted. “If she hid behind her status, she wouldnae help as many girls as she does.”
The smoky room, draped in shadows, pressed in on them, accentuating the man’s spark of temper. Ronan wondered at it. Clearly, McClintock admired Lady Imogen’s effort. To be honest, Ronan felt a surprising amount of awe as well. Not to mention another layer of confusion. The woman he’d dined next to the evening before didn’t seem competent enough to lead a quadrille, let alone a charity house.
Ronan stood. “Thank ye.”
“Have I soured yer enthusiasm, Yer Grace?”
The man almost looked hopeful. Ronan held his stare, unyielding. McClintock was not a man one wanted as enemy, but the Duke of Dunrannoch did not back down in anything.
“Ye’ve only stoked my interest,” he replied.
“It seems ye have much to learn about yer betrothed.”
It was a challenge, a barb that revealed to Ronan that McClintock wasn’t pleased with the news about his betrothal to Lady Imogen. The man was far too old for her romantically, and well below her social status…so what was the reason? His abrasive manner seemed almost protective.
“Indeed I do,” Ronan said and took his leave.
He saw himself out of the Golden Antler, thoughts of his puzzling betrothed spinning through his mind as he returned to Dunrannoch House. He had some Maclaren business to tend to with Stevenson before he had to see the lady again, and perhaps by then he would have a sound strategy in place.
And by later that evening, he did. The ball at his sister Sorcha’s Edinburgh home w
ould be their first public outing together, and though their official engagement had yet to be announced, the rumor mill would be churning.
If McClintock was right—and he likely was—then Lady Imogen didn’t give a fig for what Society thought. But a person could only be pushed so far. She’d already suffered being whispered about; what he needed to do was cause a roar—one she could not ignore.
And so he’d dressed for the occasion.
He arrived at the Kincaids’ residence, and when the front door opened Ronan saw their butler’s eyes slip down, then back up. He stepped aside without reaction. “Your Grace,” he welcomed. “If you will be so kind as to wait in the salon—”
“Your Grace!” The high-pitched shriek slammed into his ears and clawed into his spine. “Thank heavens, you’re finally here!”
Ronan took a bracing breath and turned to meet Lady Imogen, who was coming down the stairwell into the foyer. His heart crashed to a stop at the gaudy mass of orange tulle and chiffon bouncing down the steps toward him. It made last evening’s pink dress seem tasteful in comparison. Bright as the hanging fruit he’d seen on trees in Spain, Lady Imogen’s dress was enough to set his teeth on edge.
The sleeves seemed to be inflated with air as she descended, the ruffles and pleats on the skirts so wide and billowing she was forced to slow her pace and feel for each step with her feet, which were completely hidden by a fringed hem of orange roses. And as if the already-hellish ensemble didn’t need more adornment, several plumes of dyed, salmon-colored feathers rose out of her coiffure.
But when her eyes finally took in what he was wearing, her lips parted on a soft puff of disbelief, her feet stumbling on the last two steps. Ronan moved forward to catch her, the chiffon and tulle like catching a slippery lamb in his hands. She clutched hold of his shoulders while he reached for her, one of his hands landing, quite accidentally, on the rise of one rounded buttock.
Instinct shouted to release her, but as her green eyes flared, Ronan recalled his mission. “I ken I make women weak-kneed, lass,” he drawled, his palm closing in an appreciative squeeze over her curves. Good God, she was so well-formed that his mouth went dry. “But do try to restrain yerself, especially around the servants.”
She slapped him away. “I tripped, you lout; I’m not weak in the knees. Now get your hands off me.”
A heel gouged the toes on his right foot as she struggled for freedom. Not entirely accidental, he guessed, as Ronan released her and stepped back. His palm was on fire where he’d gripped her through the frothy gown. For a split second, he wondered what other tantalizing secrets lay underneath that monstrosity.
She blinked rapidly as she accepted her cloak from the butler, her green eyes once more taking him in with horrified disbelief.
“Your Grace, what a rather…traditional choice of dress.”
Ronan looked down at his great kilt: nine yards of Maclaren tartan wrapped around his waist and thrown over his shoulder, a long-sleeved linen shirt underneath. He’d considered leaving off the kilt hose in order to shock Lady Imogen even more but, at the last moment, decided he couldn’t embarrass Sorcha in her own home. It was awful enough he’d be arriving in an ancient kilt better suited to a Highland hunt during his grandfather’s time.
“Aye, I like room to breathe, if ye ken what I mean, lass,” he said, employing a suggestive waggle of his brow.
Lady Imogen blinked again, her lips pressed flat together. “Yes, I’m told breathing is rather essential.”
Ronan’s lips quirked. Was that a hint of sarcasm? Before he could reply, the lady swept through the front door and toward his carriage.
Outside, Ronan heard his driver’s strangled cough, likely having gasped a bit too much air at the sight of a creature coming toward him like an engorged ball of flame. The driver had the steps lowered, but when she attempted to enter the slim door to the carriage, the wide side flounces of her skirts stoppered her like a cork in a long-necked bottle.
“My lady?” the driver said, coughing again. “Perhaps if ye were to turn—”
“Like this?” she said, turning completely around until she faced Ronan and attempting to enter the carriage backside first. Again, her skirts clogged the doorway. Ronan felt the mirth bubble up in his throat.
“Nae, my lady, I meant if ye were to turn—” The driver was interrupted again.
“No, no, I think this is working, just let me wiggle…” She rolled her hips, the bodice of her sherbet gown gripping a pair of breasts that quivered with the motion.
Whether it was intentional or not—though he suspected it wasn’t—Ronan stared at her, at the fierce look of concentration upon her face and the heat-inducing bounce of her breasts as she squeezed her way into the carriage. For a few lust-filled heartbeats, he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to strangle her, burst out laughing, or feel his way around her generous curves again.
“There!” she exclaimed, and then promptly fell backward inside the carriage. Ronan leaped in, stepping on her skirts as he helped her up and into the seat, her falsetto giggle deafening his ears. “Oh my! That was exciting!”
He gritted his teeth, wishing to God he could get the image of her flushed, quivering décolletage out of his mind. He forced himself to regain control of the situation. “Ye nearly fell onto my sword.”
The carriage jolted forward, and her giggles cut off. “Your what?”
Ronan reached for the claymore, sheathed in a leather back brace, and slipped it over his head and shoulder. He heard the air whooshing from her lungs.
“You’re not carrying that into a ball,” she said, her voice low; shocked, it seemed, into her other husky tone. The one he’d heard outside her window.
He grinned. “I must protect my future lady wife.”
“At a ball in Edinburgh?”
“There are enemies everywhere, my sweet. As the wife of a duke, ye’ll be in constant danger from those who seek to harm me. But dunnae fash, ye’ll be surrounded by men with swords at all hours of the day and night.” He stroked the sword lovingly. “Sometimes, I even keep it abed.”
It was pure nonsense, of course. She wouldn’t be in any danger. Maclaren was allied well, any feuds long in the past. But she didn’t know that.
Eyes wide with shock or horror or some combination of the two, she patted down the voluminous skirts of her dress, but they were so abundant they reached across the slim opening between their two benches and overflowed onto his lap. Ronan tried to push them away, but the frothy material refused to retreat. He gave up after a few moments.
“You actually sleep with that thing?”
He grinned widely at her. “Perhaps I’ll forego it for our wedding night.” The carriage went silent. The words had come off his tongue without thought, but discussing the wedding night presented a perfect opportunity, and so Ronan plunged onward. “Because I have to say, my bonny lass, my mind willnae be on swords.” He arched an eyebrow at the flounces of her dress. “Or clothing.”
The single lamp inside the carriage shadowed her face, but a burst of heat glinted in her eyes. She worried her plump lower lip for less than a second, and yet the combination was enough to send a bolt of lust ripping through him. Ronan went rigid in his seat.
Holy hell, what was wrong with him? He wanted to push her away, not bring her close. And yet, the sight of her lip between her teeth and the mention of swords and sex had sparked his blood.
“I won’t be thinking of swords, either,” she said, that strident voice shaky. But her next words came out perfectly acute, determination underscoring them. “Though clothing is another matter, as I’ll be thinking mostly of my trousseau and if I have everything a bride needs.”
For the next several minutes as the carriage wended its way through the city streets toward Montgomery Manor, his determined opponent regained lost ground as she chattered on like a demented magpie about the items that were to be included in her trousseau. From gloves to stockings to hats to handkerchiefs. And by the time they emerged from th
e carriage, once again her ghastly orange gown getting caught in the doorway, Ronan wanted to leap back inside and order the driver back to his home.
Like last night.
The cunning woman was trying to drive him away just as diligently as he was attempting to do to her, he was certain of it. And so far she was a formidable opponent—how she could keep up that voice and be seen in public in so hideous a gown only pointed to her resolve. Then again, as Ronan walked into Brandt and Sorcha’s home with Lady Imogen on his arm, the wide-eyed looks they received were not just for her.
“What in hell are ye wearing, ye amadan?” his sister Sorcha hissed, coming forward to embrace her brother after he’d entered the main hall.
“Ye dunnae recognize Grandfather’s great kilt?” he asked.
She pulled back and scowled at him, but her expression of doubt transformed into full alarm when she took in Lady Imogen.
“May I introduce my sister, Lady Glenross, and her husband, Lord Glenross, the duke. This is Lady Imogen Kinley, my fiancée,” he said, his arm becoming tangled in a wayward ruffle of orange tulle.
“Lady Imogen,” Sorcha said, her surprise well-masked, eyes avoiding the ghastly gown. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said. She’d taken to slipping back into her brogue over the years she’d been married to Brandt and living at Montgomery, but here in Edinburgh she usually sounded more English. Unless, of course, she was faced with her older brother’s brogue-inducing clothing choices.
“And you, Your Grace,” Lady Imogen chirped.
To her credit, she paid the livid scars upon Sorcha’s cheek no mind. The small act settled uneasily within him because Ronan did not want to feel approval for her kindness. The sight of his sister’s scars, inflicted by a wolf when she’d been but nine, was no small thing, not for a person meeting the duchess for the first time. But Imogen handled it with a grace that wasn’t easy to ignore.
Beside Ronan, Brandt spoke. “A pleasure, my lady. I’ve heard of your charity work. It’s impressive.”
What a Scot Wants (Tartans and Titans) Page 4
