What a Scot Wants (Tartans and Titans)
Page 5
Ronan snuck a glance at his betrothed. That Brandt knew of her charity house didn’t surprise Ronan, but it clearly did her.
“Why, thank you, Your Grace.” Her keen eyes flickered toward Ronan, then, with bright enthusiasm, she added, “I intend to bring some of my girls with me, to my new home in the Highlands. Lord Dunrannoch has been ever so kind, you see. His heart is the size of a mountain!”
Ronan only smiled. “The more, the merrier, my dumpling.”
Sorcha and Brandt both stared at him, his sister’s eyes narrowing. “I’m told you will have an engagement ball soon?”
No doubt his sister wanted to peg him with all sorts of questions about the betrothal. Their mother would have explained the arrangement, but Sorcha would want to have it from Ronan’s mouth as well.
“Yes!” Lady Imogen clutched at his arm, the swaths of her skirts and sleeves nearly drowning him. “Everything is going to be pink. I do so love pink, all shades of it. I was told this particular shade is apricot-pink. Isn’t it marvelous?”
Sorcha blinked and took a small step back. “How…lovely. I look forward to it.”
“As do I,” a smooth, French-accented voice cut in, coming up behind Ronan. He didn’t need to turn to know who had joined them. Julien Leclerc, the Marquess of Riverley, and his sister Makenna’s husband, smirked as he sipped his drink. “My goodness, Your Grace, your claymore is the accessory the rest of us plebeians are all lacking this evening.”
“I’m sorry ye left yers at home, Riverley,” Ronan replied, fighting the irritation his brother-in-law usually inspired. The glib Frenchman was a pain in his arse. “We could have provided entertainment with some sparring.”
“Oh, I am vastly entertained already,” he replied, turning to Lady Imogen and waiting for an introduction. Ronan did the honors, and Lady Imogen twittered girlishly as Riverley kissed the back of her hand and murmured enchanté.
“What are ye doing here, Riverley?” Ronan asked. “I thought my sister was at Duncraigh, awaiting a bairn.”
“She is. I am finishing up some business here before making my way back home. I will most certainly tell her I saw you and met your dazzling fiancée.” His trademark smirk brightened as he turned to Imogen and gestured to his own lime green waistcoat with a gleeful enthusiasm that made Ronan want to punch him. “I must say, my lady, I applaud your bold taste in color. Pink is a marvelous idea for your ball. You’ll be the goddess of spring, and your duke will make the most magnificent god of spring.”
“Why thank you, Lord Riverley,” she trilled and clapped her hands with delight. “God of spring, indeed. What a charming thing to say!”
The vexing marquess blew a kiss toward the lady before smartly moving out of reach. Ronan wanted to throttle the man for encouraging her. “There’s nae such thing as the bloody god of spring,” he muttered, but the marquess was already out of hearing. His betrothed wasn’t, however.
She reached up to pat his cheek. “Don’t worry, cherub. We’ll transform you, yet.”
“Do enjoy the ball tonight,” Sorcha was quick to say, her wide eyes grazing Ronan’s as she and Brandt blended back into the crowd to greet other guests, most of whom were casting horrified glances their way.
Ronan felt absurd dressed in the great kilt, but having Lady Imogen on his arm in equally beastly attire oddly made him feel better. As he’d already observed, he wasn’t in this game alone.
“Are ye ready to dance, my sweet pig’s knuckle?” he asked.
She cricked her neck as she whipped her head toward him. “Pig’s knuckle?”
This time, the raised voice wasn’t put on at all, he wagered. Ronan let out a laughing huff and yanked her out onto the dance floor.
Time to put on a show.
Chapter Four
Good God, she was going to suffocate to death in this demonic dress!
Other couples on the ballroom floor gave them a wide berth. Between her obnoxious dress and his enormous size, they took up a lot of room. Imogen sucked in a deep breath, praying she took in enough oxygen to keep her upright for the dance. But if she didn’t, at least she would die with the gratified knowledge that her barbarian of a fiancé got a mouthful of feathers every time her plumed headpiece slammed into his lips.
She made it a point to toss her head on every turn, and she bit back a giddy grin when she saw him blowing an orange piece of fluff off his lips and looking quite riled in the process.
Success!
It had been mortifying, though, to meet the Duke and Duchess of Glenross, both well-respected and well-known in Edinburgh society. The duchess donated quite a bit to charity, and Imogen had hoped to someday lure her as a potential investor.
Oh, fiddlesticks. It was just a dress. If terrible fashion sense was a deterrent to the duchess, then Imogen didn’t want her money anyway. She almost stumbled on a turn and cursed the flamboyant monstrosity for the fiftieth time. It had been worth it, but the personal price had been steep. She could handle the ridicule, but copious amounts of sweat was proving to be hellish. In truth, she did feel like a bit of a sweaty pig’s knuckle.
Imogen nearly grinned despite herself. The cheek of him calling her that.
To his credit, the duke had borne it quite well—her garish appearance, the debacle with the coach, the reception of their arrival at the ball. But the expression on Dunrannoch’s face when he’d gotten the first look at her outfit had been one to savor. Then again, she was sure she’d been wearing a similar expression when she’d seen him dressed in a tartan that had to be a century old! She gave a delicate sniff.
Gracious, the ratty thing smelled like it, too.
And the sword! Good Lord, she’d wanted to die when he’d drawn the massive thing out in the carriage—though a tiny part of her had been hard pressed not to admire the controlled flex of muscles in those broad shoulders and arms. Or to wonder what he would look like swinging that claymore, wearing no shirt at all. He’d be magnificent. Large and powerful, a man like Ronan Maclaren was built for action.
Even while dancing, she could feel his leashed strength. Imogen’s eyes slid up to the duke holding her in a loose grasp. From the watery blinks of his eyes and the look of vexation on his face, he’d just ingested more feather fluff. Her amusement stuck in her throat when a pair of flinty gray-blue irises met hers.
“Having a good laugh?”
“No more so than you,” she replied with a head toss for good measure.
“Do that again,” he warned.
She smirked and twirled away. “Or what? You’ll spank me with your giant sword?”
Where on earth had that come from? Good heavens, he brought out the hussy in her. Imogen didn’t have time to be mortified as she spun back toward him.
His grin was devilish when he drew her close. “So ye’ve heard the rumors, then? Of my…sword.”
“Having a sword and knowing how to wield it are two different things, Your Grace.”
She whipped her head for good measure, and then sucked in a loud gasp when he lowered his head, snatched the base of the feathers in his teeth, and gave them a good yank. Her entire coiffure came loose, locks of hair falling into her face as he spat the mouthful of plumes to the side.
“There,” he said with a dark laugh. “Much better.”
Imogen reached up with a hand to hold the falling pins in place. “You’ve ruined my hair!”
And right in the center of the dance floor, too! Blood rushed to her cheeks.
“I warned ye what would happen,” he said.
“You are a barbarian, sir.”
Heated amusement simmered in those gleaming blue eyes. “Aye. A barbarian with a sword, and ye should ken something, lass—I wield it well.”
Imogen scowled. “The biggest pretenders have the loudest voices.”
“Care for a demonstration, then, leannan?”
Her mouth all but dropped open as he thrust his hard hips meaningfully against hers on the last word, in full view of everyone, making a filthy mockery
of the sweet endearment. Imogen didn’t even look to see if people were watching. She knew they were. With her gown, she’d made sure she would be the center of attention, after all.
Mortified, she resisted the urge to stamp on his foot, but then gave in to it before storming off the floor. The uncivilized beast. Biting her headpiece like an animal. Rubbing against her like a…like an animal…oh, she had no words to describe how vulgar he was.
Good Lord, why was it so bloody hot?
The sight of the plumes in his teeth hadn’t been as disturbing as the dark promise she’d seen in his eyes, and his bold claim about wielding his sword had teased her with almost palpable friction. For a moment, a vision of him stripping the rest of her gown off with his teeth and grinding those lean hips against hers had coiled through her mind with startling lucidity—no doubt just as he’d intended.
And that had been her signal to flee.
As she pushed her way through the throng of bodies to the retiring room, Imogen ignored the churning heat in her lower belly. Once situated, after repairing her hair as best she could—in all honesty, she was glad to be rid of the heavy, annoying feathers—she sat on a bench and fanned herself, attempting to cool her overheated body. She nodded to a few Edinburgh socialites she knew, but they all gave her odd looks and even wider berths. Perhaps some brisk evening air on the terrace would help instead.
But before Imogen could stand up, she was approached by a woman. Suppressing her irritation, Imogen pasted on a smile and faced the newcomer, though her cordiality wasn’t returned. Instead, the lady regarded her with an almost hostile expression. Imogen was sure they hadn’t been introduced. She took in the woman’s lustrous red hair, noting her fashionable dress and her beautiful features. She would have remembered someone with such striking coloring. The lady’s bold stare was unnerving.
She cleared her throat. “Are we acquainted? I’m Lady Imogen Kinley.”
“I ken who ye are,” the woman replied in a husky brogue.
Imogen bristled. “That makes one of us, then, as I am certain we’ve never met.”
“Nae,” she drawled. “I was overseas and only just returned. I’m Lady Reid.” Imogen nodded noncommittally, wishing the woman would move on, but she did not, instead sweeping her with a mocking ice-green gaze. “I must have been gone too long if that is what fashion has come to in Scotland.”
“It’s meant as a jest,” Imogen explained uncomfortably, plucking at the sticky feathers glued to her nape.
“It’s hideous.”
“That’s the point.”
Imogen drew a breath to make her excuses, but the woman beat her to it. “I do look forward to learning more about ye.”
“You do?”
Lady Reid’s smile was malicious when she nodded with a slanted gaze. “After all, a lady should ken her competition, shouldnae she?” When Imogen didn’t respond to her baited words, she arched an eyebrow. “Ronan Maclaren. We used to be…neighbors.”
Her snide tone insinuated it was much more than that, but Imogen was too tired and much too hot to play games. She canted her head.
“You’re welcome to him,” she said and leaned in as if imparting a great secret. “In fact, if you could get him to cry off from this engagement, you’d be doing me the greatest of favors.”
Lady Reid’s mouth opened to say something, but then her green eyes narrowed at someone approaching. She took her leave without another word. Imogen was grateful until she saw who had chased her away.
The Duchess of Glenross took the woman’s vacated seat, a scowl on her brow, making her facial scars stand out in livid stripes. “I do not know how that woman got an invitation to my ball. I didn’t even know she was back in Scotland.”
Imogen inclined her head. “Who is she?”
Lady Glenross actually growled. “No one of consequence, I assure you.”
A bead of sweat trickled down Imogen’s back, but it would be rude to attempt to escape so soon after the duchess had arrived. “Your Grace, you’ve outdone yourself tonight.”
“Thank you. We didn’t get a chance to converse earlier. And please, call me Sorcha. We are to be family, after all.”
Imogen couldn’t quite hide her grimace. “As you wish, but only if you call me Imogen.”
“He’s not all that bad, you know,” Sorcha said, cutting to the heart of the matter. “Ronan, I mean. He’s all bluster half the time.”
“Oh, he has bite,” Imogen muttered, thinking of how he’d nipped at her hand with his teeth.
Sorcha shot her a sharp, interested look. “Does he?”
“I only meant that he has made it clear that he wants to be saddled with this engagement almost as much as I do.”
“You don’t wish to marry?”
It was a risk, admitting the truth to the duke’s sister. She might go to him after with a warning. However, something about Sorcha’s demeanor told Imogen that she would not.
Imogen sighed. “I am nine and twenty, Your Grace. I have given up any desire to be wedded. In fact, if I’m being honest, I’ve never wanted it. I haven’t had a Season in a decade for good reason.”
“Sorcha,” the duchess corrected gently. “Then what is it that you do want?”
“To be free,” Imogen replied after a beat. “To run my shelter. Look after the girls who need help. It’s quite simple, though Society has other views of what women need. That to be happy and to be worthy of respect, we must be betrothed, married, and heavy with child within the year.”
“It’s not such a bad lot,” Sorcha said with a smile.
“I didn’t mean you, of course,” Imogen said, but the duchess only laughed. “What I mean is that marrying and having children would make many women happy. I’m just not one of them.”
“I was once in a similar situation, you know,” the duchess said.
Imogen gave her a skeptical look. “Forced into an engagement?”
“Forced to the altar.” Imogen’s eyes went wide, and Sorcha grinned. “As much as you might not believe it, I was very much like you. Marriage was the furthest thing from my mind, and then I met Brandt. Crashed into him, lips-first, during a border country fair. It was a rather public kiss, and so we were then escorted to the church by my brothers, Finlay and Evan.” She chuckled. “You’ve already met Ronan. The rest of the Maclaren males are cut from the same overprotective, bossy cloth. Brandt and I were wed on the spot.”
“What did you do?”
“I did what any woman worth her salt would do…I gave my new husband hell, and then some. But then, Brandt turned out to be nothing like I expected. Any other man would have turned tail and given up. He didn’t.”
Was she insinuating that Ronan was also the type of man who would never give up? That Imogen didn’t have a chance in hell of running him off?
“Why are you telling me this, Your Grace?”
“Sometimes what we think we want isn’t what we need.” The duchess rose and patted Imogen’s shoulder. “Give Ronan a chance. He might surprise you.”
After Sorcha went back to her guests, Imogen made her way out to the balcony. The duchess was mistaken. She and Lord Glenross had married under very different circumstances, it seemed, and while they had obviously fallen in love after their forced marriage, Imogen could only think of everything she would be giving up. The harm that such an endeavor could cause. She knew what she wanted and what she needed, and a husband did not factor into that.
Her future had no room for a man like Ronan Maclaren. As much as she respected and liked the duchess, she had to stick fast to her plan. Even if he was tenacious, she was more so. She had not made it this far, on her own terms, without knowing how to put her head down and keep charging forward. A few more outings and she fully expected he’d be running for the Scottish hills.
An unexpected twinge of regret spun through her at the thought. In another lifetime, a man like Ronan would have been hard to ignore. The way his sister had spoken of him had conveyed volumes of mutual respect, protect
iveness, and care. It was obvious she loved her brother deeply and they shared a sibling relationship that Imogen herself had never known. It made her somewhat envious, she had to admit. She didn’t resent being an only child. Her parents had doted on her, but she’d never had brothers or sisters to play with or to rub off her prickly edges.
Not that she wanted Ronan Maclaren as a brother.
What was she thinking? She didn’t want him at all. In any capacity.
As if drawn by some force, she glimpsed his large form through the balcony doors. Even in that blasted plaid, he cut a dashing figure for a Highland barbarian.
He’s a duke, her inner voice chimed in, not a barbarian.
A very handsome, very powerful duke. Easily a head taller than the people around him, he simply commanded attention. In the privacy of the darkness on the terrace, she could admit that his looks made her heart beat a little faster. It would take more than a smelly old tartan to detract from those brilliant, mercurial eyes or that stern but sensual mouth.
As he crossed the ballroom out of sight once more, Imogen noted the graceful, leonine nature of his movements. She had no doubt he would be a protector—no one at his side would ever come to harm. If she had only met him before she’d learned what devious creatures men could be…
She squashed the thought. Before had no consequence.
And if only was a dangerous thing.
Dwelling on the past and what could have been had led her down some ugly roads, and she was not eager to visit them again.
She stood on the balcony, feeling the damp skin beneath her gown finally beginning to cool, and turned her mind toward Haven. Thinking of it calmed her, focused her. There was always something to be done there, or fixed. Problems that were not her own, and yet she could help remedy them. Change peoples’ lives. That was her purpose.
She took a bracing breath, moving to go inside—and stopped as deep, male voices rose from the lawn below. The French accent snagged her like a thorn. It was the man Ronan had called Riverley earlier…the one with the lurid green waistcoat who had complimented her fashion sense. The second voice was warm with a Scot’s burr and belonged to none other than her fiancé.