Imogen licked her lips, ignoring the prickle of awareness that danced up her legs and spine at the low, husky sound of it, and moved toward the balcony balustrade. It was dark on the lawns, but she spotted the two men just beyond the nearest flood of light from the windows. A small cloud of cheroot smoke drifted into the light.
“Makenna will never believe me about this,” Lord Riverley was saying. “Usually I’m the one people stare at with their jaws loose. I’m not sure I like being outdone.”
“Aye, ye’re probably already thinking of having an apricot-pink waistcoat made.”
Imogen pinned her lips to keep from giggling.
“You know me well,” Lord Riverley replied. “It’s a striking color…though perhaps not in such…abundance as your betrothed has chosen to display this evening. That was a feat even I could not pull off.”
Her smothered smile fell flat. Of course she knew she looked ridiculous.
“Ye encouraged her, Jules,” Ronan replied. “God of spring, my arse.”
“She needed little encouragement from me. Your future wife is determined to look the fool. Brilliant, if you ask me.”
An unexpected shiver chased down her neck. First the duchess and now the Frenchman. It’d been a few years since her last suitor, but surely her tactics weren’t that infamous. Imogen pressed closer to the edge of the balcony.
“What do ye mean by that?” Ronan asked.
“If the rumors about her are to be believed, your fair bride has taken it upon herself to chase many a suitor away,” Lord Riverley replied, making her stomach heave with despair.
“It’ll take more than feathers or a fountain of tulle to chase me away,” Ronan replied.
“If I didn’t know you better, Duke, I’d mistake your doggedness for something more…ardent.”
A low rumble of laughter perked her ears. It brought up a rash of gooseflesh on her arms. Lord, but he had an earthy, deeply sensual laugh.
“Ye ken my reason,” he replied. “I willnae lose the distillery.”
“Then you must do whatever it takes.” Lord Riverley’s figure appeared in the wash of light upon the grass. “Even if it means marrying the lady.”
Riverley stood alone in the light for a moment. Then, slowly, Ronan’s large form emerged from the shadows. He stared at his brother-in-law in such an intense way that Imogen could almost picture him reaching for his sword next. To her surprise, the Frenchman did not bat an eye.
His words were a growl. “I willnae be forced into a marriage, either.”
“You could do far worse,” Lord Riverley went on, his tone still jovial. “She might be a little unorthodox with the charity work she does, and perhaps not part of the inner circles most women crave admittance to, but Lady Imogen is lovely—out of that dress, of course.”
To Imogen’s shock, the duke took a menacing step closer to the marquess.
“Settle down, brother. You know I only have eyes for your sister,” Lord Riverley drawled, crushing out his cheroot. “Though one wonders why you bristle like a jealous lover over an innocent observation if you are as indifferent as you claim.”
“Careful, brother.” Exhaling loudly, Ronan raked a hand through his hair. “What do ye ken of this charity she’s involved in? For women who’ve been hurt?”
“Yes,” Lord Riverley replied. “A shelter of sorts.”
“McClintock seemed protective of her,” Ronan went on. “Defensive. Ye ken if there’s some history between them?”
McClintock? Imogen’s breath came short. Ronan knew Shane McClintock? Had spoken with him? Her ears buzzed with alarm. The owner of the Golden Antler had supported Haven over the years, and he had, on occasion, even sent a few young ladies he employed to Imogen and Emma. Oddly enough, even though he was the owner of a gaming hell, Mr. McClintock was one of the only men she trusted.
He’d helped her that awful night so long ago…
The night her entire world had turned sideways, when a man she’d put her faith in—her father had put his faith in—had shown his true colors. He had hurt someone she’d dearly loved…and she hadn’t known until her friend had drawn her last breath.
Imogen’s palms began to sweat even as a flash of cold flushed across her chest and back. She squeezed her eyes shut. Don’t think of it. He’s gone now. Breathe.
“McClintock is old enough to be her father, and besides, he doesn’t mess with upper-class ladies,” Riverley replied. “Especially the sort to draw negative attention.”
“I have a feeling I’ve attracted my fair share of negative attention tonight as well,” Ronan said with another low roll of laughter. The Frenchman joined him.
“As you intended, no doubt.”
“Aye, though I didnae ken the old wool would be so itchy. I cannae wait to be home so I can rip the thing off and feed the hearth with it.” He groaned, tugging at the folds of the plaid. “No’ to mention this claymore weighs more than a slab of bloody stone.”
Riverley chuckled. “Going soft, Highlander?”
“No’ so soft I cannae wipe the floor with ye,” he tossed back. “Though this thing probably couldnae cut butter, it’s so dull. Mother nearly swooned when I took it off the wall.”
The men shared a laugh for a moment, and then the Frenchman cleared his throat.
“I’m not certain I know what you’re planning, Ronan, but the crude and boorish Scot might not be the best route, especially not for a woman of Lady Imogen’s…”
“Expertise?” Ronan supplied. “Ye might be right. Though I have enjoyed myself more than I expected.”
Riverley clapped him on the back, and the men moved out of sight. “Well, at least you can agree she’s not boring.”
Imogen crept back from the balustrade, her emotions tripping over themselves. That stinking fraud! So his crass, ignorant behavior was about as genuine as her act? Trying to persuade her in the opposite direction, just as she was doing to him. And as he had been speaking to his brother-in-law, he hadn’t seemed at all daunted.
Sorcha’s words came back to haunt her. The Duke of Dunrannoch was proving to be more difficult to chase away than she’d expected. Imogen ran her hands over her gown. If she was to succeed, it would take more than a few dreadful ruffles.
Much, much more.
Chapter Five
It was difficult to up the stakes when one’s adversary refused to put in an appearance.
It’d been five days, nearly a week, since Imogen had heard a peep from her fiancé. While a part of her had fantasized that he’d hied off to the Highlands with his tail tucked between his thick, strong legs, she knew it was wishful thinking. If she’d discovered anything, it was that he was as mule-headed as she. No, the rotter was biding his time and plotting. Driving her bloody crazy with nerves, wondering how and when he would strike.
Ringing for Hilda, she climbed out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown. Normally she would be at the shelter, along with Emma and the other women, with enough work to keep her hours filled. To say she’d grown dispirited by what was becoming an insurmountable obstacle to her future was an understatement. She couldn’t marry the duke. She couldn’t lose. She simply couldn’t.
Imogen wasn’t admitting defeat, but she needed to reassess the situation. Rethink her position. And her silly brain wasn’t cooperating. No, all it wanted to obsess about were broad shoulders and square jaws. Thick thighs, muscled arms, and low raspy brogues that sounded indecent in public. What would it be like to have him whispering those filthy nothings to her in bed? Caging her in with that big, honed body and bracing sinewy, bare legs against hers.
Heat scorched her breasts and settled low in her belly.
Gracious, how shameless!
Rattled and overheated, Imogen tugged at the collar of her robe and drew cool breaths into her lungs. She stared at her reflection when she sat for Hilda to brush and braid her hair. Her cheeks were unnaturally red, her chest rising and falling. She was ill, she had to be. It was the only explanation for feeling so feveri
sh.
“Hilda, have Cook prepare some willowbark tea with my breakfast, will you? I think I’m coming down with a cold.”
“Yes, my lady.” The maid peered at her, clucking at her red face. “You might have a fever. Perhaps the tea and some fresh air will do you good.”
After breakfast and two bracing cups of willowbark tea, Imogen called for her carriage. But first, she sent a footman to the Glenross residence with her card and an invitation for the duchess to tea in the next few days. She needed ammunition, information she could use. She would pretend she was interested in giving it a chance, as the Lady Glenross had graciously suggested. A twinge of discomfort at deceiving the woman bled through her, but she ignored it. This was war, after all, and Imogen needed every available weapon in her arsenal.
The carriage stopped at the shelter, and as her driver let her out, a small dirty waif stepped out from behind one of the columns flanking Haven’s entrance.
“Ye’re lookin’ fine today, Lady Im,” the grimy-faced child said.
A pair of bright amber eyes and a mischievous smile peered up at her as Imogen approached. She smiled back fondly, pleased to see Rory, the leader of a pack of street urchins that she and Emma had met a year or so back while collecting a patient in Leith Wynd. The gang of children had surrounded them, with their quick fingers turning out coins and handkerchiefs from Imogen’s pockets and an entire swatch of lace from Emma’s cuff. Rory, however, had ordered the items returned when she realized what the pair of women were in the poorer part of the city to do—help one of their own.
Rory was a girl, though she hid it well. Imogen suspected she was about twelve. The fact that she was female had only become apparent in the last year, when the urchin had started asking odd questions about the female body. At first, Imogen had been amused, thinking the lad had taken a fancy to girls, but the questions had had a more curious slant.
What are a woman’s courses? How large do breasts grow? And even more curious, can they be squashed or made to go away?
Rory had soaked up the answers like a sponge, and Imogen had been surprised at the child’s natural intelligence. When the questions kept coming, Imogen kept answering. In the end, it’d been Emma who’d ferreted out that Rory was not a lad but a lass.
Imogen worried for the girl. Living in a flash house was hard enough, and Imogen knew what became of many of the children who were girls. They ended up in workhouses or, worse, on their backs, trading use of their bodies for coin. A handful of the women at Haven came from being abused in brothels.
“How have you been, Rory?” Imogen entered the terrace house, glancing over her shoulder to make sure Rory was following at her heels. A part of her wanted to clutch the girl close, but she knew from experience that forcing her would push her away faster than a bee would sting. “Have you been practicing your letters?”
Rory shrugged, her amber eyes glinting. “Stormie had us workin’ on somethin’ else.”
Imogen schooled her features. Stormie was a flash man who made her blood crawl, and she hated that Rory worked anywhere near him. Even as a boy. Imogen didn’t want to think of what could happen if that piece of filth suspected she was a girl.
“Oh? What’s that?”
Before Imogen could blink, Rory held up a bracelet. Imogen’s bracelet. She hadn’t even felt the girl’s fingers on her wrist. She held out a hand, palm up, and Rory deposited the jewelry in it with a smirk.
“Stealing? You don’t want to end up in jail, do you?”
Rory gave an unrepentant grin. “Ye only go ta jail if ye get caught, Lady Im.”
Emma bustled in, her brows raising meaningfully, and Imogen shooed Rory off to eat some bread and broth with some of the women in the kitchen. “That one doesnae have much time before Stormie finds out what she’s hiding.”
“I worry for her,” Imogen admitted. “But I can’t force her to stay here. I’ve offered her honest work in the kitchens, and she’s refused.”
“Pride,” Emma said with a glance to the handful of children. “And position. She’s the leader of the pack. Better a ruler in a kingdom of thieves than a servant.” She sent Imogen an encouraging smile. “Keep at it. She’ll come around, and the most important thing is that she has a way out. That’s what ye created Haven for, after all.”
“Thanks for reminding me of that,” Imogen said.
Emma followed her as they made their way to Imogen’s office. “I’ve done the budgeting, stretching where I could. We have enough to last, but it will be tight. Some cuts will have to be made. How’s yer betrothal going?”
Imogen’s eyes slid to her friend’s. “You’ve heard then?”
“Everyone’s heard. The Duke of Dunrannoch is no’ a name that people dunnae ken.” Emma perched on the edge of the desk. “So how did that happen?”
“My parents.”
“And yer dowry?”
Imogen pursed her lips. “Tied up like a hog on Michaelmas, unless I can get free of the betrothal, which has been the plan. A terrible plan, might I add. The man is impossible to deter.”
“And handsome as the devil, I hear,” Emma said.
“Plays as dirty as the devil, too.” Cheeks flaming hot, Imogen tossed her head. “He’s also arrogant and a complete philistine.”
No, he isn’t, she amended in her head. The bastard’s just pretending.
Not a bastard, her helpful mind reminded her. A very legitimate duke.
“Oh, shut it,” she muttered. “Not you,” she added when she saw Emma’s expression. “I’m talking to…never mind. He’s unsuitable. That’s all you need to know.”
“So, same plan as the others, then?”
“Yes,” Imogen said. “Only it’s not working. He wore a bloody hundred-year-old tartan to a ball the other night. And a sword! A dratted sword! Who does that, Emma?” Her voice was a near shriek, and it wasn’t even put on this time. “The man is insufferable. You don’t have any brilliant ideas, do you?”
“Well, what does he like to do?”
“Stomp around, stick his manly chest out, crow to the rafters about his virile sword!” Emma’s eyes went wide, and she pinned her lips to stop from giggling. Imogen threw her head into her palms. “Go ahead, laugh away. This is purgatory for all those suitors I tortured all these years.”
“How are his sword skills?”
“Emma!” Imogen groaned.
“Jesting. Right, word is the Maclarens have a stable full of fancy thoroughbreds and that they’re all horsemad. Does yer duke enjoy horseback riding?”
“He’s not my duke.”
“Well, he will be if ye dunnae pull yerself together,” Emma scolded. “Invite him out for a ride during the social hour. I ken ye can ride, but be terrible at it. Embarrass him to pieces so much so that he cannae even look at ye. Better yet, somewhere public where his male pride is at stake.”
Emma’s suggestion pierced Imogen’s haze of self-pity. Why hadn’t she thought of that? He was a duke, and all men had their egos—dukes more than most. Imogen stood and crushed her friend in a hug that could crack bones. “You are bloody brilliant, Emma.”
“Thank ye.” The midwife batted her eyes. “I’m about due for a raise.”
…
To say that Ronan had been surprised to receive Imogen’s invitation to ride was an understatement. He didn’t think she would have willingly invited him to anything, much less a ride in Holyrood Park with all of Edinburgh Society in attendance. In fact, he’d kept his distance, knowing it would rile her up. He knew from his own sisters that no woman liked to be ignored, and he’d wanted to keep her off balance.
He’d also needed to rid feathers from his digestion.
Since his attire had worked so well at their last interaction, he hadn’t deviated much from it. The tartan was a bit newer, but it was still a kilt, a little too short, and his knees were on lurid display for all to see. In an extra nice touch, the plaid was covered in crusty reddish stains of old blood. Probably his brother Niall’s from his la
st round in the ring at Tarbendale. Ronan’s selection of horse had been on purpose, too. The massive, temperamental stallion was not meant for the streets of any city.
Imogen was late. Her note had said for them to meet at Holyrood Park a half an hour ago. Ronan scowled, avoiding the eyes of yet another couple riding by. He was beginning to get irritated. He’d never been one to call attention to himself, and now it seemed he was on stage for all of Scottish Society. He should have known that the hellion would not show. He’d just ride to her residence and steer Zeus right up the steps and into her pristine foyer.
He imagined her expression and smiled—until he saw what was coming toward him.
Christ in the Highlands, what in the bloody hell was that?
A massive draft horse, about nine hundred years old, plodded along the street, slower than ice could freeze. A crowd followed. Of course it did, because his minx of a fiancée sat perched on the saddle, her fingers clinging to the reins in a death grip as if the half-dead horse was about to bolt. Bolt straight into a nap, it looked like.
Ronan blinked, dismay and disgust warring for space in his chest, as her seat wobbled, her backside sliding dangerously on the saddle. A small scream escaped her lips, but the groom behind her was quick to lend his assistance, slowing the ancient beast and allowing her to regain her balance.
“Good day, Your Grace,” Imogen said in a breathless voice when they finally came to a stop what seemed like a handful of hours later.
Her eyes slid over him, something like banked heat flashing for an indeterminable moment, though she allowed no other expression to show. He, for his part, couldn’t adjust his eyes to the garish, muck-brown color of her riding habit. It looked like what he’d found once in the cloth swaddling of one of his nephews.
“Can ye no’ ride?” he asked, the only question he could manage.
“I am riding,” she said brightly. She patted the dull gray mare with a loving stroke. “This is Pudding.”
What a Scot Wants (Tartans and Titans) Page 6
