What a Scot Wants (Tartans and Titans)

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  Aisla and Sorcha exchanged a look while Imogen’s mind raced. She bit her lip as another twist of jealousy turned her stomach. What did she care? This was what she needed.

  “Grace is an opportunist,” Aisla said.

  “Hopefully one that stays here, in Edinburgh,” Sorcha added.

  They would see soon enough. And if Lady Reid shifted cities in the coming weeks, Imogen would decide then what moves to play. As much as her body insisted she hated it, the revelations about Lady Reid could be the very thing that won her freedom.

  “You’ll need someone in London, I think,” Sorcha said. “Lady Bradburne is a dear friend of mine, and I know the two of you will get along. She supports a number of hospices and charities with her husband, the duke.”

  Imogen brightened a little. “She sounds wonderful. I only wish I didn’t have to leave, especially right now with what’s happening with Rory.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on her, if you like. And I can have Brandt look into this Stormie fellow you spoke of.”

  Imogen wasn’t certain what the duke could do, at least not single-handedly, but she nodded her thanks. The duchess was so generous, and Aisla, too. Like Emma, they didn’t look at her sideways, attempting to puzzle out just what was wrong with her for having the interests she did.

  She almost wished she were marrying into the Maclaren brood, if only to benefit by having Sorcha and Aisla as sisters. Of course, becoming their sister-in-law would require more sacrifices than Imogen was willing to make.

  Including giving in to one very frustrating and infuriatingly kissable duke.

  Chapter Eight

  Ronan was bruised and sore and wanted nothing more than a long bath, a good meal, and a night in his own bed after the journey from Edinburgh to London. Though he and Imogen had stopped at several coaching inns, breaking the trip up into three days, they could have been strangers for all the time they’d spent in each other’s company. They’d taken separate rooms in the inns, and he’d preferred to ride Zeus while she remained in the privacy of his luxurious coach, though now his arse ached fiercely for it.

  It was his own fault, refusing to share the coach like a coward. But after the incident in her office, Ronan could no longer trust himself. Touching her had been a mistake. Now that they’d crossed that line, every interaction between them was fraught with an undercurrent.

  He was acutely aware of her—her scent, her mannerisms, her facial expressions—and he found himself drawn by the conundrum she presented. A beauty with a fortune, but a committed spinster. She was a paradox.

  In the past few days, he’d heard more gossip from a few of Lady Imogen’s former suitors at the Golden Antler, and the information had fascinated him. One man, a marquess in line for a dukedom, had professed that she was the worst bluestocking he’d ever met, spouting scientific theories and mathematical equations at every turn. Since he was firmly in the camp that women should be seen and not heard, he’d cried off his suit.

  Another gentleman, a viscount, had claimed that Lady Imogen was an irreverent, ungodly woman, and given that he was the son of a vicar, he couldn’t well marry a chit who refused to go to church on principle because she argued that even Lucifer could be considered the hero of his own story. The utter sacrilege of it! Ronan had had a hard time keeping a straight face. He knew for a fact that Imogen went to church with her parents.

  A third man, untitled but wealthy, who owned a hothouse flower farm, had imparted she had a violent allergy to pollen. The lady had sneezed constantly whenever she’d been around him, and he’d cried off simply to preserve her health. Ronan distinctly recalled seeing several floral arrangements in her home and no sign of any illness on her part.

  By then, he had started to sense a pattern. The disparity between each report, notwithstanding the many other rejections she was known for, had made him think.

  Imogen Kinley was a swindler.

  A very smart, very clever little swindler who played on men’s strengths, weaknesses, and prejudices. Not to land the man, as some female title and fortune hunters in the aristocracy were known for, but to chase him away. Ronan had wanted to laugh at her intelligence…and the bloody brilliant gall of her.

  On the way to London, he’d had more than enough time riding on Zeus to ponder her angle. At Haven, she’d been composed, focused, and the clear opposite of the vapid woman he’d started to know. He’d bet every farthing he owned that her reticence to get married had to do with that shelter. Now, he just needed to figure out a way to make her choose between him and Haven…the thing she loved more than anything else in the world.

  London was a new stage. A second act. For both him and his vixen of an opponent. He needed to stay focused.

  After a brisk bath, Ronan dressed and made his way down to the dining room for dinner. He’d forgone the kilt, though he’d been tempted. His valet, Vickers, had reminded him in a stage whisper that they were now in London. As if Ronan cared. But he’d given in, allowing himself to be dressed in proper English evening attire, simply because he’d been too weary to argue. And too riled up over thoughts of Imogen.

  She’d agreed to stay with him at Dunrannoch House for the time being. Her parents’ Berkeley Square home had not been in use for many years, and there had been no staff in place for a quick revival of the residence after Ronan had made his unexpected decision. They planned to arrive in London within the week, once Kincaid Manor was staffed and ready, so they could be present for the engagement ball. Until then, Imogen would be his guest and in the bedchamber attached to his own, just as he’d promised.

  To his surprise, she had not put up a fight; however, his betrothed had not yet descended. Perhaps she was angry after all. Part of Ronan hoped that she would not come down to dinner so he could eat in tension-free quiet, but another part of him didn’t want to go another minute without seeing her.

  Pouring himself a glass of Maclaren whisky, he sipped it and stared out the paned glass doors of the palatial dining room into the darkened, manicured gardens beyond. Like all his other properties, his London home was well-appointed and luxurious, but something about it felt constricting. It wasn’t the house. It was being in Town.

  He couldn’t wait for this charade to be over and to return to the Highlands.

  “Good evening, Your Grace,” a shrill voice said.

  Ronan winced. Surely, she would have given up that part of the act by now.

  “Lady Imogen.” Ronan turned, and the answering greeting lodged in his throat at the sight of her.

  Christ, voice aside, she was beautiful. Like his own choice of clothing, she appeared to have forgone the pretense for the evening, dressed in a simple pale green gown with capped sleeves and a modest bustline. The skirts fell in simple folds to the floor. She wore no other accents or jewelry, but then again, she needed none. Her dark hair, clustered at her nape, shone, and the pastel color of her dress made her eyes seem even greener.

  In a word, she was stunning.

  “No feathers?” he asked. “Sequins?”

  He’d meant it to be teasing, but somehow it came out as three growled words. Her shoulders tensed, and her lush mouth tightened.

  “No claymore to terrify the servants?” she returned evenly.

  Touché.

  Ronan grunted in response and gestured for her to sit before summoning the waiting servants to begin the first course. The soup was his favorite, cream of leek and potatoes, but he could hardly taste it. Then the second course, consisting of duck in savory orange sauce, was served, and neither of them spoke while they ate. They had nearly finished when Ronan cleared his throat.

  “How’s your meat, my lady?” he asked, watching her.

  She halted, fork halfway to her mouth with the last succulent mouthful of duck. Various emotions chased across her face, from horror to defiance, until it ended with resignation. She placed her fork down and drew a breath. “I assume you’ve discerned I am not opposed to consuming meat.”

  “Aye.” He indicated the pl
ates. “By all accounts, duck à l’orange is yer favorite.”

  Imogen took a sip of the wine a footman had poured for her. “It seems you’ve discovered quite a bit about me, including my eating habits and meal preferences.”

  “I like to be prepared. I make it my business to understand my…”

  “Enemies?”

  “Challenges,” he finished.

  “It sounds like you’re a man who leaves nothing to chance, Your Grace. Not even a betrothal.”

  “No’ if I can help it,” he said. “And my name is Ronan. Surely we are beyond formality by this point, considering we are both past chaperoning age and engaged to be wed.”

  She eyed him over the rim of her glass, her green gaze giving away nothing. Her sudden reserve was at odds with the chatterbox persona she’d employed the last few outings. But instead of mollifying him, it set his teeth on edge. A woman like her did not give up.

  The dinner continued in silence through the next course and finally the dessert course of strawberry cream. It was another favorite of hers, he knew, but she didn’t touch it.

  “No’ to yer liking?” he asked.

  “I’ve had enough, thank you, Your Grace.”

  He leaned back in his seat, noting her pointed address. No, his little firebrand hadn’t given up. She was biding her time, reconsidering her strategy now that he’d forced her to come to London. “Do ye have any plans while we are in Town?”

  Imogen’s eyes flashed with temper. “Why would I have any plans? I didn’t want to come, if you recall, and you forced me to accompany you without any notice or advance preparation.”

  “I didnae force ye,” he said. “I gave ye the option to refuse.”

  She scowled. “Crying off the betrothal was hardly a viable option, Ronan.”

  Even with its combative notes, the sound of his name on her tongue made his pulse quicken. He wondered how it would sound in the butter-rich tone she’d used in Haven’s office when she’d been taken unawares by his visit. Or how it would sound in bed while being ridden to completion. He went instantly hard.

  “Why no’?” he asked thickly.

  “Why not?” she echoed with a hard glare. “I had a life before you, you know. A fulfilling, happy life without any overbearing dukes giving me ultimatums. Without forced engagements that threaten to destroy everything I hold dear. Tell me something, Duke, why would you even agree to a betrothal if you have such unreachable standards in the first place?”

  The punch of lust drained away as foreboding settled in his blood. “Unreachable standards?”

  “Lady Reid.”

  It took a few full seconds for the name to sink in, for it to hit like a lethal blow to the chest. Followed by the fact that she, of all people, knew of it. Bloody hell, Sorcha and Aisla. He intended to have a word with his sister and sister-in-law when he returned to Maclaren, but for now, it took almost everything within him to hold back the tide of memory and keep the cold rage he’d buried from erupting.

  “She was your first love, wasn’t she?” Imogen pressed.

  “Dunnae speak of it,” he growled, his fingers nearly snapping the stem of the wineglass as he slammed it down and rose to tower over her.

  “Why? Isn’t she the reason no one else can measure up? The one who jilted you? And ever since, no woman has ever been good enough for poor, heartsore, fractious Ronan Maclaren.”

  “I’m warning ye, Imogen.”

  Her face paled, but she did not back down. “Grace Donaldson broke your heart.”

  He flinched. “Enough.”

  “We all have ghosts in our past, Your Grace, ones that haunt us and torment us, but they belong in the past. As does your idea of the perfect woman or the perfect wife or whatever it is you think you’re looking for. Trust me, I will never be it.”

  “Ye ken nothing,” he said. “I am no’ looking for anyone.”

  “Then why don’t you cry off?” she hissed. “If you don’t want this engagement, either.”

  Ronan scowled, reaching for his glass and finding it empty. He resisted the blinding urge to throw it against the wall. “Because nothing would ever make me give up what I’ve poured my life into at Maclaren. The distillery and the people it employs are my responsibility. It’s who I am. A bratty spinster of a wife with a smart mouth is a small price to pay in order to maintain my clan’s trust. Why dunnae ye cry off?”

  “Because, like Maclaren is for you, Haven is who I am.” As small as she was, she held his gaze, head tilted back, defiance burning in her eyes. “And nothing would make me abandon it. Not even an old washed-up Highlander with boulders for brains.”

  The last three words were punctuated with jabs at his chest. He hadn’t even realized that she had risen and was now standing inches away from him, nostrils flaring, chest heaving, and battle flaring in her eyes.

  God, but she was a fierce little thing. Ronan had the stray thought that she had never cowered from anything in her life. Even brimming with his own anger, he felt desire renew in his stomach. He wanted to kiss her. Ravish her. Possess her.

  He wanted to use her lush body until he forgot everything else.

  Hell, he had to move before he did something unforgivable.

  Ronan drew in a strangled breath and stepped back. “Dinner is over.”

  He stalked from the dining room into the gardens without another word and headed down to the mews. Perhaps a ride would calm the fire in his blood. But as soon as he arrived at the stables, he changed his mind. Zeus would be tired, recovering from the journey. It wouldn’t be fair to take his frustrations out on the horse. Instead, Ronan stalked back and forth, muttering under his breath, until a low chuckle halted him in his tracks.

  “Bad night, guv?”

  He squinted into the gloom and moved toward the voice. A grimy face came into view, followed by a thin body sitting on the low fence that bordered the mews. A pair of odd-colored, almost-yellow eyes peered back at him.

  “What do ye want, lad?” Ronan asked, realizing the boy wasn’t one of his regular stable hands, though his burr proclaimed him as Scottish.

  The boy gave him a cheeky grin and hopped off the wall. “No’ much. Mayhap a bite to eat, if ye can spare it.”

  Ronan suppressed a grin at the young man’s industry. “What are ye doing hanging about my home?”

  The boy straightened his knobby shoulders. “I’m a friend of Lady Imogen’s.”

  Ronan pulled back and peered at him. Scrawny and thin, the urchin wore a hat low around his ears. His jacket and shirt were both too large and heavily patched, as was a pair of baggy breeches. “Is that right?” he asked dubiously.

  “I work with her and Miss Emma at Haven,” he asserted.

  Ronan was momentarily stunned. “Work with them, do ye? What is yer name, lad, and what the devil are ye doing in London?”

  “Name’s Rory,” the boy said and then shrugged. “When I heard Miss Im was going to London, I had ta see what all the fuss was about, didnae I?”

  “Indeed. And just how did ye get here?”

  “Hitched a ride in yer carriage,” the boy chirped. “In yer baggage trunk. ’Twas kind of tight, but I’ve been stuck in worse.”

  Ronan shook his head, anger forgotten for the moment. “Ye rode in the boot locker?”

  “Aye. Slept most o’ the time.”

  He was reluctantly impressed. “And what do ye intend to do here in London? It’s nae place for a child.”

  “I’m no’ a child,” he said, puffing out his small chest. “I was hopin’ ye’d give me a job. I’m good with horses an’ the like.”

  Ronan’s eyes narrowed. Given a chance, the boy would probably steal and sell anything he could carry from the stables, but he clearly knew Imogen to have followed her here. While the idea of using a child as a pawn did not terribly appeal to Ronan, it was too good an opportunity to pass up. Perhaps the boy would have more information on her.

  “Very well. Speak to Jenkins. He’s the head groom here. Tell him I sent ye. St
eal anything and I’ll haul ye to Newgate myself.” He glanced at the boy. “Tell him to get ye cleaned up, fed, and clothed. I’ll no’ have anyone in my employ smelling like the inside of a chamberpot.”

  “Thank ye, guv.”

  Ronan gave him a grim smile. “Dunnae thank me yet. It might be both our hides when yer lady finds out.”

  …

  Two days later, Ronan braced himself as they entered the elegant Bradburne residence, conscious of the taciturn woman at his side. Ever since their shouting match in the dining room two evenings past, she’d taken all her meals in her bedchamber, citing fatigue from travel. Ronan had been grateful for the reprieve. A part of him had wanted to apologize for his outburst while another was still furious at her delving into his private affairs.

  Grace Donaldson had not been someone he mourned in years—she was Lady Reid now, after she’d run off with that English viscount—and he didn’t want to. He didn’t hate or resent her. Not anymore. Those feelings had dulled with time and by force of will. What he had vowed, however, was that he would never give any woman that kind of power over him again. And this betrothal gave Imogen plenty of power…power he resented because she could take everything from him.

  Not that she was to blame. No, he had his meddling parents to thank for that.

  She’s in the same boat as ye.

  The voice of reason in his head didn’t help. Ronan couldn’t afford to feel anything but indifference toward her.

  When he’d gone through his correspondence earlier and noticed the invitation from the Duke and Duchess of Bradburne, Ronan had sent a message to Imogen’s room requesting her attendance. Thankfully, she had sent an affirmative reply. It would do them both good to get out.

  At the entrance of Hadley Gardens, he gave their names to the majordomo.

  “His Grace, the Duke of Dunrannoch and Lady Imogen Kinley,” the man intoned.

  Gazes in the ballroom immediately flocked their way. Ronan tensed, feeling Imogen also stiffen at his side, but then she relaxed almost immediately, a cool poise descending over her features. Their betrothal was the announcement of the Season, after all, in Edinburgh and in London.