What a Scot Wants (Tartans and Titans)
Page 10
Imogen held her chin high as they descended the staircase. She looked beautiful tonight. He’d half expected her to get up to her old tricks and appear in a gown made of fish scales or bear fur or something equally outlandish, but the dress she’d chosen was deceptively simple. When paired with her lush figure, vibrant green eyes, and plump lips, the creamy off-white gown was nearly indecent.
The virtuous color made him wonder at her game. Did she hope to play the innocent? To garner sympathy? The unwilling maiden entrapped by the big, bad, ferocious Highlander?
She was a bit long in the tooth to be playing the blushing debutante, but he would shift his strategy accordingly.
“Ronan,” the Lord Bradburne boomed, clapping him over the shoulder. “It’s great to see you, my good man. It’s been far too long. Since Makenna’s and Riverley’s wedding, I believe?”
“Aye, it has. Though ye were so in yer cups I’m surprised ye remember a thing.”
The duchess patted his arm. “Don’t goad him, Ronan. He wasn’t right for days after Niall tricked him into drinking all that Maclaren whisky.”
Ronan shrugged. “Ye ken what they say: never play a drinking game with a Scot. Especially at a wedding.”
The duke’s grin widened with devilish glee, and Ronan suddenly wanted to punch it off his face, sensing what was coming. “Speaking of weddings, of course, we’ve been eager to meet this beautiful fiancée Briannon and I have been hearing so much about.”
“Aye, this is Lady Imogen Kinley, my betrothed,” Ronan said tightly. “Lady Imogen, the Duke and Duchess of Bradburne.”
“Lovely to meet you both, Your Graces,” Imogen said.
The duchess smiled. “Please, we do not stand on ceremony with practically family. Lord Glenross, Brandt, who’s married to Sorcha, is Archer’s best friend. Call me Brynn.”
“Then you must call me Imogen.”
“I shall look forward to getting to know you,” Briannon said. “Perhaps we can meet for luncheon in the coming week?”
Imogen inclined her head. “I should like that very much.”
Ronan watched as the duchess leaned closed to Imogen to say something else that he couldn’t quite catch. The answering smile on Imogen’s face made him narrow his eyes. Briannon was no quiet miss herself, having quite cleverly brought her ex-rogue of a duke to heel. On top of that, she and his sister Sorcha remained close friends. He frowned.
Would Sorcha have enlisted Briannon’s help? Ronan sighed. Of course she would have. Hell, he should have thought about that before. He didn’t want Imogen getting any more creative ideas in her head.
Archer’s grin and knowing look were getting under Ronan’s skin. “What?”
The duke leaned close. “I’ve heard some interesting gossip about a savage Highlander being bested by a wee lass.”
“Sod off, Hawk,” he said, using the duke’s old nickname.
Ignoring the insult, the duke winked conspiratorially. “You should see the wagers at White’s. Your own brother-in-law, Riverley, is convinced she’s the one. He’s in it for a thousand quid. Most of the bets are for one of you to cry off, but after seeing you with her, I’m tempted to make my own wager in favor of happy ever after.”
“You’d be wrong,” Ronan growled.
“We’ll see. Pride goeth before the fall, my friend.”
With no small amount of irritation, Ronan half-dragged Imogen away. “Would ye like to dance?” he asked her with a terse bow.
Imogen frowned up at him, as if surprised, but then nodded with some trepidation. He escorted her into the next waltz, bracing his large palm over her waist. She was so small, yet she fit so perfectly against him, the top of her shining mahogany crown coming to his chest. One satin-gloved hand slid over his shoulder, and the other rested in his. Even through the fabric, he could feel the warmth of her fingers. In another world, he could have been happy to have such a beautiful woman on his arm. It was strange how right she felt against him.
And then she spoke, her words demolishing the illusion.
“Do they teach you the waltz in the Highlands?”
He glanced down at her. “About the same time they teach us to eat with our mouths closed, yes.”
“You eat with your mouth closed?” she asked, all doe-eyed innocence. “Since when?”
Ronan couldn’t help it. He laughed. “Minx.”
They danced for a while in silence, though Ronan could feel her escalated pulse and see the hint of color in her cheeks. Occasionally, her lips twitched into a half smile of pleasure at the end of a twirl. He liked seeing those unguarded smiles that hinted at something real.
“Why the white dress?” he asked. “It’s no’ yer usual…flair.”
“New city, clean slate.” She eyed him top to bottom. “Why the formal togs?”
He gave her an arch smile. “New city, clean slate.”
A part of him thrilled at the unspoken gauntlet being tossed down. It was a fresh chessboard, and for some reason he was looking forward to their game with a surprising amount of relish. As the last few notes of the waltz faded, he guided her out of the hot ballroom onto the much cooler balcony, taking two glasses of champagne from a passing footman on the way out. Ronan handed her a glass and downed the other. It wasn’t quite as bracing as a whisky, but it would do.
She walked to the stone balustrade, sipping her drink and staring up at the foggy night sky. “There are no stars here,” she murmured, her usual shrillness absent. “Not like at home.”
Ronan agreed. Nothing could beat a Scottish night sky on a clear evening. “Ye should see it at Maclaren. It’s incredible.”
“What’s it like?” she asked, glancing at him. “Your home?”
He shrugged. “Beautiful, wide, rugged, untamed.”
Her mouth parted slightly, but she didn’t reply, only turned her half-lidded gaze back to the sky. “You came to know the duke and duchess through Sorcha being married to Lord Glenross?”
“Aye.”
“Sorcha said they were forced to the altar because of a public kiss.”
“Aye, though it was a better fate than what was arranged for her at that time. It’s a long story, but Sorcha wanted to get out of marriage to another man, a cruel man. An English marquess. She and Brandt went galloping through the Highlands with her scorned betrothed on her heels. He wanted her for her dowry, ye see.”
“Isn’t that what makes a woman valuable?”
Her voice held no inflection. “For some men.”
“Not you?”
“We’re no’ talking about me.”
She swallowed, then took a sip of her champagne. “Continue with the story. It sounds like such an adventure. Then what happened?”
“Brandt fought for my sister, and Lord Bradburne and his wife showed up to lend the Maclarens a hand with the marquess. And after that, I didnae want to kill the man who’d ruined my sister anymore.”
“You could not have,” Imogen said. “Sorcha loves him.”
“Aye, and he loves her.”
A soft sound escaped her lips, something that sounded like a bittersweet sigh. It was odd coming from her—a woman who had eschewed the possibility of love at all costs. “Are they all happily married, the rest of your siblings?”
“Yes, I suppose ye could say they’re all happily married.”
“Except for you,” she said softly.
“Except for me,” he agreed. “Hence, this betrothal.”
“I’m sorry.”
He frowned. “Why? It wasnae yer doing.”
The honesty and ease of the conversation were both troubling and heartwarming. Heartwarming because he hadn’t felt so comfortable with anyone in years, certainly, not if it wasn’t a member of his own family. And troubling because he didn’t want to encourage the thread of friendship between them. He didn’t want to know her or to feel lightened by her compassion. He did not want confiding in her to be easy, as if he’d done it all his life.
Speaking of confidences…
Her eyes goggled, and her mouth fell open. “Rory? Here? In London?”
“Dunnae fash, leannan. I gave the lad a bed in the stables.”
She shook her head wildly, her shrill voice now a screech. “He’s not a lad. He’s a girl. Rory is a girl.”
Well, that changed things quite a bit. Ronan frowned. It was a hell of a disguise, but a lass couldn’t stay in the stables with the other grooms. “I’ll find her a place in the house, Imogen. She’ll be safe.”
“We need to leave, right now.”
“As ye wish,” he said. Despite his earlier avowals, he didn’t have it in him to deny her, not when she looked so shaken by the news of the girl’s presence. She obviously cared for the lass.
Ye’re bloody weak, Ronan, giving in to her whims like this.
Shaking away the thought, he pushed open the door and ushered Imogen inside. Upon entry into the ballroom, he moved single-mindedly toward the exit, but Imogen did not follow. He glanced over his shoulder to see what was holding her back, only to find her frozen, her face ashen. He truly hadn’t expected news of Rory’s presence in London to have shaken her so thoroughly. But just then he noticed a smartly dressed gentleman hovering an arm’s length away just inside the doors.
But before he could go toward Imogen, a hand fell to his arm. A feminine hand. With a face and body he remembered, and suddenly, he was flung twenty years into the past.
“Grace?”
She hadn’t aged a day, her red hair and jade green eyes still making heads turn. Not his, of course. No, that ship had sailed long ago, and he’d made a hard peace with what had happened, but he couldn’t contain his shock. What were the odds that Imogen had known that Grace was in town? High, probably, given her pointed remarks the other night at dinner.
Grace smiled. “Aye. Ye look well, Ronan.”
“What are ye doing in London?” But even as he asked the question, his eyes drifted back to where the gentleman was now speaking with Imogen.
“I’m here for the Season.” Her hand made a possessive sweep down his arm, her smile turning coquettish. “So much has happened. I’d like to catch up with ye. Do ye want to take a stroll on the terrace?”
“What?” he asked, too distracted by Imogen’s stillness and disturbing lack of expression to give Grace much consideration. “I’m sorry. No’ right now. Please excuse me.”
Leaving the gaping woman in his wake, he retraced the handful of steps between him and Imogen. As much as his mind was awash with emotion and confusion at seeing Grace, he had the sense that Imogen needed help. Needed him.
“Might I have this dance, Gennie?” he heard the man asking when he drew close.
Ronan scowled. Gennie? Imogen’s eyes were overbright, her body rigid to the point of utter stillness, and she was so pale it seemed like she might swoon at any second. A protective surge rose in his breast. The gentleman looked familiar, though Ronan couldn’t place him. Whoever he was to her, she clearly did not wish to dance with him.
“Her dance card is full,” Ronan said.
Pale blue eyes narrowed on him. “Who are you?”
“The lady’s fiancé.”
Frost and fury burned over the man’s stare but then vanished as a smile appeared. He inclined his head, his gaze touching on Imogen. “Perhaps another time, then. I look forward to catching up, Gennie. We have much to talk about.”
Again with that curious nickname. As soon as the gentleman drew away, Imogen flinched, as if breaking free from some trance. She found her voice, her dimmed green eyes searching for his, the fear in them unmistakable.
“Please, I need to leave. I’m going to be sick.”
Chapter Nine
The blood rushing through her ears drowned out the din of the ballroom. Imogen wove through clusters of guests, her vision blurry at the edges, patches of cold sweat beading up in the hollow between her breasts and over her back.
He was here. Silas Calder was here.
Oh, God, she truly was going to be ill.
The questions of how and why and whether it was real or if she was stuck in some never-ending nightmare flooded through her as she stumbled, knocking shoulders with a few men and women along the way. If any of them said anything or called after her, she didn’t hear them. She couldn’t stop. The urge to run consumed her.
Finally, Imogen cleared the last group of people and made it behind a standing silk screen. The panels blocked the view of a servants’ door and the majority of the ballroom floor beyond. Her feet came to a glaring halt, the cold sweat glazing her from forehead to toe.
“Imogen?” She leaped and spun around with a yelp. “Easy, it’s me.”
Ronan had followed her. Her cheeks burned as tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. Get a hold of yourself. Silas Calder wasn’t worth the dirt on her shoes. She was a grown woman, and he meant nothing to her. He was in the past, and she would keep him there, where he belonged. The pounding pulse in her ears began to soften, and slowly, the stringed instruments and chatter beyond the silk panels filtered back in.
Ronan brows drew together in concern. “What just happened? I’ve never seen ye look so…paralyzed.”
Paralysis was exactly the right description. She hadn’t been able to move a single muscle. It had been years since she’d laid eyes on Silas. He’d been chased away, living on the Continent the last McClintock had reported. What was he doing here in London?
“I…I don’t know. I feel queasy.”
Ronan looked sideways at her, skeptical. “Who was that man? I’ve seen him before.”
She frowned. “You have? Impossible.” But then she reconsidered. “Unless you met him long ago, when he was employed by my father.”
The dampness gathering on her skin sent a chill through her.
Silas had been the son of her father’s trusted steward, and when the senior Mr. Calder had passed unexpectedly, Lord Kincaid had taken the young Silas under his wing. The boy had been smart, fast to learn, and had quickly become indispensable to her father. He’d become more than just a worker, however. Imogen’s father had treated Silas like the son he’d never had, bringing him into the family fold. And when the handsome, ambitious, well-liked young man had sought permission to court a besotted Imogen, she’d only been too happy to agree, despite their differences in station.
Her father had trusted him. Imogen had trusted him. So had her governess, Belinda. A mistake that had cost Belinda everything.
“The gentleman’s name, Imogen,” Ronan pressed, making her flinch.
“Silas Calder.” The name on her lips sent another debilitating shudder through her. She shook it off. “It must have been the tartelettes that turned my stomach. Pâté, I think.”
The awful taste in the back of her throat had nothing to do with the hors d’oeuvres being passed out at the ball. The frown Ronan leveled her with hinted that he knew as much.
“I have such a delicate constitution, you know,” she went on, raising her voice as high as she could.
“Like hell ye do,” he growled, then stepped out from the silk screen panels to flag down a passing waiter. He returned with a glass of champagne. “It will help.”
She guzzled the contents in one fell swoop. When she spoke again, the forced pitch of her voice warbled. She couldn’t do it. Not now.
“I think it would be best if I left.”
A wall of fear closed in around her at the thought of stepping foot back on the dance floor. Might I have this dance, Gennie? Imogen’s skin flushed, then chilled again, as she recalled the sound of his voice. She never dreamed she’d have to hear it again.
It had been years. More than a decade, at least. Though she sometimes awoke at night, Silas’s face haunting her from her nightmares, she had forgotten just how fervent his eyes were. How pointed and direct. Like there was no one else in the
room but her. He’d made her feel like she was the only thing in the world that had mattered, and before she’d understood his feelings were actually obsession, she’d been flattered by the attention. He’d claimed to love her, and her foolish heart had fallen for it.
God, she’d agreed to marry the man. Until she’d learned what his character was truly like and what he was capable of doing to get what he wanted. Imogen shivered.
Ronan’s fingers pressed into her hip. “Do ye need a doctor?”
“No, that’s not necessary. I just need to…lie down.”
In any other moment, she might have blushed at the mention of lying down, in anticipation of some off-color remark from her fiancé. But he seemed to have turned over a new leaf since their arrival in London. He hadn’t become a starched cravat, but he was not as loose with his vexing and insinuating comments, either.
And to Imogen’s surprise, though her room was attached to his own, as he’d promised it would be, he had not so much as knocked or cleared his throat loud enough for her to hear. Not that it mattered. She still lay in bed at night wondering if he would somehow get through the locked door and attempt to repeat what had happened at Haven: kiss her in order to push her away. And when the night would pass uneventfully, she couldn’t determine if she was agitated or relieved.
Ronan’s attention shifted toward the dance floor. “I’ll say our goodbyes to Bradburne, and I’ll meet ye at the door.” He continued to hold her by the waist, his grip unrelenting. “Will ye be fine making yer way there alone?”
Imogen nodded on instinct. It wasn’t until Ronan moved back into the crowd that she considered the way her body had all but shut down when Silas appeared. It was that familiar panic, the one that rose within her as if it had a life of its own, choosing when and where to attack—usually at night, when her mind wandered. When she was forced to release her steel-forged control over it.
Suddenly uneasy, Imogen made her way toward the ladies’ receiving room. She could towel her cheeks and neck and the slick rash of sweat that had flashed over her before. Her hands were shaking when she entered the carpeted room, a collection of divans and sofas scattered throughout with a few mirrors against the walls.