“Stop, Ronan,” she said, touching her hat nervously.
“Why?”
“Because I’m not going to change my mind. I’ve spent the last several years helping steer women in the right direction, to know what they want and to not allow anyone to stand in their way. Haven is my purpose. What kind of hypocrite would I be if I gave it all up because of a fleeting attraction?”
He’d expected this response, and he let out a sigh of relief that he’d been right to wager on it. Still, he needed to push her.
“Haven is yer excuse, Imogen.”
She elbowed him in the stomach as she whipped around to glare at him. “What do you mean by that?”
“I think ye hide behind Haven. Ye use it as a shield, the women, too, to no’ have to face whatever it is ye’ve been avoiding. It’s time to stop.”
Her green eyes dimmed, the accusation clearly knocking her feet out from underneath her. Ronan steeled himself against the remorse for having been the one to do it.
“You’re wrong,” she said, spinning away from him once again. “You don’t know the first thing about me. I love Haven. I love what I do there. I love who I am there.”
“I ken ye do. And I dunnae think ye should give it up, no’ completely. I wouldnae ask ye to. But I think it’s time ye made room in yer life for other things.”
She crossed her arms and scoffed. “Let me guess—like a husband?”
He set his palms on her hips, uncaring that the pilot might see. He waited for her to shove him and walk away again. When she didn’t, Ronan curved his grip inward and flattened his hands against her stomach.
God she felt so good tucked up against him, the soft, round swells of her arse pressed against his thighs. Stop, he ordered himself. He was getting carried away. The idea of taking Imogen to his bed had plagued him for too long, it seemed. He was almost starting to think that his new tactic might actually have an upside.
“Tell me ye havenae thought of it yerself.”
“Ronan…”
“Tell me the truth.” One of his palms covered the lap of her skirt, pressing against the space between her thighs. Turned as they were toward the corner of the basket, it was highly unlikely that the pilot could see what was happening. Not that Ronan cared. He felt all inhibitions melting away as Imogen’s heat reached him through the thin muslin and linen of her day dress.
“Ye’re already wet, aren’t ye?” he whispered in her ear. He hooked his fingers and pressed harder.
She bit off a moan. “We can’t.”
“We could.” His cock was already stirring, and he didn’t take a step back to keep Imogen from noticing. Hell, if they were alone, he’d already have her skirts around her hips and his fingers in her slick, tight channel.
Her hand came down over his. “Control yourself,” she hissed, peeling his fingers free. She threw his hand down and sidestepped him, rocking the base of the wicker basket as she stalked to the other corner.
Her reaction was exactly what he’d intended, and yet the admonishment struck him in the gut. Control himself? He thought he had been, but the disappointment he felt, the sting of her rejection, kicked like an angry mule.
Ronan took a few seconds in the corner of the basket, alone. Bold overtures and declarations would work, he knew it. He’d drive her away before the week was through. Before the engagement ball, for certain. She wouldn’t recognize his advances as anything but true and honest because hell, he did want her. He wouldn’t have to lie at all to gain the outcome he wanted. He waited until his arousal had reduced before he started toward Imogen.
“Forgive me,” he said, swallowing his pride and practically choking on it. “I’ve sprung this on ye too fast.”
Imogen peeled a lock of her hair from her cheek. The wind had intensified, buffeting her hat and dress. “Your change of heart is rather…surprising.”
He needed to press his suit, but he felt a bite of panic, unable to think of what more to say. Perhaps a retreat, before he advanced again.
“How is Rory?” he asked. The abrupt change in topic startled Imogen, but she looked relieved. “I’ve heard Mrs. Desmond has had to hide the grape preserves and biscuits for tea from her.”
Imogen allowed a grin, and the sight of it quickened his pulse. “I think she should teach Rory how to make them instead. She’ll root out the hiding spot in no time at all.”
She peered at him and, again, touched the ribbons on her hat. “I’ve asked her to stay on with me. I’d like to adopt her. If possible.”
It didn’t surprise him. The young girl obviously admired Imogen, and vice versa.
“She’s lucky to have ye.”
Imogen waited, as if expecting him to say more on the matter or express his concerns. After his scathing observation regarding Haven, he didn’t blame her. But Ronan didn’t have anything else to add. It was her softheartedness that had led her to be such a champion for those women she harbored. He’d already seen her protective side when it came to the girl. He would have been surprised if she hadn’t thought of a way to keep her close.
Another gust of wind pummeled the balloon, causing the colorful silk above them to ripple wildly. Imogen clung to the basket edge and held firm.
Ronan looked to the operator fussing over the burner. “Perhaps we should descend, aye? The wind is picking up—”
A loud cracking sound cut him off, and instantly the basket went into a dangerous tilt. Ronan slammed back into the wall of the basket, breath smacked from his lungs.
“Ronan!” On the other end of the basket, Imogen screamed, her feet flying out from underneath her as that side of the basket rose up into the air while Ronan’s end seemed to tilt downward. She clung to the edge, her legs flailing.
“Imogen!” He got to his feet and reached hand-over-hand up the side of the basket toward her. “Stop kicking and dunnae let go!”
The operator was on his hands and knees, crawling up the incline toward the burner. “One of the ropes must have come untethered!” he shouted, reaching for a rope hanging from the mouth of the balloon. “I have to open the vents to release the pressure and start our descent.”
“Then do it,” Ronan growled, aware of more shouting on the ground. All he could focus on, however, was Imogen, her panicked face looking over her shoulder, searching for him.
“Ronan, I can’t hold on! My gloves—” She screamed again as a second cracking sound resonated and the basket rose at an even more perilous angle. Another rope had to have come loose. The pilot cried out as he fell backward, landing hard against the basket wall, as Ronan had earlier.
His heart seized when he saw Imogen, her fingers slipping from the basket, her feet and legs now dangling off the floor completely. If she fell… At this angle, the wall that had caught Ronan and the pilot might not be enough to catch her.
“Ronan!”
He reached for her, barely able to touch her ankle.
“Get this bloody thing onto the ground!” he shouted to the pilot, but the man was crumpled against the basket’s inner wall, clinging to his shoulder with a look of agony on his face. Shite.
“Imogen, lass, hold on. I ken ye can do it. I’ll get us down,” Ronan said, reaching out instead for the metal rods of the cage that held the burner into the center of the basket. “Tell me what to do,” he shouted to the pilot, who was still conscious. Thank God.
“Pull the controlling line—it leads to the vent lines.”
Ronan searched for a line that lead down from the mouth of the balloon. He found it and tugged. The basket dropped, though not quickly enough.
“I’m slipping,” Imogen rasped, squeezing her eyes shut. “You said I wouldn’t die a horrible and painful death!”
Ronan cursed himself and his bloody idea but refused to panic. “I said I wouldnae let anything happen to ye, and that hasnae changed. Look at me, Imogen.” She opened her eyes and met his gaze. “I’ll land this sodding thing one way or another, but ye’ve got to hold on. Trust me.”
Her eyes g
littered, but the hysteria in them subsided as she held his stare. She nodded, and Ronan exhaled. She was placing her trust in him, and he couldn’t fail her. The balloon descended, their speed increasing. Ronan kept a hold of the line opening the vents and maneuvered his way toward Imogen. If her fingers came loose, he needed to be closer in order to have a better chance at catching her.
“The ground’s getting closer,” he said.
“Too fast,” the pilot replied. “We need to slow down. Release the line.”
Ronan did as instructed, keeping watch on Imogen’s grip all the while.
“I’m never stepping foot in another flying contraption again,” she called.
“Ye say that now,” he replied, angling himself directly underneath her. “Once this is over ye’ll remember nothing but the thrill of it.”
“Thrill? You’re mad!”
He checked over his shoulder and saw the ground rushing at them. “Hold on, lass,” he called, preparing for the impact.
“I am holding on!”
The basket landed, hard, and Imogen lost her grip. Ronan caught her as she fell, though they were already leveling out. Ronan tucked her close, trying to cushion her landing. They dropped onto the floor of the basket with a whump, the air nearly driven from his lungs, his head rattling a bit. Shouting voices approached as the silken balloon collapsed around the basket, shrouding the three of them.
“Are ye injured?” Ronan asked, running his hands down her arms and over her head, her pinned hat askew.
She blinked and tried to sit up. “I…I don’t think so. My God, that was terrifying.”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace, my lady,” the operator said, still clutching at his arm as he stood and the balloon was peeled aside by the other men. “The stakes were hammered in deep, but the wind was worse than we predicted.”
Ronan helped Imogen to her feet, her arms and legs shaking. He swept her up into his arms, cradling her, and handed her over the edge, back onto solid ground.
“You’re not shaken,” she said, observing him as color rushed back into her blanched cheeks.
“We’re on the ground, safe, just as I promised ye,” he replied, keeping to himself the fact that his pulse had nearly stopped when he’d seen her hanging perilously.
“Yes, I…” Imogen pressed her lips together, going pale again. Her cheeks billowed out, and Ronan leaped out of the way seconds before she vomited onto the grass.
He rubbed her back and handed her the handkerchief in his pocket.
She whipped it from him and stepped aside. “I’d like to go home now.”
Ronan signaled the waiting phaeton. He couldn’t blame her in the least.
Once she’d comported herself and more color had come back to her cheeks, Ronan turned to her. “Will ye think about what I’ve asked?”
Her expression was inscrutable, but the Imogen he’d come to know was much too intelligent and wily to give anything away. He’d taken her by surprise up in the balloon, and her honest reaction had helped him test his theory. But now…now she was composed. Battle-ready.
“I have thought about it.” She tilted her head. “Perhaps Lady Reid will be amenable to your marriage of sexual convenience. Elope with her.”
“Are ye conceding, then?”
“Not in the least.” She smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “I’m just suggesting she might be a more enthusiastic partner for your needs, rather than a much frostier bedfellow in the marriage bed.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to shout he didn’t want another woman, but he clamped his lips shut.
“Do you concede, Your Grace?”
His grin matched hers in ferocity. “No’ on yer life.”
Once more, they were at an impasse.
Chapter Sixteen
A brisk ride down Rotten Row was doing little to calm Imogen’s roiling senses. They’d been in a right stew since daybreak, ever since she’d woken from yet another rough night. A visit with her mother, more shopping, and now handling a surly Temperance hadn’t helped matters.
Even having moved from Ronan’s home to her old room at Kincaid Manor on Berkeley Square hadn’t offered the respite she’d been hoping for. Ronan hadn’t been happy about her choice to return to her parents’ home, but she didn’t care. She needed space. Not that the distance had helped any.
Imogen was starting to note an unwelcome pattern, most of it having to do with her perplexing fiancé, who had put it in very plain terms what he wanted from her as a wife in that blasted hot air balloon.
Heat saturated her skin at the memory of his crudeness. Every thought she had was of the duke. Even the ride in Hyde Park had made her think of the last time she’d raced on the Row with him, and for some ridiculous reason, she missed his company. Not that she needed it after the debacle in that balloon.
God, she’d never been so terrified in all her life, but, even at the crux of it, she had understood deep down that Ronan would never let anything happen to her. When they’d been flung to the ground, he’d cradled her with his big body, taking the brunt of the fall himself. A part of her had warmed at the thought of having someone like the Duke of Dunrannoch at her side, protecting her for the rest of her life.
Flushing, she dismounted Temperance and handed the reins to the waiting groom in the mews behind Kincaid Manor. The mare had sensed her underlying turmoil and had been particularly difficult to manage, refusing to heed the simplest commands, but even that hadn’t been enough to wear Imogen down.
Maybe Ronan had a point. Maybe they could both get it out of their systems, whatever it was. Desire. Lust. Attraction. She felt all those things and more. Then again, they didn’t need a marriage to do that. Instead of a broodmare, it sounded like the duke wanted a bedmate. Her thighs clenched. Waking up next to him wasn’t a terrible prospect…it was everything else that came with marriage that was the problem.
Namely, a complete lack of independence. No man, no matter how sexually proficient he was, was worth giving that up for.
With a sigh, she climbed the stairs to her childhood bedchamber.
“Hilda?” she called out. “Are you here? I’m in the mood for one of your tonics. Preferably one with a splash of brandy.”
There was no response from the maid, and the bedroom was empty, though everything from earlier that morning was put away and in place. Imogen pushed the door leading into her bathing chamber open, but that was empty as well. Walking to the door, she summoned one of the undermaids to find Hilda and also call for a bath. She had a few hours before she had to attend her parents’ impromptu gala that evening.
Imogen shrugged out of her riding habit, which had front closures, thank God, and pulled on a robe over her underclothes. She would need Hilda’s help for the stays. While she waited for her maid and the bath to be readied, perhaps she would have a lie down. As she approached the bed, she smiled. Hilda hadn’t been as tidy as she usually was. There was something resting on her pillow. Her smile crashed. It was a lily.
A white lily.
Panic clogged her throat as the ground tilted beneath her feet. Why the bloody hell was there a lily on her bed? How had the thing gotten in here?
It was from Silas. It had to be. No one else ever sent her white lilies. But this was going too far, much too far. She wrapped her arms about herself, her eyes frantically darting around the room. Was he still here? Had he come himself? Paid one of the servants? How had he known that she was back here in her old bedroom? The questions came one after the other, like blows to her head, making her flinch.
The thought of that man being in her private bedchamber made her stomach quail. Slowly, she backed away, part of her wanting to throw the offending thing out of the window and another part not wanting to touch it. When her body bumped into something solid, she screamed, but it was only Hilda.
“What is it, my lady? Are you well?”
“How did that get in here?” she whispered, pointing to the flower.
Hilda frowned, her face twisting with
disgust. “I don’t know, my lady. It wasn’t here when I left to take your garments downstairs to be laundered this morning.”
Imogen turned to stare at the maid. “It’s from him, isn’t it? How did he get up here? That’s where I sleep…”
“I’ll get rid of it, my lady, and replace the sheets.” Hilda shook her head and then handed over two large boxes. “Oh, these came for you. It’s from one of the stores we visited, don’t worry. It must be from the shopping earlier.”
Maybe it was because of the lily, but every hair on Imogen’s body stood up in warning. With shaking hands, she opened one box, and her erratic breathing evened out. It was a royal blue bonnet she’d admired, though the shopkeeper had insisted at the time that it hadn’t been for sale. Perhaps he’d changed his mind. The second box was rectangular, and she took comfort in the fact that it wouldn’t be more jewelry. Imogen flung off the cover and felt bile gurgle into her mouth.
A doll lay there. A porcelain doll with pink cheeks, green eyes, and brown hair. Its resemblance to her was uncanny, but that wasn’t what made her breath hitch. The toy was dressed in a pale green gown with pink embroidered peonies. An exact replica of the dress she’d worn when Silas had proposed.
She remembered the day clearly because he had taken her on a picnic and he’d told her she looked like a forest fairy. Imogen shivered. He’d always had the gift of a silver tongue, making her feel special and wanted. But he’d done the same to Belinda and, as it turned out, other girls as well.
Another bit of card stock lay tucked at the doll’s feet. Imogen almost didn’t want to read the card, but she had to.
I dream of that day. You still have my heart. -SC
Her stomach dropped. Oh, sweet God in heaven, the man was demented. How could he possibly imagine that they were still connected after all this time? He’d lied to her, manipulated her and others, only to return without a care in the world, as if no time had passed, and he expected to be welcomed as lord of the manor? It was unconscionable. If he thought her a nitwit or an easy target, he was wrong!
With no small amount of fury, Imogen slammed the cover back and met Hilda’s eyes. “Burn it. Burn all of it.”
What a Scot Wants (Tartans and Titans) Page 18
