When the bath was ready, she soaked until her skin was waterlogged, and when she finally came back into the bedchamber, the bed had been stripped and remade and there was no sign of the box or its contents.
A somber Hilda wrapped her plump arms about her. “Do you still wish to attend the ball this evening? I can tell Lady Kincaid that you have a megrim.”
“I won’t let him, or any man, chase me into a corner, Hilda.”
Hilda looked worried. “You do realize he might put in an appearance. As he did at the opera. And Lord Kincaid still holds him in fond regard.” She shook her head. “More fool he for not knowing what that man did to you.”
The thought had occurred to Imogen in the bath. It had made her belly ache, and a part of her had wanted to dodge any confrontation, especially to avoid any hint of scandal for her parents’ sake at least. But another part of her—the part that had seen countless women stand up and fight against men who’d taken things from them without consent—had decided it didn’t want to give in. She had to be strong for every girl who had her voice stolen from her.
“I realize that,” Imogen said softly. “No, I will attend. Instruct the servants to inspect every package.”
“Yes, my lady, I will check them myself from now on,” Hilda said. “And for the evening, might I suggest the silver satin.”
Imogen nodded, feeling indignant rage start to build. To hell with that man. “That’s exactly the one I was thinking.”
Two hours later, Imogen was ready. The silver satin gown had been meant to be a lark. She’d commissioned the thing from a Parisian designer for a Grecian masquerade she and Emma had been toying with as a fundraiser for Haven. While the ball hadn’t quite come to pass—she’d needed her dowry for the expenses—the dress had been sewn and delivered. Imogen had no idea why Hilda had thought to bring it to London, but she was grateful all the same.
The gown itself was sumptuous, the satin draping across her body like a glove and leaving one shoulder scandalously bare. The low-cut bodice was edged in silver lace, adding to the illusion of bare skin, even though she was completely covered. Nipping in at the waist, it fell in voluptuous folds to the floor, molding to her hips and outlining her thighs with each movement. She’d decided to forego extra petticoats for the occasion.
“I think you’ll break hearts tonight, my lady,” Hilda said, her cheeks red. “Or other organs.”
Heat rushed into Imogen’s own face. “Hilda!”
“Well, it’s true, my lady. You better hope your Highlander doesn’t throw you over his shoulder and cart you out of there.”
Imogen felt a flicker of hesitation. “It’s not too much, is it?”
“No. It’s perfect. You’re a sight to behold.”
The maid’s heartfelt words filled her with confidence, and as Imogen descended the curving staircase to the ballroom, she let it buoy her spirits.
Ronan had sent a terse message earlier with his valet that he would be arriving late because of a business meeting. A part of her wondered how he would react to the dress. Her fingers plucked at the shimmering, clingy fabric that whispered against her legs with every step. The gown was sultry and over-the-top and more risqué than anything she’d ever worn. She had a strong feeling the duke wasn’t going to approve. Imogen squared her shoulders. She wasn’t there for Ronan’s approval or disapproval. She was there for one purpose only—to send Silas a message once and for all.
She was not to be trifled with, and she was no man’s bloody doll.
At the entry to the ballroom, Imogen smiled at the majordomo, whose white eyebrows shot up to his hairline. Rogers had known her since she was a child, so she sent him a saucy wink and twirled.
“Lady Imogen Kinley,” he intoned, sounding like he was choking for a brief moment.
If his reaction hadn’t prepared her for how she looked, the lull in conversation and the stares she garnered from the guests did. Imogen felt nothing but dark satisfaction as Silas’s eyes bulged upon seeing her. Good. That high-handed, smarmy bastard was here. Chin regally high, she walked over to where her parents were standing.
“Mama, Papa,” she said and kissed their cheeks.
“You look…radiant, Imogen,” her mother murmured, even as her father turned a dark shade of puce and tugged at his cravat.
Imogen grinned. “You’re supposed to say I look beautiful, Papa.”
“You do,” he managed. “But you’re missing a shawl or some such.”
“Come now, Papa, this style is all the rage in Paris.”
He looked dubiously at her. “If you say so. And you do look lovely, dear. Now, where is that fiancé of yours? I’ve a feeling you’re going to need him, and perhaps his claymore, at your side.”
Imogen laughed. Her gaze scanned the crowd, but Ronan had not yet arrived. “He said he would be late. And let’s hope he doesn’t come with his sword.”
The next two hours passed in a blur of greetings and introductions, especially to the gentlemen in attendance. It was incredible the attention a simple dress could inspire. Imogen had done her best to remain unnoticed in the last decade, determined to chase off anyone interested in giving her a first or second look, but tonight, she let loose. Imogen laughed, she flirted, she danced, and she also knew the moment her fiancé arrived.
“His Grace, the Duke of Dunrannoch,” Rogers announced. “And Lady Reid.”
The last was a blow to her sternum, all thoughts of Silas Calder forgotten.
Imogen spun around, disregarding the gentleman who had come to claim the next dance. Sure enough, the simpering lady hung on Ronan’s elbow. Imogen lifted her gaze to her fiancé and saw his fastened on her.
Even with the distance between them, she could feel the blaze in his eyes as he swept her form, and she saw his stare narrow dangerously at her partner. Imogen shot him a cool look and returned her attention to the man bowing before her.
Lord Firth. Heavens, no wonder Ronan had looked furious. In truth, she hadn’t even thought twice when the man had signed her dance card an hour ago. But now she was trapped for a waltz, no less. She shook her head. It didn’t matter. Ronan was with another woman.
Had that been the business that had made him late? Was he trying to make her jealous by bringing that woman here? It would not work. Imogen had been the one to suggest Grace as a replacement bride, after all.
Then why did her heart feel like someone had stomped on it? Why did she want to rush over there and pull that grasping redhead’s hair out by the roots? Ronan had made it more than clear what he expected in his marriage of convenience, and Imogen couldn’t fathom the thought of Grace in Ronan’s arms, in his bed, being his wife in every carnal way, without feeling like she wanted to scream.
“How have you been, Lady Imogen?” Lord Firth asked. “I must say, you look marvelous this evening. That dress…” He licked his lips, and Imogen felt a beat of disgust.
“Thank you. I wore it for my fiancé.”
She hadn’t, but Lord Firth didn’t need to know that. His eyes flicked to where Ronan was standing. “The fiancé who just arrived with Lady Reid?” His lips curled into a knowing smirk. “He’s a lucky man to have such beautiful women fawning over him.”
“I do not fawn, Lord Firth.”
To Imogen’s dismay, she felt the man’s hand on her waist slip down to rest on the curve of her hip. Perhaps it was because of the slippery fabric. But that thought died as he tugged her closer, close enough to feel parts of him she had no interest in feeling.
“Lord Firth,” she began, just as a large shadow loomed over them.
“Allow me to cut in with my betrothed,” Ronan growled. His grim tone left no room for argument, and Lord Firth conceded with a sullen look. From the violent expression on the duke’s face, the man was lucky he didn’t get smashed into the ground.
Imogen pasted on a smile, despite her suddenly racing heart when Ronan’s large hand replaced Lord Firth’s. Funny how his touch didn’t repel her. No, it only stole the breath from
her, made her wicked brain want him to drop it lower, to cup her behind and bring her close.
Unlike her previous partner, she was not averse to feeling parts of him. Ronan looked incredibly handsome tonight, she had to admit, even clad in his dress kilt. The virile-Highlander look was growing on her.
“You’re late, Your Grace,” she told him as he spun them with expert ease.
“What are ye wearing, Imogen?” His voice was a low growl. “It looks like a night rail.”
She would die before admitting that it also felt like one. Instead, she fluttered her eyelashes. “No, darling, it’s a dress. From Paris. Do you like it?”
Imogen could almost hear the grinding of his teeth. “Nae. Yes.”
“Which is it? Yes or no?”
He grabbed her hand and dragged her off the floor. “It’s neither. We are leaving.”
“I’m staying here with my parents, or did you forget?” She dug in her feet once they moved off the ballroom floor.
“I dunnae ken why ye couldnae have just stayed at Dunrannoch House. I allowed ye to move, but—”
Her brows leaped in indignation. “Allowed me?”
They were interrupted by her father, who chose that moment to welcome his future son-in-law with a wide smile. “Glad you could make it, son!”
Imogen scowled. Son? That was a bit premature, wasn’t it? But her bitterness faded as soon as she registered who was behind her father. Dread bubbled in her stomach at the sight of the man, but she quelled it with ruthless force. That man had no hold on her. He had no power over her. He was nothing to her.
“Imogen, you know Mr. Calder, of course,” her father said to her and then turned to the duke. “Silas Calder, my former steward, Your Grace, until we lost him to the lure of London, and then the Continent, I hear. But he’s here for a long-overdue visit to renew old acquaintances.”
“We’ve met,” Ronan clipped through his teeth.
Her father opened his mouth and closed it, and for a moment Imogen wondered if he would blunder terribly and bring up her past engagement. Luckily, he did not.
Imogen felt Silas’s eyes on her as they exchanged short greetings, but she kept hers on her father, a smile fixed in place.
“Lady Imogen,” Silas said. “How much you’ve grown.”
“Indeed, Mr. Calder,” she replied. “It’s been some time since I was seventeen.”
“Enough to wear such a daring ensemble,” he went on, his eyes shifting to Ronan. “I must say, if I were in your place, Your Grace, I might worry.”
Imogen couldn’t help noticing that Ronan had shifted so that his arm was touching hers, and she felt him bristle at Silas’s words. He couldn’t possibly know what the man was to her, but she took greedy comfort from his presence all the same.
“Why should I worry?” Ronan drawled, a hand coming to rest on the small of her back. “Imogen is a beautiful woman who kens her own mind, and I trust her judgment in all things.”
Her mouth almost fell open in shock. It was completely at odds with the possessive jealousy she’d seen brewing on his face when he’d dragged her off the dance floor.
“Then you will not mind if I ask her to dance?” Silas put in smoothly. “For old times’ sake. We used to be dear friends, you know. One could also say, at one point, almost like family.”
With a sharp inhale, Imogen opened her mouth to refuse, but her father smiled and nodded. “You should, dear. I think it was you who taught this young man the steps to the quadrille. Do you remember?”
She bit her lip hard. How could she forget? She’d been a fool with stars in her eyes, so eager to dance with him, to teach him how to be a gentleman in her world. She’d fallen for his act…hook, line, and sinker.
Silas, the rotter, lifted a brow and extended his arm.
God, she should cut him dead, walk away, do something. But he knew she wouldn’t. If she did, then she would have to explain why to her parents, and that she could not do. Those secrets belonged in the grave with a very young and very reckless Imogen.
“Fine,” she replied ungraciously. “Unless the duke disagrees.”
Please disagree. Please. Please. Please.
“Nonsense,” her father interjected jovially before Ronan could speak. “Why would Dunrannoch mind? Go on. We need a moment to catch up anyway.”
Her heart in her throat and her body wooden, Imogen let Silas lead her back to the dance floor. Thankfully, the set was no longer a waltz and was an older cotillion-style dance. She wouldn’t have been able to stand having him so close.
“You are trying my patience,” he murmured when they came together for a turn.
Imogen found her voice and her spine. “How so? I hardly see how anything I do affects you.”
She felt him stiffen in anger, but he kept his outward expression bland. They twirled apart and came together again. “Did you receive my gift?”
“I burned it.”
His fingers tightened painfully on her wrist, and Imogen winced. She would have bruises beneath her gloves. “You did what?”
“Oh, you poor thing,” she said, refusing to let her pain show and grateful for the brief reprieves when they separated. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you, Mr. Calder, that grown men shouldn’t play with dolls? There’s a place for men who do, you know. It’s called Bedlam.”
His lips peeled back from his teeth in a grimace. “One day, I will look forward to taming that unruly mouth of yours.”
“Will there be more dolls?” she asked brightly. “Perhaps we could have a tea party. I do love a good tea party with a healthy side of male posturing. Honestly, it makes me hot and bothered.”
“You will show me respect.” His eyes narrowed. “And dress like a lady befitting my future wife.”
“Respect is earned, Mr. Calder,” she said, feeling a sense of power replacing the rage curdling inside of her. “And as far as my clothing, you won’t have anything to worry about, because I’m now engaged to a duke who happens to like the way I dress.”
“You’re mine, Imogen.”
Determination and fury twined along her veins as she danced with the monster who’d made her life a mockery and a living hell. Somehow, she would make him pay for the innocence he’d stolen from her that night at the Golden Antler. For the future he’d stolen from Belinda and her child. For all of the women he’d lied to and cheated. She would not cower. She would not bend.
Imogen smiled. “I’ll never be yours.”
Chapter Seventeen
Christ, Ronan was getting sick and tired of all this bloody socializing. He swatted at a butterfly as it fluttered in front of his face, the early summer heat pressing down over the guests in the Dinsmores’ garden behind their London home. North and Lana were hosting an afternoon soiree, and as much as Ronan liked the couple, he wished he’d turned the invitation down. Every day there was some ball or dinner or performance or exhibition to attend, where he was required to stand and drink and eat and dance, to make polite small talk.
But even though he was certain she was also weary of making appearances, Imogen had insisted they attend. She didn’t say as much, but he could see the fatigue in the brief moments she let her mask slip, exposing a drawn, almost bone-tired expression. Something was off with her. Ronan could see it now, even as she stood speaking with a group of women near a rose arbor. Despite the sunshine and fresh air, a bit of Imogen’s natural radiance was dulled. It’d been diminished somewhat…ever since her parents’ ball a week ago.
But everything was a game, wasn’t it? And they were both entrenched in it, both out to win, no matter the cost.
He glanced over to the fountain, where Lady Reid was coyly laughing with Lord Firth, and felt none of the burning jealousy he’d felt when he’d seen Imogen in Firth’s arms. His gaze traveled back to Imogen, and he frowned.
She stood with a cluster of other ladies, including his sister-in-law, Aisla, who had arrived with Niall on a short, impromptu trip. He thought again of how Imogen’s inner fight had diminis
hed as of late. Her wide smiles seemed forced, and her laughter rang too loudly.
From his side vision, he saw Grace strolling in his direction. Ronan scowled before reluctantly stepping forward from the hedge to meet the lady. Every part of him felt the urge to turn away. What in hell was he doing?
Using Grace to make Imogen jealous made him feel uncomfortable. Raised by a strong mother and having grown up with equally strong sisters, he’d never been such a man to dally with one woman while promised to another. It galled him. He wished to heaven that Imogen would just end it. But no, she was as strong-willed and stubborn as he. Perhaps even more so.
As Grace entwined her arm in his, Imogen glanced at him and, with a little smirk, raised her champagne flute in a clearly challenging toast, as if sensing his doubts and daring him to continue. She then turned back to her conversation with a few other ladies.
Clearly, his strategy wasn’t working. The truth of it sank like a lead ballast into Ronan’s gut. He extricated himself from Grace’s hold, not having heard the last few things she’d said to him. He opened his mouth to make an excuse but shut it as his fiery-eyed sister-in-law approached.
“Might I have a moment of your time, Your Grace?” Aisla had come up beside them, her request nothing less than an order. She speared the woman at his side with an icy look. “It’s an emergency.”
Grace sputtered as Aisla then took Ronan’s arm and forcibly walked him away from her.
“That wasnae necessary,” he said. “I was just about to—”
“Make an even bigger fool of yourself? Good God, Ronan, do you have any idea what you’re doing?”
He peered down at his sister-in-law still dragging him down a bricked path, straight toward an arbor leading into another hedged row. “I ken what I’m doing, and if ye’d have let me finish my conversation with Lady Reid—”
“So you can bring more ridicule down over Imogen’s head? Over Maclaren and our family’s name?”
Ridicule? The accusation caught him unawares, and he found himself shaking his head. “That’s no’ what I’m doing.”
What a Scot Wants (Tartans and Titans) Page 19
