Page 11 of What a Scot Wants
“A charity house. She funds it, runs it, and if the toffs dunnae like it, she pays them no heed.”
Lady Imogen?The frivolous, mindless woman he’d met the evening before funded and ran a charity house? Stevenson had mentioned that she volunteered, not that she spearheaded the thing. Ronan sat back in his chair to mull it over. The bairn she’d been speaking of to her maid the night before was perhaps not her own, then, but belonged to one of the women she had helped.
If so, then that changed things, and he was back to where he’d started.
“And she is public in this endeavor?” Ronan asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
“Should she no’ be?” McClintock retorted. “If she hid behind her status, she wouldnae help as many girls as she does.”
The smoky room, draped in shadows, pressed in on them, accentuating the man’s spark of temper. Ronan wondered at it. Clearly, McClintock admired Lady Imogen’s effort. To be honest, Ronan felt a surprising amount of awe as well. Not to mention another layer of confusion. The woman he’d dined next to the evening before didn’t seem competent enough to lead a quadrille, let alone a charity house.
Ronan stood. “Thank ye.”
“Have I soured yer enthusiasm, Yer Grace?”
The man almost looked hopeful. Ronan held his stare, unyielding. McClintock was not a man one wanted as enemy, but the Duke of Dunrannoch did not back down in anything.
“Ye’ve only stoked my interest,” he replied.
“It seems ye have much to learn about yer betrothed.”
It was a challenge, a barb that revealed to Ronan that McClintock wasn’t pleased with the news about his betrothal to Lady Imogen. The man was far too old for her romantically, and well below her social status…so what was the reason? His abrasive manner seemed almost protective.
“Indeed I do,” Ronan said and took his leave.
He saw himself out of the Golden Antler, thoughts of his puzzling betrothed spinning through his mind as he returned to Dunrannoch House. He had some Maclaren business to tend to with Stevenson before he had to see the lady again, and perhaps by then he would have a sound strategy in place.
And by later that evening, he did. The ball at his sister Sorcha’s Edinburgh home would be their first public outing together, and though their official engagement had yet to be announced, the rumor mill would be churning.
If McClintock was right—and he likely was—then Lady Imogen didn’t give a fig for what Society thought. But a person could only be pushed so far. She’d already suffered being whispered about; what he needed to do was cause a roar—one she could not ignore.
And so he’d dressed for the occasion.
He arrived at the Kincaids’ residence, and when the front door opened Ronan saw their butler’s eyes slip down, then back up. He stepped aside without reaction. “Your Grace,” he welcomed. “If you will be so kind as to wait in the salon—”
“Your Grace!” The high-pitched shriek slammed into his ears and clawed into his spine. “Thank heavens, you’re finally here!”
Ronan took a bracing breath and turned to meet Lady Imogen, who was coming down the stairwell into the foyer. His heart crashed to a stop at the gaudy mass of orange tulle and chiffon bouncing down the steps toward him. It made last evening’s pink dress seem tasteful in comparison. Bright as the hanging fruit he’d seen on trees in Spain, Lady Imogen’s dress was enough to set his teeth on edge.
The sleeves seemed to be inflated with air as she descended, the ruffles and pleats on the skirts so wide and billowing she was forced to slow her pace and feel for each step with her feet, which were completely hidden by a fringed hem of orange roses. And as if the already-hellish ensemble didn’t need more adornment, several plumes of dyed, salmon-colored feathers rose out of her coiffure.
But when her eyes finally took in whathewas wearing, her lips parted on a soft puff of disbelief, her feet stumbling on the last two steps. Ronan moved forward to catch her, the chiffon and tulle like catching a slippery lamb in his hands. She clutched hold of his shoulders while he reached for her, one of his hands landing, quite accidentally, on the rise of one rounded buttock.
Instinct shouted to release her, but as her green eyes flared, Ronan recalled his mission. “I ken I make women weak-kneed, lass,” he drawled, his palm closing in an appreciative squeeze over her curves. Good God, she was so well-formed that his mouth went dry. “But do try to restrain yerself, especially around the servants.”
She slapped him away. “I tripped, you lout; I’m not weak in the knees. Now get your hands off me.”
A heel gouged the toes on his right foot as she struggled for freedom. Not entirely accidental, he guessed, as Ronan released her and stepped back. His palm was on fire where he’d gripped her through the frothy gown. For a split second, he wondered what other tantalizing secrets lay underneath that monstrosity.
She blinked rapidly as she accepted her cloak from the butler, her green eyes once more taking him in with horrified disbelief.
“Your Grace, what a rather…traditional choice of dress.”
Ronan looked down at his great kilt: nine yards of Maclaren tartan wrapped around his waist and thrown over his shoulder, a long-sleeved linen shirt underneath. He’d considered leaving off the kilt hose in order to shock Lady Imogen even more but, at the last moment, decided he couldn’t embarrass Sorcha in her own home. It was awful enough he’d be arriving in an ancient kilt better suited to a Highland hunt during his grandfather’s time.
“Aye, I like room to breathe, if ye ken what I mean, lass,” he said, employing a suggestive waggle of his brow.
Lady Imogen blinked again, her lips pressed flat together. “Yes, I’m told breathing is rather essential.”
