Page 13 of What a Scot Wants
“And you, Your Grace,” Lady Imogen chirped.
To her credit, she paid the livid scars upon Sorcha’s cheek no mind. The small act settled uneasily within him because Ronan did not want to feel approval for her kindness. The sight of his sister’s scars, inflicted by a wolf when she’d been but nine, was no small thing, not for a person meeting the duchess for the first time. But Imogen handled it with a grace that wasn’t easy to ignore.
Beside Ronan, Brandt spoke. “A pleasure, my lady. I’ve heard of your charity work. It’s impressive.”
Ronan snuck a glance at his betrothed. That Brandt knew of her charity house didn’t surprise Ronan, but it clearly did her.
“Why, thank you, Your Grace.” Her keen eyes flickered toward Ronan, then, with bright enthusiasm, she added, “I intend to bring some of my girls with me, to my new home in the Highlands. Lord Dunrannoch has been ever so kind, you see. His heart is the size of a mountain!”
Ronan only smiled. “The more, the merrier, my dumpling.”
Sorcha and Brandt both stared at him, his sister’s eyes narrowing. “I’m told you will have an engagement ball soon?”
No doubt his sister wanted to peg him with all sorts of questions about the betrothal. Their mother would have explained the arrangement, but Sorcha would want to have it from Ronan’s mouth as well.
“Yes!” Lady Imogen clutched at his arm, the swaths of her skirts and sleeves nearly drowning him. “Everything is going to be pink. I do so love pink, all shades of it. I was told this particular shade is apricot-pink. Isn’t it marvelous?”
Sorcha blinked and took a small step back. “How…lovely. I look forward to it.”
“As do I,” a smooth, French-accented voice cut in, coming up behind Ronan. He didn’t need to turn to know who had joined them. Julien Leclerc, the Marquess of Riverley, and his sister Makenna’s husband, smirked as he sipped his drink. “My goodness, Your Grace, your claymore is the accessory the rest of us plebeians are all lacking this evening.”
“I’m sorry ye left yers at home, Riverley,” Ronan replied, fighting the irritation his brother-in-law usually inspired. The glib Frenchman was a pain in his arse. “We could have provided entertainment with some sparring.”
“Oh, I am vastly entertained already,” he replied, turning to Lady Imogen and waiting for an introduction. Ronan did the honors, and Lady Imogen twittered girlishly as Riverley kissed the back of her hand and murmuredenchanté.
“What are ye doing here, Riverley?” Ronan asked. “I thought my sister was at Duncraigh, awaiting a bairn.”
“She is. I am finishing up some business here before making my way back home. I will most certainly tell her I saw you and met your dazzling fiancée.” His trademark smirk brightened as he turned to Imogen and gestured to his own lime green waistcoat with a gleeful enthusiasm that made Ronan want to punch him. “I must say, my lady, I applaud your bold taste in color. Pink is a marvelous idea for your ball. You’ll be the goddess of spring, and your duke will make the most magnificent god of spring.”
“Why thank you, Lord Riverley,” she trilled and clapped her hands with delight. “God of spring, indeed. What a charming thing to say!”
The vexing marquess blew a kiss toward the lady before smartly moving out of reach. Ronan wanted to throttle the man for encouraging her. “There’s nae such thing as the bloody god of spring,” he muttered, but the marquess was already out of hearing. His betrothed wasn’t, however.
She reached up to pat his cheek. “Don’t worry, cherub. We’ll transform you, yet.”
“Do enjoy the ball tonight,” Sorcha was quick to say, her wide eyes grazing Ronan’s as she and Brandt blended back into the crowd to greet other guests, most of whom were casting horrified glances their way.
Ronan felt absurd dressed in the great kilt, but having Lady Imogen on his arm in equally beastly attire oddly made him feel better. As he’d already observed, he wasn’t in this game alone.
“Are ye ready to dance, my sweet pig’s knuckle?” he asked.
She cricked her neck as she whipped her head toward him. “Pig’sknuckle?”
This time, the raised voice wasn’t put on at all, he wagered. Ronan let out a laughing huff and yanked her out onto the dance floor.
Time to put on a show.
Chapter Four
Good God, she was going to suffocate to death in this demonic dress!
Other couples on the ballroom floor gave them a wide berth. Between her obnoxious dress and his enormous size, they took up a lot of room. Imogen sucked in a deep breath, praying she took in enough oxygen to keep her upright for the dance. But if she didn’t, at least she would die with the gratified knowledge that her barbarian of a fiancé got a mouthful of feathers every time her plumed headpiece slammed into his lips.
She made it a point to toss her head on every turn, and she bit back a giddy grin when she saw him blowing an orange piece of fluff off his lips and looking quite riled in the process.
Success!
It had been mortifying, though, to meet the Duke and Duchess of Glenross, both well-respected and well-known in Edinburgh society. The duchess donated quite a bit to charity, and Imogen had hoped to someday lure her as a potential investor.
