Page 16 of What a Scot Wants
Imogen gave her a skeptical look. “Forced into an engagement?”
“Forced to the altar.” Imogen’s eyes went wide, and Sorcha grinned. “As much as you might not believe it, I was very much like you. Marriage was the furthest thing from my mind, and then I met Brandt. Crashed into him, lips-first, during a border country fair. It was a rather public kiss, and so we were then escorted to the church by my brothers, Finlay and Evan.” She chuckled. “You’ve already met Ronan. The rest of the Maclaren males are cut from the same overprotective, bossy cloth. Brandt and I were wed on the spot.”
“What did you do?”
“I did what any woman worth her salt would do…I gave my new husband hell, and then some. But then, Brandt turned out to be nothing like I expected. Any other man would have turned tail and given up. He didn’t.”
Was she insinuating that Ronan was also the type of man who would never give up? That Imogen didn’t have a chance in hell of running him off?
“Why are you telling me this, Your Grace?”
“Sometimes what we think we want isn’t what we need.” The duchess rose and patted Imogen’s shoulder. “Give Ronan a chance. He might surprise you.”
After Sorcha went back to her guests, Imogen made her way out to the balcony. The duchess was mistaken. She and Lord Glenross had married under very different circumstances, it seemed, and while they had obviously fallen in love after their forced marriage, Imogen could only think of everything she would be giving up. The harm that such an endeavor could cause. She knew what she wantedandwhat she needed, and a husband did not factor into that.
Her future had no room for a man like Ronan Maclaren. As much as she respected and liked the duchess, she had to stick fast to her plan. Even if he was tenacious, she was more so. She had not made it this far, on her own terms, without knowing how to put her head down and keep charging forward. A few more outings and she fully expected he’d be running for the Scottish hills.
An unexpected twinge of regret spun through her at the thought. In another lifetime, a man like Ronan would have been hard to ignore. The way his sister had spoken of him had conveyed volumes of mutual respect, protectiveness, and care. It was obvious she loved her brother deeply and they shared a sibling relationship that Imogen herself had never known. It made her somewhat envious, she had to admit. She didn’t resent being an only child. Her parents had doted on her, but she’d never had brothers or sisters to play with or to rub off her prickly edges.
Not that she wanted Ronan Maclaren as a brother.
What was she thinking? She didn’t want him atall. In any capacity.
As if drawn by some force, she glimpsed his large form through the balcony doors. Even in that blasted plaid, he cut a dashing figure for a Highland barbarian.
He’s a duke, her inner voice chimed in,not a barbarian.
A very handsome, very powerful duke. Easily a head taller than the people around him, he simply commanded attention. In the privacy of the darkness on the terrace, she could admit that his looks made her heart beat a little faster. It would take more than a smelly old tartan to detract from those brilliant, mercurial eyes or that stern but sensual mouth.
As he crossed the ballroom out of sight once more, Imogen noted the graceful, leonine nature of his movements. She had no doubt he would be a protector—no one at his side would ever come to harm. If she had only met him before she’d learned what devious creatures men could be…
She squashed the thought.Beforehad no consequence.
Andif onlywas a dangerous thing.
Dwelling on the past and what could have been had led her down some ugly roads, and she was not eager to visit them again.
She stood on the balcony, feeling the damp skin beneath her gown finally beginning to cool, and turned her mind toward Haven. Thinking of it calmed her, focused her. There was always something to be done there, or fixed. Problems that were not her own, and yet she could help remedy them. Change peoples’ lives.Thatwas her purpose.
She took a bracing breath, moving to go inside—and stopped as deep, male voices rose from the lawn below. The French accent snagged her like a thorn. It was the man Ronan had called Riverley earlier…the one with the lurid green waistcoat who had complimented her fashion sense. The second voice was warm with a Scot’s burr and belonged to none other than her fiancé.
Imogen licked her lips, ignoring the prickle of awareness that danced up her legs and spine at the low, husky sound of it, and moved toward the balcony balustrade. It was dark on the lawns, but she spotted the two men just beyond the nearest flood of light from the windows. A small cloud of cheroot smoke drifted into the light.
“Makenna will never believe me about this,” Lord Riverley was saying. “Usually I’m the one people stare at with their jaws loose. I’m not sure I like being outdone.”
“Aye, ye’re probably already thinking of having an apricot-pink waistcoat made.”
Imogen pinned her lips to keep from giggling.
“You know me well,” Lord Riverley replied. “It’s a striking color…though perhaps not in such…abundanceas your betrothed has chosen to display this evening. That was a feat evenIcould not pull off.”
Her smothered smile fell flat. Of course she knew she looked ridiculous.
“Ye encouraged her, Jules,” Ronan replied. “God of spring, my arse.”
“She needed little encouragement from me. Your future wife is determined to look the fool. Brilliant, if you ask me.”
An unexpected shiver chased down her neck. First the duchess and now the Frenchman. It’d been a few years since her last suitor, but surely her tactics weren’tthatinfamous. Imogen pressed closer to the edge of the balcony.
