Page 19 of What a Scot Wants
“Thanks for reminding me of that,” Imogen said.
Emma followed her as they made their way to Imogen’s office. “I’ve done the budgeting, stretching where I could. We have enough to last, but it will be tight. Some cuts will have to be made. How’s yer betrothal going?”
Imogen’s eyes slid to her friend’s. “You’ve heard then?”
“Everyone’sheard. The Duke of Dunrannoch is no’ a name that people dunnae ken.” Emma perched on the edge of the desk. “So how did that happen?”
“My parents.”
“And yer dowry?”
Imogen pursed her lips. “Tied up like a hog on Michaelmas, unless I can get free of the betrothal, which has been the plan. A terrible plan, might I add. The man is impossible to deter.”
“And handsome as the devil, I hear,” Emma said.
“Plays as dirty as the devil, too.” Cheeks flaming hot, Imogen tossed her head. “He’s also arrogant and a complete philistine.”
No, he isn’t, she amended in her head.The bastard’s just pretending.
Not a bastard,her helpful mind reminded her.A very legitimate duke.
“Oh, shut it,” she muttered. “Not you,” she added when she saw Emma’s expression. “I’m talking to…never mind. He’s unsuitable. That’s all you need to know.”
“So, same plan as the others, then?”
“Yes,” Imogen said. “Only it’s not working. He wore a bloody hundred-year-old tartan to a ball the other night. And a sword!A dratted sword!Who does that, Emma?” Her voice was a near shriek, and it wasn’t even put on this time. “The man is insufferable. You don’t have any brilliant ideas, do you?”
“Well, what does he like to do?”
“Stomp around, stick his manly chest out, crow to the rafters about his virile sword!” Emma’s eyes went wide, and she pinned her lips to stop from giggling. Imogen threw her head into her palms. “Go ahead, laugh away. This is purgatory for all those suitors I tortured all these years.”
“Howarehis sword skills?”
“Emma!” Imogen groaned.
“Jesting. Right, word is the Maclarens have a stable full of fancy thoroughbreds and that they’re all horsemad. Does yer duke enjoy horseback riding?”
“He’s not my duke.”
“Well, he will be if ye dunnae pull yerself together,” Emma scolded. “Invite him out for a ride during the social hour. I ken ye can ride, but be terrible at it. Embarrass him to pieces so much so that he cannae even look at ye. Better yet, somewhere public where his male pride is at stake.”
Emma’s suggestion pierced Imogen’s haze of self-pity. Why hadn’t she thought of that? He was a duke, and all men had their egos—dukes more than most. Imogen stood and crushed her friend in a hug that could crack bones. “You are bloody brilliant, Emma.”
“Thank ye.” The midwife batted her eyes. “I’m about due for a raise.”
…
To say that Ronan had been surprised to receive Imogen’s invitation to ride was an understatement. He didn’t think she would have willingly invited him to anything, much less a ride in Holyrood Park with all of Edinburgh Society in attendance. In fact, he’d kept his distance, knowing it would rile her up. He knew from his own sisters that no woman liked to be ignored, and he’d wanted to keep her off balance.
He’d also needed to rid feathers from his digestion.
Since his attire had worked so well at their last interaction, he hadn’t deviated much from it. The tartan was a bit newer, but it was still a kilt, a little too short, and his knees were on lurid display for all to see. In an extra nice touch, the plaid was covered in crusty reddish stains of old blood. Probably his brother Niall’s from his last round in the ring at Tarbendale. Ronan’s selection of horse had been on purpose, too. The massive, temperamental stallion was not meant for the streets of any city.
Imogen was late. Her note had said for them to meet at Holyrood Park a half an hour ago. Ronan scowled, avoiding the eyes of yet another couple riding by. He was beginning to get irritated. He’d never been one to call attention to himself, and now it seemed he was on stage for all of Scottish Society. He should have known that the hellion would not show. He’d just ride to her residence and steer Zeus right up the steps and into her pristine foyer.
He imagined her expression and smiled—until he saw what was coming toward him.
Christ in the Highlands, what in the bloody hell wasthat?
