Page 30 of What a Scot Wants
The boy gave him a cheeky grin and hopped off the wall. “No’ much. Mayhap a bite to eat, if ye can spare it.”
Ronan suppressed a grin at the young man’s industry. “What are ye doing hanging about my home?”
The boy straightened his knobby shoulders. “I’m a friend of Lady Imogen’s.”
Ronan pulled back and peered at him. Scrawny and thin, the urchin wore a hat low around his ears. His jacket and shirt were both too large and heavily patched, as was a pair of baggy breeches. “Is that right?” he asked dubiously.
“I work with her and Miss Emma at Haven,” he asserted.
Ronan was momentarily stunned. “Work with them, do ye? What is yer name, lad, and what the devil are ye doing in London?”
“Name’s Rory,” the boy said and then shrugged. “When I heard Miss Im was going to London, I had ta see what all the fuss was about, didnae I?”
“Indeed. And justhowdid ye get here?”
“Hitched a ride in yer carriage,” the boy chirped. “In yer baggage trunk. ’Twas kind of tight, but I’ve been stuck in worse.”
Ronan shook his head, anger forgotten for the moment. “Ye rode in the boot locker?”
“Aye. Slept most o’ the time.”
He was reluctantly impressed. “And what do ye intend to do here in London? It’s nae place for a child.”
“I’m no’ a child,” he said, puffing out his small chest. “I was hopin’ ye’d give me a job. I’m good with horses an’ the like.”
Ronan’s eyes narrowed. Given a chance, the boy would probably steal and sell anything he could carry from the stables, but he clearly knew Imogen to have followed her here. While the idea of using a child as a pawn did not terribly appeal to Ronan, it was too good an opportunity to pass up. Perhaps the boy would have more information on her.
“Very well. Speak to Jenkins. He’s the head groom here. Tell him I sent ye. Steal anything and I’ll haul ye to Newgate myself.” He glanced at the boy. “Tell him to get ye cleaned up, fed, and clothed. I’ll no’ have anyone in my employ smelling like the inside of a chamberpot.”
“Thank ye, guv.”
Ronan gave him a grim smile. “Dunnae thank me yet. It might be both our hides when yer lady finds out.”
…
Two days later, Ronan braced himself as they entered the elegant Bradburne residence, conscious of the taciturn woman at his side. Ever since their shouting match in the dining room two evenings past, she’d taken all her meals in her bedchamber, citing fatigue from travel. Ronan had been grateful for the reprieve. A part of him had wanted to apologize for his outburst while another was still furious at her delving into his private affairs.
Grace Donaldson had not been someone he mourned in years—she was Lady Reid now, after she’d run off with that English viscount—and he didn’t want to. He didn’t hate or resent her. Not anymore. Those feelings had dulled with time and by force of will. What he had vowed, however, was that he would never give any woman that kind of power over him again. And this betrothal gave Imogen plenty of power…power he resented because she could take everything from him.
Not that she was to blame. No, he had his meddling parents to thank for that.
She’s in the same boat as ye.
The voice of reason in his head didn’t help. Ronan couldn’t afford to feel anything but indifference toward her.
When he’d gone through his correspondence earlier and noticed the invitation from the Duke and Duchess of Bradburne, Ronan had sent a message to Imogen’s room requesting her attendance. Thankfully, she had sent an affirmative reply. It would do them both good to get out.
At the entrance of Hadley Gardens, he gave their names to the majordomo.
“His Grace, the Duke of Dunrannoch and Lady Imogen Kinley,” the man intoned.
Gazes in the ballroom immediately flocked their way. Ronan tensed, feeling Imogen also stiffen at his side, but then she relaxed almost immediately, a cool poise descending over her features. Their betrothal was the announcement of the Season, after all, in Edinburghandin London.
Imogen held her chin high as they descended the staircase. She looked beautiful tonight. He’d half expected her to get up to her old tricks and appear in a gown made of fish scales or bear fur or something equally outlandish, but the dress she’d chosen was deceptively simple. When paired with her lush figure, vibrant green eyes, and plump lips, the creamy off-white gown was nearly indecent.
The virtuous color made him wonder at her game. Did she hope to play the innocent? To garner sympathy? The unwilling maiden entrapped by the big, bad, ferocious Highlander?
She was a bit long in the tooth to be playing the blushing debutante, but he would shift his strategy accordingly.
