Page 33 of What a Scot Wants
“We need to leave, right now.”
“As ye wish,” he said. Despite his earlier avowals, he didn’t have it in him to deny her, not when she looked so shaken by the news of the girl’s presence. She obviously cared for the lass.
Ye’re bloody weak, Ronan, giving in to her whims like this.
Shaking away the thought, he pushed open the door and ushered Imogen inside. Upon entry into the ballroom, he moved single-mindedly toward the exit, but Imogen did not follow. He glanced over his shoulder to see what was holding her back, only to find her frozen, her face ashen. He truly hadn’t expected news of Rory’s presence in London to have shaken her so thoroughly. But just then he noticed a smartly dressed gentleman hovering an arm’s length away just inside the doors.
But before he could go toward Imogen, a hand fell to his arm. A feminine hand. With a face and body he remembered, and suddenly, he was flung twenty years into the past.
“Grace?”
She hadn’t aged a day, her red hair and jade green eyes still making heads turn. Not his, of course. No, that ship had sailed long ago, and he’d made a hard peace with what had happened, but he couldn’t contain his shock. What were the odds that Imogen had known that Grace was in town? High, probably, given her pointed remarks the other night at dinner.
Grace smiled. “Aye. Ye look well, Ronan.”
“What are ye doing in London?” But even as he asked the question, his eyes drifted back to where the gentleman was now speaking with Imogen.
“I’m here for the Season.” Her hand made a possessive sweep down his arm, her smile turning coquettish. “So much has happened. I’d like to catch up with ye. Do ye want to take a stroll on the terrace?”
“What?” he asked, too distracted by Imogen’s stillness and disturbing lack of expression to give Grace much consideration. “I’m sorry. No’ right now. Please excuse me.”
Leaving the gaping woman in his wake, he retraced the handful of steps between him and Imogen. As much as his mind was awash with emotion and confusion at seeing Grace, he had the sense that Imogen needed help. Neededhim.
“Might I have this dance, Gennie?” he heard the man asking when he drew close.
Ronan scowled.Gennie?Imogen’s eyes were overbright, her body rigid to the point of utter stillness, and she was so pale it seemed like she might swoon at any second. A protective surge rose in his breast. The gentleman looked familiar, though Ronan couldn’t place him. Whoever he was to her, she clearly did not wish to dance with him.
“Her dance card is full,” Ronan said.
Pale blue eyes narrowed on him. “Who are you?”
“The lady’s fiancé.”
Frost and fury burned over the man’s stare but then vanished as a smile appeared. He inclined his head, his gaze touching on Imogen. “Perhaps another time, then. I look forward to catching up, Gennie. We have much to talk about.”
Again with that curious nickname. As soon as the gentleman drew away, Imogen flinched, as if breaking free from some trance. She found her voice, her dimmed green eyes searching for his, the fear in them unmistakable.
“Please, I need to leave. I’m going to be sick.”
Chapter Nine
The blood rushing through her ears drowned out the din of the ballroom. Imogen wove through clusters of guests, her vision blurry at the edges, patches of cold sweat beading up in the hollow between her breasts and over her back.
He was here. Silas Calder washere.
Oh, God, she truly was going to be ill.
The questions of how and why and whether it was real or if she was stuck in some never-ending nightmare flooded through her as she stumbled, knocking shoulders with a few men and women along the way. If any of them said anything or called after her, she didn’t hear them. She couldn’t stop. The urge to run consumed her.
Finally, Imogen cleared the last group of people and made it behind a standing silk screen. The panels blocked the view of a servants’ door and the majority of the ballroom floor beyond. Her feet came to a glaring halt, the cold sweat glazing her from forehead to toe.
“Imogen?” She leaped and spun around with a yelp. “Easy, it’s me.”
Ronan had followed her. Her cheeks burned as tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.Get a hold of yourself.Silas Calder wasn’t worth the dirt on her shoes. She was a grown woman, and he meant nothing to her. He was in the past, and she would keep him there, where he belonged. The pounding pulse in her ears began to soften, and slowly, the stringed instruments and chatter beyond the silk panels filtered back in.
Ronan brows drew together in concern. “What just happened? I’ve never seen ye look so…paralyzed.”
Paralysis was exactly the right description. She hadn’t been able to move a single muscle. It had been years since she’d laid eyes on Silas. He’d been chased away, living on the Continent the last McClintock had reported. What was he doing here in London?
