Page 49 of What a Scot Wants
Finally, Grace tossed her head and turned to Ronan. “Tomorrow, then?”
“Thank you for the invitation, Lady Reid, but we have plans,” Imogen said, glancing back at Ronan’s inscrutable face. “Don’t we, dearest?”
A smile played on his lips. “I’d forgotten, but it appears we do. Perhaps another time, Lady Reid.”
As they said their goodbyes and Imogen registered the hatred in the other woman’s eyes, she knew she’d made a formidable enemy. Lady Reid acted as though Ronan was hers. The silly thing was, she could have the man. In fact, she was welcome to him, once Imogen had gotten what she wanted. Broken-hearted Ronan Maclaren would be on a platter, desperate to be consoled. All the woman had to do was wait.
But Imogen had the feeling that Lady Reid was not patient in the least.
And that did not bode well for Imogen’s plans.
Chapter Thirteen
Vickers finished with the knot in Ronan’s cravat and gave his lapels an extra, if unnecessary tug. His valet then smoothed each shoulder of the dinner jacket, masking his wordless judgment with normal, dutiful attentiveness.
Excellent. Now even his damned valet was peeved at him.
“You appear ready, Your Grace,” Vickers said without his usual marked enthusiasm for his work.
“I take it ye dunnae agree with my decision, either.”
Vickers busied himself in Ronan’s wardrobe. “It is not my place to speculate on the matter, Your Grace.”
The matterwas that Ronan had received a second invitation to Lady Reid’s party, this one handwritten and delivered a few hours after his outing to Hyde Park with Imogen. After several minutes of consideration, he’d sent a reply that he and his fiancée would happily attend after all.
Joining Grace’s social gathering was the last thing Ronan wanted to do this evening, but after he and Imogen had returned to Dunrannoch House the afternoon before, each of them smiling widely and laughing over Temperance’s saucy attitude toward Lady Reid, he’d known it was the best move he could possibly make.
He’d had far too much fun with Imogen, and they hadn’t even kissed. Hyde Park had been chaste and public and nothing at all like their encounter in the opera box, and yet he’d found himself enjoying his time with her, hooked onto her every word and trying to anticipate what the devil she was going to say or do next. Imogen—at least the woman she had transformed into, the one she claimed was therealImogen—fascinated him. And when Ronan had left her in the foyer of Dunrannoch House yesterday, his cheeks aching from the grin still plastered there, he knew he’d entered dangerous territory.
He shook his head to clear it. He’d let what was below his waist dictate his behavior in the last few days. He knew that Imogen wanted to marry as much as he did, and now, all of a sudden, she’d changed her strategy. He knew it had something to do with Silas Calder, but it would serve him well to remember that she didnotwant marriage. So why the seduction? Why the flirtation and the charm? What was her game?
And now, turning his entire household against him?
“The staff has been rather frosty today, Vickers,” Ronan said as he checked his appearance once more in the mirror. No dress kilt or Highlander garb this evening. He wore black superfine, a dove-white waistcoat, and looked every inch the English gentleman.
“Hilda has reported that her mistress is, in her words, devastated and humiliated.” His valet cleared his throat and kept his back to Ronan as he tidied up the room.
Devastated and humiliated his arse. She knew this was a competition as well as he, and she’d been outplayed. Turning his servants on him was simply her retaliation. Though it didn’t sit well with him how readily they had all rushed to her defense. Hell, she wasn’t lady of the house yet. And by God, shewouldn’tbe.
He couldnotlet the charming Imogen from Hyde Park, the one who had let down her defenses just far enough to tempt him closer, manipulate him as well as she had his household. This was combat…a pitting of wits, a means to an end. Marriage was out of the question. He didn’t love Imogen, and she didn’t love him.
Not that love was a requirement for most aristocratic marriages, though it seemed to be the Maclaren way. He thought of his parents and his brothers and sisters. Finlay and Evan would argue otherwise, but Sorcha, Makenna, and Niall had all found someone worth fighting for. His jaw tensed at the thought of Imogen, desire spiking in his veins, and he scowled. Lust and love were not the same thing.
“It is a social function,” he growled.
“As you say, Your Grace.”
Lavishing attention on Grace would, he hoped, be enough to drive Imogen to take action and end the betrothal. He hated the idea of cheapening what had happened between them at the opera or even in Hyde Park, but hell…for all Ronan knew, Imogen might have been performing some strategy of hers as well.
The thought felt wrong. Like a betrayal of sorts. He knew it wasn’t true and cursed himself for being such an arse. But that’s what he had to be, unless he wanted to return home with a wife who didn’t want anything to do with him or Maclaren. She would never thrive in the Highlands, and as much as he was attracted to her, she was not what he—or his clan—needed. He’d made a mistake with Grace as a young man, and he couldn’t afford to now.
Further, she’d been more than clear that she didn’t want this marriage any more than he did, and so hinting toward a reunion with Grace wouldn’t hurt her feelings. It would only hurt herplans.
Ronan took the stairs and waited for Imogen in his study. A glass of whisky went down in one swallow, and the burn helped center him. He hadn’t seen her all day, not since last evening at dinner when he’d announced they would be attending Grace’s party.
She had said nothing as her eyes lifted to his, spearing them as forcibly as a pair of daggers. A flurry of different emotions had swept over her face in the span of a few seconds. Surprise, followed by injury, then anger, and finally, enmity. All topped off with a glittering smile. “Of course, darling,” she’d said, taking a sip of her wine before claiming yet another megrim and withdrawing.
She used them to escape him and the rest of the world far too often. In fact, he’d half expected for her maid to deliver a message that evening saying Imogen could not attend Lady Reid’s due to the affliction. He checked the mantle clock. Half nine. He supposed she might still cancel. The clench in his gut bothered him. He didn’t want to go alone. And not just because he needed Imogen to witness his shameless flirtations with Grace. He simply wanted her on his arm. In his presence.
