Page 62 of What a Scot Wants
“Mama, Papa,” she said and kissed their cheeks.
“You look…radiant, Imogen,” her mother murmured, even as her father turned a dark shade of puce and tugged at his cravat.
Imogen grinned. “You’re supposed to say I look beautiful, Papa.”
“You do,” he managed. “But you’re missing a shawl or some such.”
“Come now, Papa, this style is all the rage in Paris.”
He looked dubiously at her. “If you say so. And you do look lovely, dear. Now, where is that fiancé of yours? I’ve a feeling you’re going to need him, and perhaps his claymore, at your side.”
Imogen laughed. Her gaze scanned the crowd, but Ronan had not yet arrived. “He said he would be late. And let’s hope he doesn’t come with his sword.”
The next two hours passed in a blur of greetings and introductions, especially to the gentlemen in attendance. It was incredible the attention a simple dress could inspire. Imogen had done her best to remain unnoticed in the last decade, determined to chase off anyone interested in giving her a first or second look, but tonight, she let loose. Imogen laughed, she flirted, she danced, and she also knew the moment her fiancé arrived.
“His Grace, the Duke of Dunrannoch,” Rogers announced. “And Lady Reid.”
The last was a blow to her sternum, all thoughts of Silas Calder forgotten.
Imogen spun around, disregarding the gentleman who had come to claim the next dance. Sure enough, the simpering lady hung on Ronan’s elbow. Imogen lifted her gaze to her fiancé and saw his fastened on her.
Even with the distance between them, she could feel the blaze in his eyes as he swept her form, and she saw his stare narrow dangerously at her partner. Imogen shot him a cool look and returned her attention to the man bowing before her.
Lord Firth. Heavens, no wonder Ronan had looked furious. In truth, she hadn’t even thought twice when the man had signed her dance card an hour ago. But now she was trapped for a waltz, no less. She shook her head. It didn’t matter. Ronan was with another woman.
Had that been thebusinessthat had made him late? Was he trying to make her jealous by bringing that woman here? It would not work. Imogen had been the one to suggest Grace as a replacement bride, after all.
Then why did her heart feel like someone had stomped on it? Why did she want to rush over there and pull that grasping redhead’s hair out by the roots? Ronan had made it more than clear what he expected in his marriage of convenience, and Imogen couldn’t fathom the thought of Grace in Ronan’s arms, in hisbed, being his wife in every carnal way, without feeling like she wanted to scream.
“How have you been, Lady Imogen?” Lord Firth asked. “I must say, you look marvelous this evening. That dress…” He licked his lips, and Imogen felt a beat of disgust.
“Thank you. I wore it for my fiancé.”
She hadn’t, but Lord Firth didn’t need to know that. His eyes flicked to where Ronan was standing. “The fiancé who just arrived with Lady Reid?” His lips curled into a knowing smirk. “He’s a lucky man to have such beautiful women fawning over him.”
“I do not fawn, Lord Firth.”
To Imogen’s dismay, she felt the man’s hand on her waist slip down to rest on the curve of her hip. Perhaps it was because of the slippery fabric. But that thought died as he tugged her closer, close enough to feel parts of him she had no interest in feeling.
“Lord Firth,” she began, just as a large shadow loomed over them.
“Allow me to cut in with my betrothed,” Ronan growled. His grim tone left no room for argument, and Lord Firth conceded with a sullen look. From the violent expression on the duke’s face, the man was lucky he didn’t get smashed into the ground.
Imogen pasted on a smile, despite her suddenly racing heart when Ronan’s large hand replaced Lord Firth’s. Funny howhistouch didn’t repel her. No, it only stole the breath from her, made her wicked brain want him to drop it lower, to cup her behind and bring her close.
Unlike her previous partner, she was not averse to feeling parts ofhim.Ronan looked incredibly handsome tonight, she had to admit, even clad in his dress kilt. The virile-Highlander look was growing on her.
“You’re late, Your Grace,” she told him as he spun them with expert ease.
“What are ye wearing, Imogen?” His voice was a low growl. “It looks like a night rail.”
She would die before admitting that it also felt like one. Instead, she fluttered her eyelashes. “No, darling, it’s a dress. From Paris. Do you like it?”
Imogen could almost hear the grinding of his teeth. “Nae. Yes.”
“Which is it? Yes or no?”
He grabbed her hand and dragged her off the floor. “It’s neither. We are leaving.”
