Page 7 of What a Scot Wants
Back in the empty foyer, Ronan passed a hand over his sweating forehead. Good God, if she said one more word, he was going to drown himself in the first vat of whisky he could find, even if it wasn’t a Maclaren batch.Gladly.
Christ, clearly she was too much of a nitwit to be offended. He’d fondled her arse in polite society. Insulted her completely. And apart from that first unguarded reaction, she hadn’t run crying to Lord and Lady Kincaid, which was exactly what he’d intended. No, she’d waxed on about jiggly blancmange and sodding pudding recipes.
Then again, he hadn’t missed that first spark of defiance, of disgust… It was almost as if she’dwantedto crush his foot with her heel and smack him across the face. What had stopped her? Had her parents bred her to overlook such behavior? Or had her mind simply been sidetracked by the thought of food? The woman’s erratic moods made his bloody head spin.
With some desperation, Ronan reached for the flask in his coat pocket and took a deep draught. Now more than ever, he knew what a disastrous match they would make. He’d slit his own throat within a week of being married. Less, maybe.
Bloody blancmange.
He would have to renew his efforts to make her cry off, no matter what it took.
…
In the privacy of the retiring room, Imogen wanted to break something. Preferably a large crystal bowl over a certain Highlander’s thick head. God but he was dreadful! Never had she been so offended in all her life. Her bottom still burned beneath her many layers of clothing where he’d touched her so boldly. Socrassly.
The ungracious oaf hadbittenher, too! She flushed, clenching her fist. The heat from his mouth had seared her, and when she’d felt the scrape of his teeth, it’d been all she could do not to combust.
And his filthy words…good Lord.
The only sounds I want to hear are moans. And my wee wife telling me what’s for dinner—after she’s taken all I can give her.
Her cheeks went hot, and she caught her breath, fanning herself with renewed vigor. Imogen couldn’t remember the last time her body had responded in such a visceral way to anyone, much less an uncivilized, cloddish excuse for a man. She couldn’t explain the simmering of her blood in her veins, the sudden inability to catch her breath, the weakness of her limbs. She was angry, that was all. Positively livid.
What on earth had her parents been thinking?
Imogen splashed her hot face and patted it with a soft cloth. Despite his conduct, the Duke of Dunrannoch wasn’t an eyesore. Apart from his enormous size, his face hadn’t been unpleasant. No, to many women he might be considered handsome, ruggedly so.
He had a strong nose that looked like it might have been broken a time or two, an uncompromising jawline, and sharp, aristocratic cheekbones. His hair was thick and dark, and his eyes were the bluish-gray mercurial color of a loch caught in a storm. In the space of a handful of minutes, she’d seen those striated irises shimmer from translucent blue to darkened gray. If she didn’t loathe him to distraction, she might have found them beautiful.
Her man of business, Mr. Jobson, Emma’s cousin, had been thorough in his assessment, and while she’d been daunted by what she’d found out about the duke, she wasn’t deterred. He was aman, after all. And a man who valued industry and intelligence. Two things she would pretend not to be.
That was the easy part. The hard part, as she’d just discovered, would be not responding to his odious, vulgar behavior. The duke had practically salivated over her bosom, licking his lips as though she were a meal! She went hot again at the memory of that ravenous look. Whatwouldit feel like to be consumed by a man like him?
Good Lord, ten minutes with the man and she was turning into a philistine.
Imogen shook her head and calmed her unruly thoughts. Once she regained her composure, she would have to go back out there and put on the show of a lifetime. Flirt and act the dimwit. Ignore his crude insinuations. Gauge the man’s weaknesses and load them into her arsenal. There was no rush. No need to panic.
Dissuasion, like seduction, was an art. It had to be done with care.
She took one last bracing breath and left the retiring room. It wasn’t hard to locate her ogre of a fiancé, but she avoided where he stood in conversation with a few people. He kissed the cheek of an elegant-looking older woman in greeting, a half smile crossing that hard face of his. His mother, she presumed.
Her father glanced over at her as they turned out of the salon, but Imogen looked away. She couldn’t even make eye contact with him without feeling ill. He would see her married off to such an objectionable man? Suddenly, she felt an unwelcome heat against her back as though she’d summoned the cad, and before she could prepare herself, a heavy palm landed on her hip.
“There ye are, my mouth-watering confection of a bride.” Ronan Maclaren’s broad hand practically burned through the layers of silk. “I do hope we’re seated next to each other at dinner, my wee pudding-lover,” he whispered, taking fast, long strides down the corridor, forcing her to keep in step. Imogen nearly tripped, but the Highlander’s arm gripped her tighter, pulling her more firmly against his side.
She let out a breathlessoomphat the tight squeeze but resisted the urge to claw at his hand and extricate herself. It was inevitable that they would be seated together, but she would play the part and try not to stab her foul-mouthed betrothed in his solid, muscular, raven-clad thigh with a salad fork. With a determined breath, she pulled herself into character and forced a giggle.
“Oh I don’t think Icansit, I’m just so excited for the music after dinner. Do you like music, Your Grace?” He looked like he would prefer the cadence of gunshots and battle cries to anything from a civilized instrument. Before he could answer, she went on. “Because Ilovemusic, especially a waltz—a Schubert waltz, to be precise, though I’m not very good with the foot placements, so if you don’t mind, I’ll just stand on your toes.”
Lord Dunrannoch paused as they came to their seats—as Imogen had dreaded, placed side by side, though thankfully at the other end of the table from her parents—and replied, loud enough for their nearest dinner companions to hear, “Lass, ye can stand on my toes any time.” He leaned in as they sat, his tone lowering just for her ears. “There’s nothing like a waltz to let a man feel his way around a woman. Gives him a taste of what’s to come.”
Scandalized beyond belief, Imogen spent an extra moment flattening the napkin over her lap while the zinging urge to wallop him right in his square jaw bubbled up her throat. The low-bred, foul-tongued knave! She took a breath, shook off the outraged heat billowing within her, and blinked owlishly up at him.
“I do love waltzing.” She punctuated the statement with another high-pitched giggle and felt the side of the duke’s large body flinch against hers. “Isn’t it curious how some words, Your Grace, when you say them over and over, don’t even sound like words anymore? Waltz, for instance. Say it.”
He finished pulling in his chair and frowned at her. “Say what?”
“Waltz.”
