Page 8 of What a Scot Wants
“Waltz?”
Imogen bounced in the seat of her chair. “Yes! That’s it! Waltz. Say it again. Waltz, waltz, waltz, waltz, waltz,” she sang, bobbing her head side to side. She tamped down the urge to laugh when Lord Dunrannoch’s flinty eyes went sharp with alarm.
“Waltz, waltz, waltz, waltz,” she finished, chirping out a contented laugh. “See? It doesn’t even sound like a word anymore, does it?”
He stared at her, the muscles along his hard jaw rippling, though he made no attempt to speak. She bit back a satisfied grin, her cheeks aching.Do not laugh, Imogen.
“Aye, I suppose it doesnae,” he muttered eventually. And when he didn’t tack on a ribald comment, she sat back in her chair, victorious.
Victory, though sweet, was woefully short. Her parents sent her sharp looks from their seats, surely having witnessed her mortifying display, but she knew they would never reproach her in public. And though the duke did not so much as turn his head toward her during the soup course, he set about sucking from his spoon like some untamed wild man.
At every awful slurp, Imogen shuddered and eyes around the table shifted, startled, toward him. Even Lady Dunrannoch’s cheeks were pink when the meat course was brought in on platters by the footmen. Imogen had a flicker of inspiration. One platter was set before the duke, and adhering to etiquette—something she was astonished to see—he slid one finely sliced round of beef from the platter and moved to place it upon her plate.
Imogen shot out her hand, her voice a fierce whisper. “No, thank you! Icannoteat that.”
He held it on the serving fork over her plate. “Whyever no’?”
She had always been very good at drawing up tears whenever necessary. They beaded up in the corner of her eyes as she gazed at the duke, and then at the fork he held.
“That poor, poor cow. I simply can’t imagine putting anything in my mouth that was once a living, breathing animal. With those big eyes and that sad, mournfulmoooooo.” Imogen shook her head and touched the napkin to the tip of her nose—it helped mask the tremor of a smile threatening to break over her lips.
“Ye’re worried about thecow?” he asked, sounding as incredulous as she’d hoped he would.
“Of course. Aren’t you, Your Grace? I can barely stand to look at her,” she said, waving away the forkful of tender red meat. She pursed her lips, her chin wobbling. “I do so look forward to when I am in command of my own dinner table. There will benomeat.”
He scowled and placed the beef onto his plate instead. “And what do ye plan to serve, if no’ meat?”
“Root vegetables, of course. And broths. Oh, and bread. I love bread. Pudding, too, but you already know that, don’t you?” Imogen poked him in the side, expecting to feel her finger sink into his flesh. However, it was like poking a granite wall. He peered at her, and though her finger throbbed, she felt a surge of delight as the Highlander stuffed his mouth and chewed, purposefully ignoring her. She counted it as a win.
“I agree with Lady Kincaid, don’t you, Dunrannoch?” the duchess asked, her voice reaching through Imogen’s thoughts, and, by the look of surprise, also her son’s. They had been so caught up in their own intrigues that neither of them had taken in the other conversations going on around the table.
The duke lowered his fork. “Agree with what?”
“Lady Kincaid and I agree that there should be an engagement ball,” she answered. “I will host it at our home here in Edinburgh.”
Ice sliced through Imogen’s veins, numbing her. Things couldnotget that far. Though her ploy seemed to be working, whenever Dunrannoch peered at her as if she had two heads there was a glimmer of battle in those eyes of his. That gleam worried her. It hinted that he was much more resistant to her methods than she would have preferred. Then again, he stood to lose a lucrative family business.
She would have to work harder.
“Oh,yes! I want the most beautiful dress for our engagement ball,” she squealed with as much enthusiasm as possible, ignoring the fine brackets of skepticism that formed between her mother’s brows.
Lady Dunrannoch, however, brightened visibly. “Well, of course you do, my dear. Everything will be beautiful, and I’m more than happy to help in the planning.”
Beside her, Imogen heard the duke take a deep breath and, with a quick look, caught the tail end of a grimace.
“Everything must be pink,” Imogen gushed.
“Pink?” Lady Dunrannoch repeated, alarmed.
“With embroidered rosebuds,” she went on. “The linens, the drapes, my dress, all of it. Idoso adore rosebuds.” Imogen drew a dramatic breath. “I think a future duchess deserves to be swaddled in them from her head to her toes.”
Her intended let out a snort, his words garbled with an indiscreet cough. It sounded like he’d muttered “more like smothered.” Imogen bit back a tickle of laughter. She eyed him with dreamy delight.
“Perhaps you can have a waistcoat with matching embroidery. Yes, yes, that would be splendid, don’t you think?” She poked him again for good measure. “Perhaps even identical wreaths of pink rosebuds. You would lookadorable!”
Dunrannoch froze, a strangled noise emerging from his throat.
Everyone went silent as the duke abruptly stood and left the table. The duchess gaped at her son’s departing back, an appalled look on her face. Squashing her triumph, Imogen made it through the rest of dinner while her betrothed left it to his mother to make her excuses for his rude departure. It appeared the good duke decided not to return.
