Page 9 of What a Scot Wants
Victory!
Before the music was to begin, Imogen went up to her bedchamber, desperate to loosen some of the fasteners on the hideous dress. It had served its purpose, but the thing felt like an oven. She was overheated from all the fabric.
“How are you faring, my lady?” her longtime lady’s maid, Hilda, asked.
Imogen grinned, fanning herself near the open window. The bracing air felt glorious on her cheeks tonight. They had been far too warm most of the evening. Darling Hilda had been a part of her schemes for years, and Imogen had more than compensated the maid for her loyal and faithful service, over and beyond what her father paid her.
She breathed in the night air, drawing a deep breath, happy to have her voice back at its normal low-registered cadence. “Oh, Hilda, it’s gone brilliantly. Perfect.”
“And the duke?”
“Running as fast as his heels can take him, if I have to guess. Dear God, Hilda, you should have seen the look of abject terror on his face at the thought of being adorned in rosebuds for the wedding. Honestly, I pity the woman who has to marry the ham-handed oaf.” She spun, staring out at the stars twinkling in the sky, and then peered back at Hilda. “But I only have a minute before I’m expected back downstairs, so enough about that awful man; any news of my sweet babe? How is he faring?”
“Good,” the maid said, having run an errand to Haven that afternoon. Hilda enjoyed volunteering at the home whenever she could. “The bairn has a calm disposition and is ever so sweet. You’ve done well.”
Imogen took a last lungful of cold air to settle her flushed cheeks and nodded to her maid. As she descended the staircase after setting her gown to rights, her thoughts returned to the Highlander and his abrupt flight from dinner. She savored the sweet taste of triumph.
It wouldn’t be long now, and Maclaren Distillery would be hers.
Chapter Three
Ronan remained outside the Kincaids’ townhouse, a forgotten cheroot in hand, several minutes after the maid had closed the shutters above his head. He wasn’t much of a smoker, but by God, the aggravating lass had driven him to it.
Though now, his mind raced and his blood rushed in a hot frenzy. What the devil had he just overheard? Where had Lady Imogen’s glass-breaking pitch gone? The one that had made him want to protect every last piece of china in the dining room.
At first, he hadn’t even recognized the low, husky voice coming from the open window. But when he’d heard words likefiancéandweddingandham-handed oaf, its owner had been clear. That clever little charlatan! The shrill tone that made eardrums bleed and teeth grind wasn’t her true voice at all.
And the hogwash that had poured from her lips…
Ronan had abandoned dinner before the third course could be delivered, dismaying not only his mother but their hosts and the rest of the guests. He hadn’t cared. He’d been desperate to leave. But as his driver had pulled up to Dunrannoch House, Ronan let out a string of curses and ordered a return to Lord Kincaid’s home. He’d embarrassed himself and his mother tonight with his coarse behavior in order to strong-arm Lady Imogen into refusing his suit, and yet somehow, he’d been the one to break decorum and bolt.
But he couldnotend the contract. The idea made him sweat. He couldn’t imagine losing Maclaren Distillery—it was the very heartbeat of his clan—and yet he’d been unable to endure another second with the absurd chit. When she had insisted he wear a kit of matching rosebud everything to the engagement ball…even his wedding-obsessed mother had looked green at the gills. The nerve to callhimadorable!
A dark chuckle broke from him. His dandy of a brother-in-law, the Marquess of Riverley, would relish the irony of his future bride’s execrable taste. Lady Imogen Kinley was, without a doubt, the worst imbecile he had ever met.
At least, that was what he’d believed.
Until five minutes ago.
As he’d walked toward the front door a second time that evening, determined to get his wits back in the game, the pair of voices had sounded from an open window above the front salon. One of which was undeniably amused, laughter drenching her every word…abouthim. Ham-handed oaf, was he?Good. Ronan grinned, until he realized Lady Imogen herself seemed to be celebrating her own victory. But it wasn’t until the mention of the baby that Ronan’s ears pricked with predatory focus.
Any news of my sweet babe? How is he faring?
He all but quit breathing then. A bairn? Herown? Hell, did Lady Imogen have an illegitimate child somewhere, sired by a secret lover? If that were the case, the betrothal would dissolve easily enough.
After snuffing out his cheroot, Ronan turned on his heel and retreated to his carriage, a new plan forming. He’d made a mess of the evening, but he would employ every resource at his fingertips to determine what the woman was hiding. If there was a child, a lover…he could use the discovery of them to convince Lady Imogen to walk away from the betrothal. Her secret would remain intact—he had no interest in ruining the woman’s life—and he would be free to return to the Highlands.
Later, after his mother returned to their residence, it took nearly an hour to placate her with apologies and excuses as to why he’d needed to dash off from the dinner. She didn’t quite believe that he’d had a reaction to the soup course, but she let it go. Perhaps because her own head was aching from Lady Imogen’s operatic tones and a barrage of utterly deranged suggestions for the engagement ball.
“It will be in two weeks,” Lady Dunrannoch said as she finally gave up her anger and rose from a chair in the study.
“Very well,” Ronan replied, feeling smug. It would not come to pass. Lady Imogen would not last another few days.
His mother paused on her way to the door and peered at him. “You’re trying to push her away,” she observed. “The way you acted tonight… It is not you. You owe the Kincaids an apology for leaving as you did.”
He lifted a shoulder, already well into his third whisky and feeling the warm swell of it in his limbs. “Coercion brings out the worst in me, it seems. I’ll no’ apologize for it.”
She took a long breath, redolent with disappointment. “You could look at this marriage as an opportunity.”
