Page 104 of What a Scot Wants
Be rational, Imogen.
The weather was not conspiring against her, nor was it blessing her and Ronan’s nuptials. But Aisla had the right of it: who cared if it spit a little rain today? In a little under one hour, she would be the Duchess of Dunrannoch. More importantly, she’d be Ronan’s wife. Andthattitle was the only one she cared about.
“Ye’re lookin’ all daft again, Lady Im. I can see yer face in the window’s reflection, ye ken.”
Imogen turned to view Rory and, when she saw all the ruffles on the peach dress, shook her head and laughed.
“Oh my, that color does not suit you in the least, does it? Hilda, there must be something else Rory can wear. The yellow gown made for the engagement ball, perhaps.”
A ball that had never come to pass.
After the duel and Silas’s death, the scandal revolving around Imogen and Ronan had whipped into a new frenzy. The man accused of the kidnapping plot had been imprisoned, since he was indeed proven to be working at the behest of one Mr. Silas Calder, and his employer would have been as well, had he not tried to shoot his way out of arrest. The newssheets had also hinted that Silas had been behind the death of the Marquess of Paxton, so thetonhad been in a frenzy.
There’d been nothing to do but quit London. But considering she had done so with Ronan, once more as his fiancée, she hadn’t quite cared. The scandal would fizzle eventually, as soon as something else shocking happened to fill the gossip rags.
“Quite right, my lady. Goodness, she looks like a ripe peach!” Hilda agreed, she and Aisla moving toward the many portmanteaus that had been brought to the apartment the previous day.
Holyrood, set at the very end of the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, would have normally been off-limits to anyone not associated with its current owner and resident, Charles X, the former king of France. But apparently the Comte d’Artois, who had been living at the palace since being overthrown and exiled the year before, was one of Lord Riverley’s acquaintances.
“There is a black Arabian of mine the Comte has been eyeing for some time,” Julien had explained with a nonchalant shrug when the invitation to hold their wedding at Holyrood’s palace and abbey had arrived at Ronan’s home in Edinburgh. The Frenchman, visiting the city for only a day or two for business, had grinned at the flabbergasted pair of them.
“And ye were willing to part with it if he opened his home to us?” Ronan surmised.
“Quite. And if you had any inclination to name your heir after the hero who secured such a spectacular setting for your nuptials, well, I wouldn’t object.”
“We’ll no’ name our sonJulien,” Ronan had scoffed while a fluttering explosion had ignited inside Imogen’s belly.Our son.
Something Imogen had only let herself dream of before. Now, it might become a reality. They were both older, of course, but she didn’t expect their ages to be much of a hindrance. She was only twenty-nine, and Sorcha and Makenna were both older with young children and had proven it could be done. Again and again, in fact.
Now, after spending the evening and night in one of the most beautiful, sumptuously appointed rooms Imogen had ever seen in her life, with her maid, Rory, and her best friend, Emma, she was finally ready to make the short walk to the ruined abbey, adjacent to the palace. Ready to become a wife. And, if God willed it, a mother someday. Though, in truth, she was practically already one to a mischievous imp of a girl, currently dressed as a peach. She and Ronan had discussed making the lass their ward. To her surprise and happiness, he had readily agreed. Rory, it seemed, had captured his heart as well.
“Admit it, ye’re thinking of him right now,” Rory said, tugging off the dress as Hilda returned with the yellow gown.
“Of course she’s thinking of him,” Emma said from where she sat in a red-striped silk chair, one of many inside the royal chamber. She appeared cool and composed as she threaded a blue silk ribbon around a simple but elegant bouquet of Scottish wildflowers. “The pair of them can hardly keep their eyes off each other whenever they’re in the same room, and now we’ve been out of His Grace’s presence for nearly a full twenty-four hours. She must be desperate for a glimpse of his ducal manliness soon.”
Emma fanned herself while pulling an infatuated face.
Rory made a gagging sound, snorting with laughter, while Imogen shook her head at her friend. “Believe it or not, I missed your sarcasm, Emma. London is dreary. Without you there, it was horrible.”
Emma accepted the compliment with her usual grace. “Whatever will you do at Maclaren without me?” she quipped. It only made Imogen’s mood dip.
“I don’t want to think about that yet.”
She and Ronan could not stay in Edinburgh. He had been away from Maclaren for too long, and it was time to get on with things. Before long, she’d learn what it was to be a duchess and a Highlander laird’s wife.
Though she looked much more forward to learning her way around the marriage bed. Ronan had told her it was larger than the one in his London home and that he planned to chart every square inch of it with their bodies in various positions of lovemaking. She’d giggled at his promise, saying it wasn’t just about the bed but the man inside of it. Exploring his body, discovering the things he liked, and the things she liked as well.
“I will dedicate a good portion of my day to yer education, my lady,” he’d whispered in her ear. “So long as ye teach me as well.”
A blush rose to Imogen’s cheeks at the memory of what Ronan had done to her next.
“Oy, there she goes again,” Rory groaned as Hilda tugged the yellow dress over her head and hushed her while Emma stood and displayed her finished bouquet. It was lovely, the ribbons laced along the stems and dripping with finer strings of lace and even pearls.
“Wherever did you learn to do that?” Imogen asked, accepting the bouquet.
Emma grinned. “Mary taught me.”
Imogen peered at her, dumbfounded. “Mary?” The young maid who’d kept allowing herself to be seduced by her ardent employers?
