Page 14 of What a Scot Wants
Oh, fiddlesticks. It was just a dress. If terrible fashion sense was a deterrent to the duchess, then Imogen didn’t want her money anyway. She almost stumbled on a turn and cursed the flamboyant monstrosity for the fiftieth time. It had been worth it, but the personal price had been steep. She could handle the ridicule, but copious amounts of sweat was proving to be hellish. In truth, she did feel like a bit of a sweaty pig’s knuckle.
Imogen nearly grinned despite herself. The cheek of him calling her that.
To his credit, the duke had borne it quite well—her garish appearance, the debacle with the coach, the reception of their arrival at the ball. But the expression on Dunrannoch’s face when he’d gotten the first look at her outfit had been one to savor. Then again, she was sure she’d been wearing a similar expression when she’d seen him dressed in a tartan that had to be a century old! She gave a delicate sniff.
Gracious, the ratty thing smelled like it, too.
And the sword! Good Lord, she’d wanted to die when he’d drawn the massive thing out in the carriage—though a tiny part of her had been hard pressednotto admire the controlled flex of muscles in those broad shoulders and arms. Or to wonder what he would look like swinging that claymore, wearing no shirt at all. He’d be magnificent. Large and powerful, a man like Ronan Maclaren was built for action.
Even while dancing, she could feel his leashed strength. Imogen’s eyes slid up to the duke holding her in a loose grasp. From the watery blinks of his eyes and the look of vexation on his face, he’d just ingested more feather fluff. Her amusement stuck in her throat when a pair of flinty gray-blue irises met hers.
“Having a good laugh?”
“No more so than you,” she replied with a head toss for good measure.
“Do that again,” he warned.
She smirked and twirled away. “Or what? You’ll spank me with your giant sword?”
Where on earth had that come from?Good heavens, he brought out the hussy in her. Imogen didn’t have time to be mortified as she spun back toward him.
His grin was devilish when he drew her close. “So ye’ve heard the rumors, then? Of my…sword.”
“Having a sword and knowing how to wield it are two different things, Your Grace.”
She whipped her head for good measure, and then sucked in a loud gasp when he lowered his head, snatched the base of the feathers in his teeth, and gave them a good yank. Her entire coiffure came loose, locks of hair falling into her face as he spat the mouthful of plumes to the side.
“There,” he said with a dark laugh. “Much better.”
Imogen reached up with a hand to hold the falling pins in place. “You’ve ruined my hair!”
And right in the center of the dance floor, too! Blood rushed to her cheeks.
“I warned ye what would happen,” he said.
“You are a barbarian, sir.”
Heated amusement simmered in those gleaming blue eyes. “Aye. A barbarian with a sword, and ye should ken something, lass—Iwieldit well.”
Imogen scowled. “The biggest pretenders have the loudest voices.”
“Care for a demonstration, then,leannan?”
Her mouth all but dropped open as he thrust his hard hips meaningfully against hers on the last word, in full view of everyone, making a filthy mockery of the sweet endearment. Imogen didn’t even look to see if people were watching. She knew they were. With her gown, she’d made sure she would be the center of attention, after all.
Mortified, she resisted the urge to stamp on his foot, but then gave in to it before storming off the floor. The uncivilized beast.Bitingher headpiece like an animal.Rubbingagainst her like a…like an animal…oh, she had no words to describe how vulgar he was.
Good Lord, why was it so bloodyhot?
The sight of the plumes in his teeth hadn’t been as disturbing as the dark promise she’d seen in his eyes, and his bold claim about wielding his sword had teased her with almost palpable friction. For a moment, a vision of him stripping the rest of her gown off with his teeth and grinding those lean hips against hers had coiled through her mind with startling lucidity—no doubt just as he’d intended.
Andthathad been her signal to flee.
As she pushed her way through the throng of bodies to the retiring room, Imogen ignored the churning heat in her lower belly. Once situated, after repairing her hair as best she could—in all honesty, she was glad to be rid of the heavy, annoying feathers—she sat on a bench and fanned herself, attempting to cool her overheated body. She nodded to a few Edinburgh socialites she knew, but they all gave her odd looks and even wider berths. Perhaps some brisk evening air on the terrace would help instead.
But before Imogen could stand up, she was approached by a woman. Suppressing her irritation, Imogen pasted on a smile and faced the newcomer, though her cordiality wasn’t returned. Instead, the lady regarded her with an almost hostile expression. Imogen was sure they hadn’t been introduced. She took in the woman’s lustrous red hair, noting her fashionable dress and her beautiful features. She would have remembered someone with such striking coloring. The lady’s bold stare was unnerving.
She cleared her throat. “Are we acquainted? I’m Lady Imogen Kinley.”
