Page 25 of What a Scot Wants
Hell, he needed to be far away from the temptation that was Lady Imogen Kinley.
Chapter Seven
Damn the bloody gall of the man. Damn his lips, his strong hands, his big body…all of it.
Damn all men, for that matter, not just virile, high-handed Highlander dukes.
Imogen sat stewing in the morning room in her parents’ home, where she and Lady Kincaid were presently hosting two ladies for tea. There was nothing to be done to hide Imogen’s irascible mood, so she didn’t try.
“Tell me again, who is this Stormie person?” Lady Glenross asked, frowning into her teacup. Sorcha had taken up Imogen on her invitation to tea and had brought with her Lady Tarbendale, one of the Maclaren brothers’ wives. There seemed to be a half dozen or more Maclaren brothers and sisters and in-laws, cropping up like weeds everywhere she turned.
That isn’t fair, Imogen scolded herself. Aisla was perfectly charming and kind, and to Imogen’s mother’s delight, she had brought her baby with her to tea. The little boy’s chubby chin and cheeks, his hearty squall, and his constantly fisted hands made him appear like a miniature caber-tosser in training. He was asleep at the moment. Maxwell was precious, and when even he could not stir Imogen to a good mood, she realized nothing would.
With another, worthier male target in mind, she let her seething frustrations settle on the flash man who was currently sinking his hooks into Rory.
“He’s an awful brute,” Imogen answered Sorcha. “He trains these children, many of them from the time they can walk, to depend upon him for everything. To pickpocket and steal. And once they are older, especially the girls, even to—”
“Imogen,” her mother said with a cautionary look to their guests.
“Well, it’s the truth, Mama, whether anyone wants to acknowledge it or not.” She let out a sigh and lowered her cup, the oolong inside gone cold. Across from her, both Sorcha and Aisla waited for her to continue. They were not daunted, she realized with a lift of her spirit. “Rory, one of Stormie’s lads, has befriended me, only…well, Rory isn’t a lad.”
Aisla nodded knowingly. “A lass in disguise.”
“And do you think this Stormie knows?” Sorcha asked.
It was what Rory had come to her office about the afternoon before. She’d asked Imogen whether she knew of a tonic. Something, anything, to halt her courses. The monthly flux was becoming difficult to hide.
“She wouldn’t say. Rory masks her concern with a show of bravado; she’d never admit to being afraid.” But she was, Imogen was certain of it. And she’d refused to accept help, yet again, when Imogen had offered her a place at Haven.
“Your efforts are commendable, Imogen,” Aisla said, her tea in one hand, her other rocking the sleeping infant in his small bassinet beside her on the sofa.
“They’re not enough.” Another burst of bitterness made her restless, her legs aching to stand and pace the room. “And now, going to London, being away from Haven and the women, and Rory and Emma…not to mention an engagement ball…”
She shot up—to hell with it—and went toward the windows overlooking the gardens, her temper renewing.
To force her hand and drag her to London for no less thanfiveweeks… It was despicable of the duke! And then, practically within the same breath, to stand so close and use those lips and tongue and hands the way he had… Imogen shivered at the memory of her body being heaved up against his unyielding one. And how swiftly she’d submitted to the heady explosion of sensation it had elicited, how hungrily she’d kissed him back.
She wouldn’t think of it.Couldn’t. Not without feeling like a brainless hussy.
“Perhaps a London engagement ball is a better idea, Imogen,” her mother said after a few moments of quiet. “You two haven’t exactly made the best impressions in Society here.”
“Yes, it seems my brother has worked up quite a reputation these last weeks in Edinburgh.” Sorcha subdued a wry grin. “They’re calling him the Dreadful Duke.”
“Dreadfully unfashionable.” Aisla snickered.
“Those same papers dubbed me Lady Rosebud,” Imogen remarked. “Though my more recent favorites are Lord Troglodyte and Lady Pompadour.”
Aisla giggled. “Troglodyte, that’s marvelous. I shall need to keep a list, if only to torture my stick-in-the-mud brother with it later.”
Lady Kincaid looked as if she’d like to change the subject. Imogen and her mother had been silent with each other after that morning’s breakfast, when Lord Kincaid had declared he would not hear another word about how unsuitable the duke was.
“He is a duke and the son of a very good friend,” her father had said. “And by God, he’s weathered your charades like a saint these last two weeks, hasn’t he? His patience speaks volumes.”
Imogen’s eyes had goggled. “Hispatience? Papa, have youseenthe man parading in his kilts and swinging his claymore like he’s Wallace reborn?”
“He’s a Highlander,” her father had huffed, waving a dismissive arm that made Imogen want to throw her teacup across the room.
He’s a Highlander?
