Page 28 of What a Scot Wants
On the way to London, he’d had more than enough time riding on Zeus to ponder her angle. At Haven, she’d been composed, focused, and the clear opposite of the vapid woman he’d started to know. He’d bet every farthing he owned that her reticence to get married had to do with that shelter. Now, he just needed to figure out a way to make her choose between him and Haven…the thing she loved more than anything else in the world.
London was a new stage. A second act. For both himandhis vixen of an opponent. He needed to stay focused.
After a brisk bath, Ronan dressed and made his way down to the dining room for dinner. He’d forgone the kilt, though he’d been tempted. His valet, Vickers, had reminded him in a stage whisper that they were now in London. As if Ronan cared. But he’d given in, allowing himself to be dressed in proper English evening attire, simply because he’d been too weary to argue. And too riled up over thoughts of Imogen.
She’d agreed to stay with him at Dunrannoch House for the time being. Her parents’ Berkeley Square home had not been in use for many years, and there had been no staff in place for a quick revival of the residence after Ronan had made his unexpected decision. They planned to arrive in London within the week, once Kincaid Manor was staffed and ready, so they could be present for the engagement ball. Until then, Imogen would be his guest and in the bedchamber attached to his own, just as he’d promised.
To his surprise, she had not put up a fight; however, his betrothed had not yet descended. Perhaps she was angry after all. Part of Ronan hoped that she would not come down to dinner so he could eat in tension-free quiet, but another part of him didn’t want to go another minute without seeing her.
Pouring himself a glass of Maclaren whisky, he sipped it and stared out the paned glass doors of the palatial dining room into the darkened, manicured gardens beyond. Like all his other properties, his London home was well-appointed and luxurious, but something about it felt constricting. It wasn’t the house. It was being in Town.
He couldn’t wait for this charade to be over and to return to the Highlands.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” a shrill voice said.
Ronan winced. Surely, she would have given up that part of the act by now.
“Lady Imogen.” Ronan turned, and the answering greeting lodged in his throat at the sight of her.
Christ, voice aside, she was beautiful. Like his own choice of clothing, she appeared to have forgone the pretense for the evening, dressed in a simple pale green gown with capped sleeves and a modest bustline. The skirts fell in simple folds to the floor. She wore no other accents or jewelry, but then again, she needed none. Her dark hair, clustered at her nape, shone, and the pastel color of her dress made her eyes seem even greener.
In a word, she was stunning.
“No feathers?” he asked. “Sequins?”
He’d meant it to be teasing, but somehow it came out as three growled words. Her shoulders tensed, and her lush mouth tightened.
“No claymore to terrify the servants?” she returned evenly.
Touché.
Ronan grunted in response and gestured for her to sit before summoning the waiting servants to begin the first course. The soup was his favorite, cream of leek and potatoes, but he could hardly taste it. Then the second course, consisting of duck in savory orange sauce, was served, and neither of them spoke while they ate. They had nearly finished when Ronan cleared his throat.
“How’s yourmeat, my lady?” he asked, watching her.
She halted, fork halfway to her mouth with the last succulent mouthful of duck. Various emotions chased across her face, from horror to defiance, until it ended with resignation. She placed her fork down and drew a breath. “I assume you’ve discerned I am not opposed to consuming meat.”
“Aye.” He indicated the plates. “By all accounts,duck à l’orangeis yer favorite.”
Imogen took a sip of the wine a footman had poured for her. “It seems you’ve discovered quite a bit about me, including my eating habits and meal preferences.”
“I like to be prepared. I make it my business to understand my…”
“Enemies?”
“Challenges,” he finished.
“It sounds like you’re a man who leaves nothing to chance, Your Grace. Not even a betrothal.”
“No’ if I can help it,” he said. “And my name is Ronan. Surely we are beyond formality by this point, considering we are both past chaperoning ageandengaged to be wed.”
She eyed him over the rim of her glass, her green gaze giving away nothing. Her sudden reserve was at odds with the chatterbox persona she’d employed the last few outings. But instead of mollifying him, it set his teeth on edge. A woman like her did not give up.
The dinner continued in silence through the next course and finally the dessert course of strawberry cream. It was another favorite of hers, he knew, but she didn’t touch it.
“No’ to yer liking?” he asked.
“I’ve had enough, thank you, Your Grace.”
