Page 31 of What a Scot Wants
“Ronan,” the Lord Bradburne boomed, clapping him over the shoulder. “It’s great to see you, my good man. It’s been far too long. Since Makenna’s and Riverley’s wedding, I believe?”
“Aye, it has. Though ye were so in yer cups I’m surprised ye remember a thing.”
The duchess patted his arm. “Don’t goad him, Ronan. He wasn’t right for days after Niall tricked him into drinking all that Maclaren whisky.”
Ronan shrugged. “Ye ken what they say: never play a drinking game with a Scot. Especially at a wedding.”
The duke’s grin widened with devilish glee, and Ronan suddenly wanted to punch it off his face, sensing what was coming. “Speaking of weddings, of course, we’ve been eager to meet this beautiful fiancée Briannon and I have been hearing so much about.”
“Aye, this is Lady Imogen Kinley, my betrothed,” Ronan said tightly. “Lady Imogen, the Duke and Duchess of Bradburne.”
“Lovely to meet you both, Your Graces,” Imogen said.
The duchess smiled. “Please, we do not stand on ceremony with practically family. Lord Glenross, Brandt, who’s married to Sorcha, is Archer’s best friend. Call me Brynn.”
“Then you must call me Imogen.”
“I shall look forward to getting to know you,” Briannon said. “Perhaps we can meet for luncheon in the coming week?”
Imogen inclined her head. “I should like that very much.”
Ronan watched as the duchess leaned closed to Imogen to say something else that he couldn’t quite catch. The answering smile on Imogen’s face made him narrow his eyes. Briannon was no quiet miss herself, having quite cleverly brought her ex-rogue of a duke to heel. On top of that, she and his sister Sorcha remained close friends. He frowned.
Would Sorcha have enlisted Briannon’s help? Ronan sighed. Of course she would have. Hell, he should have thought about that before. He didn’t want Imogen getting any more creative ideas in her head.
Archer’s grin and knowing look were getting under Ronan’s skin. “What?”
The duke leaned close. “I’ve heard some interesting gossip about a savage Highlander being bested by a wee lass.”
“Sod off, Hawk,” he said, using the duke’s old nickname.
Ignoring the insult, the duke winked conspiratorially. “You should see the wagers at White’s. Your own brother-in-law, Riverley, is convinced she’s the one. He’s in it for a thousand quid. Most of the bets are for one of you to cry off, but after seeing you with her, I’m tempted to make my own wager in favor of happy ever after.”
“You’d be wrong,” Ronan growled.
“We’ll see. Pride goeth before the fall, my friend.”
With no small amount of irritation, Ronan half-dragged Imogen away. “Would ye like to dance?” he asked her with a terse bow.
Imogen frowned up at him, as if surprised, but then nodded with some trepidation. He escorted her into the next waltz, bracing his large palm over her waist. She was so small, yet she fit so perfectly against him, the top of her shining mahogany crown coming to his chest. One satin-gloved hand slid over his shoulder, and the other rested in his. Even through the fabric, he could feel the warmth of her fingers. In another world, he could have been happy to have such a beautiful woman on his arm. It was strange howrightshe felt against him.
And then she spoke, her words demolishing the illusion.
“Do they teach you the waltz in the Highlands?”
He glanced down at her. “About the same time they teach us to eat with our mouths closed, yes.”
“Youeat with your mouth closed?” she asked, all doe-eyed innocence. “Since when?”
Ronan couldn’t help it. He laughed. “Minx.”
They danced for a while in silence, though Ronan could feel her escalated pulse and see the hint of color in her cheeks. Occasionally, her lips twitched into a half smile of pleasure at the end of a twirl. He liked seeing those unguarded smiles that hinted at something real.
“Why the white dress?” he asked. “It’s no’ yer usual…flair.”
“New city, clean slate.” She eyed him top to bottom. “Why the formal togs?”
He gave her an arch smile. “New city, clean slate.”
