Page 34 of What a Scot Wants
“I…I don’t know. I feel queasy.”
Ronan looked sideways at her, skeptical. “Who was that man? I’ve seen him before.”
She frowned. “You have? Impossible.” But then she reconsidered. “Unless you met him long ago, when he was employed by my father.”
The dampness gathering on her skin sent a chill through her.
Silas had been the son of her father’s trusted steward, and when the senior Mr. Calder had passed unexpectedly, Lord Kincaid had taken the young Silas under his wing. The boy had been smart, fast to learn, and had quickly become indispensable to her father. He’d become more than just a worker, however. Imogen’s father had treated Silas like the son he’d never had, bringing him into the family fold. And when the handsome, ambitious, well-liked young man had sought permission to court a besotted Imogen, she’d only been too happy to agree, despite their differences in station.
Her father had trusted him. Imogen had trusted him. So had her governess, Belinda. A mistake that had cost Belinda everything.
“The gentleman’s name, Imogen,” Ronan pressed, making her flinch.
“Silas Calder.” The name on her lips sent another debilitating shudder through her. She shook it off. “It must have been the tartelettes that turned my stomach. Pâté, I think.”
The awful taste in the back of her throat had nothing to do with the hors d’oeuvres being passed out at the ball. The frown Ronan leveled her with hinted that he knew as much.
“I have such a delicate constitution, you know,” she went on, raising her voice as high as she could.
“Like hell ye do,” he growled, then stepped out from the silk screen panels to flag down a passing waiter. He returned with a glass of champagne. “It will help.”
She guzzled the contents in one fell swoop. When she spoke again, the forced pitch of her voice warbled. She couldn’t do it. Not now.
“I think it would be best if I left.”
A wall of fear closed in around her at the thought of stepping foot back on the dance floor.Might I have this dance, Gennie?Imogen’s skin flushed, then chilled again, as she recalled the sound of his voice. She never dreamed she’d have to hear it again.
It had been years. More than a decade, at least. Though she sometimes awoke at night, Silas’s face haunting her from her nightmares, she had forgotten just how fervent his eyes were. How pointed and direct. Like there was no one else in the room but her. He’d made her feel like she was the only thing in the world that had mattered, and before she’d understood his feelings were actually obsession, she’d been flattered by the attention. He’d claimed toloveher, and her foolish heart had fallen for it.
God, she’d agreed tomarrythe man. Until she’d learned what his character was truly like and what he was capable of doing to get what he wanted. Imogen shivered.
Ronan’s fingers pressed into her hip. “Do ye need a doctor?”
“No, that’s not necessary. I just need to…lie down.”
In any other moment, she might have blushed at the mention of lying down, in anticipation of some off-color remark from her fiancé. But he seemed to have turned over a new leaf since their arrival in London. He hadn’t become a starched cravat, but he was not as loose with his vexing and insinuating comments, either.
And to Imogen’s surprise, though her room was attached to his own, as he’d promised it would be, he had not so much as knocked or cleared his throat loud enough for her to hear. Not that it mattered. She still lay in bed at night wondering if he would somehow get through the locked door and attempt to repeat what had happened at Haven: kiss her in order to push her away. And when the night would pass uneventfully, she couldn’t determine if she was agitated or relieved.
Ronan’s attention shifted toward the dance floor. “I’ll say our goodbyes to Bradburne, and I’ll meet ye at the door.” He continued to hold her by the waist, his grip unrelenting. “Will ye be fine making yer way there alone?”
Imogen nodded on instinct. It wasn’t until Ronan moved back into the crowd that she considered the way her body had all but shut down when Silas appeared. It was that familiar panic, the one that rose within her as if it had a life of its own, choosing when and where to attack—usually at night, when her mind wandered. When she was forced to release her steel-forged control over it.
Suddenly uneasy, Imogen made her way toward the ladies’ receiving room. She could towel her cheeks and neck and the slick rash of sweat that had flashed over her before. Her hands were shaking when she entered the carpeted room, a collection of divans and sofas scattered throughout with a few mirrors against the walls.
Three women and their attending maids looked up as she entered, but she quickly sequestered herself near a corner where a basin and ewer of water had been arranged. The remnants of panic would linger for some time, she knew, unless she paid attention to her breathing. Closing her eyes and pressing a cool cloth to the back of her neck, Imogen did just that.
To her relief, Ronan had bitten back whatever questions he had about Silas. How long the reprieve would last, she wasn’t certain. And her parents would be arriving in London in a handful of days. Imogen pinned the inside of her cheek between her teeth. What if her father thought to renew his acquaintance with Silas? He’d been so distraught when his young steward had, as her father had put it, “lost his way.” Of course, he didn’t know the truth of the matter. Imogen had never told him what occurred, and she never would.
She squeezed the damp cloth in her fist, frustrated beyond words. She’d worked so hard, so relentlessly, to move forward from what Silas had done to Belinda. What he’d done toher. And yet here it was, rearing its ugly head, breathing fire at her.
She set the damp cloth into a basket on the floor next to the vanity. At least her heartbeat had slowed, and she felt marginally better. By now, Ronan would be waiting for her in the foyer with her cloak. She regretted not asking him to meet her outside of the retiring room but shook off the weak thought. She could make her way to the foyer alone. She would be perfectlyfine. Thirteen years of independence would not be shattered tonight.
Imogen stood from the padded chair and moved in the direction of the door. Swiftly, she made her way down the vacant hall. And came to a dead halt. Silas stood in front of her. Imogen’s already thready pulse came to a complete, sputtering stop. Her body went cold.
“I thought I might find you here,” he said and, with a smooth motion, dragged her uncooperative body into a narrow corridor that seemed to lead to a deserted servants’ stairwell.
Her heart throbbed once before going still again.No. This isn’t happening.
