Page 42 of What a Scot Wants
Breathe, damn it.
The oath bolstered her. “I think the only person suffering from humiliation tonight is you, Silas,” she said.
“What has gotten into you, Imogen?” he asked, his eyes gleaming with a flare of sickening desire.
“Nothing that hasn’t been present for the last decade,” she replied with a shrug of one shoulder, her voice growing stronger. “I admit I was stunned to see you at Lord Bradburne’s home, but I’ve recovered. And I’ve moved on. I suggest you do the same.”
“Not until I have an answer.”
“Very well. My answer is no,” she said.
He reached for her. Imogen resisted the instinct to skitter deeper into the recessed space and stood tall, holding her breath as the back of one finger traveled slowly down the side of one arm. “You’re angry with me, aren’t you? All this is to punish me for leaving.”
He had to be deranged to truly believe that.
“McClintock made you leave.”
His eyes narrowed to slits. “That tosser will get what’s coming to him as well, meddling in affairs not his own. But first—”
Before she could move, Silas stepped forward, one hand snaking to her throat as his mouth fell on hers. She kept her lips tightly shut, but images flashed in her brain—of welcoming his touch once, of trusting him, ofwantinghis kisses. Her skin crawled with revulsion, like it was covered in hundreds of roaches.
Blindly, she shoved him away, her free arm coming up fast, her hand a blur as she cracked it across his face. Her whole palm went instantly numb, and Silas pitched to the side, releasing her in surprise. Imogen saw the opening out of the alcove and hurried forward.
“There ye are, lass. I’ve been looking all over the bloody theater for ye.”
Ronan came up off the last step of the stairwell, but Imogen’s lips couldn’t form a single word in reply. She was barely holding back the shivers threatening to break over her body. Ronan’s attention touched on the space behind her, and she knew what he was seeing before she turned around.
Silas stood next to the alcove, but he dipped into a regal and unnecessary bow, obscuring his face. “Lady Imogen, it was a pleasure running into you again. Your Grace.”
The sound of his voice made her stomach upend, and she put a hand to her lips. Oh God, he’d put his filthy mouth on her! He turned on his heel and walked away at a fast clip. It was only then Imogen noticed the streaming of her pulse and the bendy sensation of her knees. Fear and force of will had kept her upright, but now everything threatened to dissolve after the confrontation. Her legs, her brain, all of it.
“Are ye planning to tell me what just happened?” Ronan asked.
Blinking, Imogen heard voices from the stairwell. The corridors would be flooded within moments. She heaved for air as she quickly strode ahead, toward their box. Had she not been breathing that entire time? Her lungs felt shriveled in her chest and her throat bone dry. She had the frantic urge to scrub her lips and her mouth. Scour her entire body. In the box, she took the bottle of champagne that had been uncorked and set in ice before the first act and poured herself a glass. She gulped it greedily, uncaring of decorum, the bubbling bursts in her throat making her nose sting and eyes water.
“What happened with Calder?” Ronan persisted as he closed the door behind him and stood at the back of the box.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, taking another gulp of champagne.
“I dunnae believe ye.”
“I don’t care what you believe. I’ll ask you to stay out of my business.”
She balked at the idea of telling him about Silas. Yes, he would be appalled that she’d considered the hand of such a man, if he knew the full truth. He’d most definitely break the betrothal agreement to know she’d been touched by another.
But her victory would be a short breath of air before drowning in shame. Her parents would learn the truth. Everyone would. They’d know what had befallen her, how foolish and trusting she’d been. Like poor Belinda. Just like so many of the girls she’d taken under her wing at Haven. Haven would also suffer, donations withdrawn or impeded when it became public that the founder was really no different from the fallen women she sought to help.
Ronan crossed his arms where he stood in the back of the box, drenched in shadow. He wasn’t visible to the rest of the theatre. The house was starting to fill again, and soon other patrons would be using their opera glasses to spy on the occupants of other boxes. Appearing flushed or out of sorts at the edge of Ronan’s box would only inspire gossip.
Imogen stepped away from the edge, swallowing more champagne, desperate to eradicate the remnants of Silas from her mouth. “Why are you just standing there? Say something.”
“Ye wore that dress for him.”
His discernment startled her, but only for a moment. He’d already proven himself intelligent and observant, and it made her anxious. What else would he see that she didn’t want him to?
“Anything I wear is formyself. Tonight, I needed a weapon,” she said. “Something to showcase who I really am.”
“This is the real Imogen?” he asked, his eyes drifting slowly down the front of her gown. They lingered on her hips, her breasts, and again she felt the aching swell of each nipple.
