Page 48 of What a Scot Wants
“Considering ye won, I owe ye a favor.”
“All in due time, Your Grace.”
“Ronan,” he corrected softly.
She canted her head. “Ronan.”
Smiling, they shared a strange moment, one of complete accord. She had never felt that with another person, much less a man. That sense of completion, of quiet understanding. Going back the way they’d come, they walked the horses slowly so that they could cool down. Imogen had half expected to see Silas, but the man didn’t love horses, so it was a sure bet he wouldn’t be riding. Still, she couldn’t help being on the lookout for his head of pale hair.
After a while, Ronan cleared his throat. “Tell me the truth, Imogen. Why havenae ye married?”
Her first urge was to waspishly reply that a woman’s happiness wasn’t always wrapped up in a man, but her new strategy was to win over, not push away. “Perhaps I haven’t kissed the right frog,” she quipped with a laugh.
“Have ye kissed many frogs, then?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
His mouth tightened at that, and she filed that tidbit away for use later. They rode awhile in silence until he broke it again. “Tell me about Haven.”
Her gaze slid to his, wondering at his interest, but he seemed truly curious. “I founded it after I reached my majority, when a friend was…hurt by a man and left pregnant and alone.” A twinge of pain made her insides cramp.
“A lady?”
Imogen shook her head. “She was a governess, though not all of them are working-class. Some are ladies as well.”
“You call a governess friend?”
Imogen was not ashamed of it. Emma wasn’t titled and was her best friend in the world. “Why wouldn’t I?”
She felt his thoughtful eyes on her and exhaled a breath. She should not have said so much. Nobility did not mix with commoners, though she did often enough.
“How do ye finance it?”
She bit her lip, knowing she was giving him ammunition to use against her. “My inheritance. And a few private investors.”
“I see.”
Silence grew once more between them as they trotted down the lane, and Imogen was grateful for it. Talking about Haven made her feel heartsick. And she missed Emma. She missed the girls and their chatter. Her sudden melancholy was interrupted by a slowing barouche. Imogen clenched her teeth.
“Yer Grace,” Lady Reid chirped as she stepped down from her carriage. She was dressed in a wine-colored habit that was so tight it was a wonder she could even breathe.
“So good to see ye out and about,” Grace said. “And looking so hale.”
Imogen nearly rolled her eyes at the woman’s transparency.
“Lady Reid,” Ronan said. “Good to see ye as well.”
Grace smiled widely, her eyes never once acknowledging Imogen.
“I’m having a small gathering tomorrow evening. I would love it if ye could come.” She reluctantly cut her stare toward Imogen, the smile as bright as it was fake. “Ye as well, of course.”
Temperance chose that moment to rear and make it known that she was anxious to get going. Though Imogen could have easily reined her in, she allowed the horse to have her little spurt of temper, enjoying the moment when Grace hurriedly stepped back with a hiss as Temperance’s hoof landed a little too close for comfort.
“Control yer horse,” she snarled.
“Apologies, Lady Reid,” Imogen said sweetly before steering her mare around the carriage. “Sometimes she can be a right witch. Especially when needlessly provoked.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed at the perceived slight, but Imogen held her gaze with glacial poise. She could feel the weight of Ronan’s stare but did not back down.
