Page 6 of What a Scot Wants
A petite woman emerged from the salon, wearing a pastel pink gown that was better suited to a debutante making her come-out. What seasoned woman wore bloodypink?
Ronan felt his breath catch when a pair of leaf green, almost-feral eyes met his. The fierce challenge in them wasn’t hidden, and the boldness of her perusal hit him like a punch to the gut. Other details like the sable color of her hair and the sharp angle of a dimpled chin registered, but he could not look past the glittering, appraising stare.
God but she was tiny, barely coming up to his chest. Those eyes of hers, however, could slay dragons. Orhim, if he wasn’t careful. He had a ridiculous urge to draw his claymore and prepare for battle.
Her eyes narrowed, and he could almost sense the wheels of her mind turning, when an exuberant smile broke over her face.
“Your Grace!” she squealed in a voice that could break glass. “I am sopleasedyou could come.”
Ronan almost backed away, right through the door, down the stairs, and into his carriage, if it was still there. Good God, that voice made his teeth ache and his ballocks shrivel up in painful tandem. Shocked into immobility for a handful of seconds, he blinked as a twitch crossed the full pink bow of her lips.
Focus, ye dunderheid!
He bowed and reached for her gloved hand, assessing the challenge. It wouldn’t take much to have someone like her fleeing. Playing the part of a vulgar, oversexed Lothario should do the trick nicely, and something about her grating voice and pink dress allowed him not to feel an ounce of shame or guilt over what he was about to do.
Squashing his grin, he pressed his lips—open-mouthed—to her knuckles, letting his teeth close over a small pleat of fabric and skin. As she gasped and tore her hand away, his eyes lifted to hers.
“Oh,” she breathed. Twin flags of hot color lit her cheeks.
“A pleasure to meet ye, my future duchess,” Ronan said, thickening his brogue and watching those green eyes widen. With shock? Horror? He glued his lips together to keep from grinning.
Let the games begin.
As her parents stepped away to greet other arriving guests, he let his gaze sweep appraisingly over her body. All the way down to the tips of her beaded slippers and back up, pausing at her hips and making a low sound of approval in his throat at her nipped-in waist. He stopped at the pink-clad mounds of her breasts and licked his lips as though presented with a great feast.
Christ, it was foul what he was doing. His mother would be disgusted, and his sisters…well, Sorcha would not hesitate to pummel him to a bloody pulp. Such vile behavior went against every grain in his body, but it was the only way to get his future bride to back out. It was the only way to win.
Lady Imogen’s gasp was audible, as was the blush saturating her throat and into her décolletage. “You’re a pig,” she blurted in a furious, scandalized whisper.
He forced himself to wink. “Oink, oink. And to think, I’m to be all yers,leannan.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it.” She pinned her lips shut, and Ronan couldn’t help remarking that her voice wasn’t quite as shrill as it had been earlier. Curious…and intriguing. “And don’t call me that,” she snapped. “I’m not your darling in Gaelic or any other language.”
He rolled his shoulders and arched a lazy eyebrow. “What makes ye think ye have a say in anything at all? I like my women silent and biddable.” The flash of temper in her eyes goaded him to push further. “In fact,” he added, leaning closer to her ear, “the only sounds I want to hear are moans. And my wee wife telling me what’s for dinner—after she’s taken all I can give her.” Lady Imogen’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, and Ronan smirked, nodding. “Aye, lass, like that, but a tad breathier.”
He swore he could hear her teeth grinding as she turned on her heel, about to stalk away, but she had not taken one step before he gave her a light swat on her rump. She whirled around, eyes snapping with outrage, and for a moment Ronan thought she might slap him then and there—it was nothing he wouldn’t deserve.
Hell, he could hardly believe he’d touched her so familiarly. But, to his shock, she collected herself and smiled a controlled, polite, dainty smile. And curtsied. Bloody curtsied as though he was the King of England.
“Of course you would, Your Grace.” Her voice had spiraled back up to its former octaves. Ronan winced and then narrowed his eyes.
“Of course I would what?” he asked before he could stop himself.
“You’d want to have dinner,” she said with a vacant look, those plump lips forming into a bow. “Most men do. Sadly, I’m a kitchen’s worst enemy. I cannot cook, not even an egg. The last time I attempted it, I burned the yolk, something Cook told me should be completely impossible to do. But I do know some delicious recipes I can get Cook to make…if it pleases you, that is.” Sighing, she batted her eyes. “I once saw Cook make a blancmange, and it was just sojiggly—I couldn’t countenance even putting a spoonful of it in my mouth!” She suppressed a shudder and giggled, her eyelashes fluttering like trees in a strong gale. “And then, to make things even worse, I couldn’t eat jelly for a whole week. Do you like blancmange, Your Grace?”
He blinked, surprised that she’d stopped to draw breath, and answered before he could think twice about it. “Er, no. I dunnae eat sweets.”
Her smile widened to frightening proportions. “Oh, how sad! Ilovesweets. Ilovepudding. I could eat tea cakes and shortbread and pudding all day long. You know, Cook has the best recipe for lemon shortbread. Do you like shortbread? Don’t worry, it isn’t very sweet at all.”
Ronan’s ears ached as Lady Imogen stared at him, her green eyes wide and expectant. “I dunnae like lemon,” he replied, even though he did in fact love lemon.
“Oh, I’m certain I could tempt you with it.” She took hold of his arm. “Come, perhaps we can pop into the kitchens before dinner and I can introduce…”
Ronan backed away without realizing it.
“Your Grace?” she asked with an innocent look over her shoulder.
“Another time,” he bit out. “Excuse me.”
