Page 50 of What a Scot Wants
Andthatwas why he was in a heap of trouble.
Ronan finished the rest of his second whisky, turned from the window, and lost his breath. Imogen stood within the doorway, wearing yet another elegant gown. Midnight blue satin caught the firelight in the hearth and glimmered along her well-formed curves. The flare of her hips struck him first, and his hands itched to clasp them and pull her closer. Black lace rose from the low cut of the bodice to her shoulders, giving the appearance of modesty. However, the hints of creamy skin poking through the gaps in lacework were just as seductive as openly bare décolletage. She was gorgeous. Even leveling him with a wintry expression, as she was.
“Ye look…well,” he said, catching himself before his traitorous tongue let loose with a genuine compliment.
Icicles formed in her eyes now. “I’m ready.”
And with that, she turned and left the study.
It was going to be an interminable evening, and it began in earnest during the carriage ride to Grace’s home. Neither of them spoke, though their eyes clashed, it seemed, at least a dozen times before they arrived. Every time, Ronan bit back the urge to tell her how beautiful she looked, and when Imogen would glance away, he’d still feel an odd sweltering of heat left behind from her eyes. The ice in them had steadily melted between his study and the curb outside Grace’s home, and he blamed the intimacy of the carriage, the silence, and the ungovernable pull between them. He wasn’t the only one suffering.
Lady Reid’s butler showed them into a salon where at least two dozen other people were gathered, many faces Ronan recognized but did not know. He had no friends in this crowd, and as Grace cut a direct line across the room toward him, her hips swaying and mouth drawing into a pouting sort of grin, he realized that had been her intent.
“Yer Grace,” she said in a languid sort of sigh, reaching out to him so he could do nothing but take her hand and bow over it. She latched onto his arm before he could release her hand. “I’m so thrilled ye could come after all. How fortunate for me the plans Lady Imogen designed for the two of ye fell through.” She spared Imogen a glance as she turned her body closer to Ronan. “It’s difficult, isnae it, dear, when ye’re new in town? But dunnae fash, I’m sure things will sort themselves out.”
Imogen accepted the snide comment with a smile. “You’re so kind, Lady Reid.”
Both Ronan and Grace, it seemed, waited for an answering barb, but none came. Imogen simply took a glass of champagne from a footman and put her lips to the rim, her eyes never once leaving Ronan’s. They were warm and suggestive, and she licked an errant drop of champagne from her bottom lip before sauntering farther into the room without him.
Another of her acts, he presumed, considering her coldness in the carriage. A part of him missed the real Imogen he’d gotten glimpses of and loathed the fact that he had to play the part of the unfeeling libertine himself. He hated knowing he would have to hurt her more by subjecting her to Grace’s machinations.
Grace pulled him away, toward a group of men, and introduced him, all the while draping herself on his arm. Ronan stood stiffly, wanting to dislodge himself from her smothering grasp and yet knowing it was necessary not only to endure it but to return her small grins and coy glances. He put in the effort as they made their way around the room, Grace pointedly snubbing Imogen. Even when the guests moved into the dining room, Ronan was seated to Grace’s right while Imogen sat across the table and several seats down.
As the first few courses were served, Ronan grit his teeth as the man to Imogen’s left engaged her in conversation, his gaze lingering on her with far too much interest. The Marquess of Firth or something. Though it wasn’t just this one man; a few others near her, including women, seemed to be riveted on whatever his fiancée was saying. He grew curious as her companions’ heads nodded and their eyes grew wide but couldn’t hear a damned thing thanks to his placement—and Grace’s voice conversing with the earl seated to her left, across from Ronan.
“Are ye looking forward to it, Yer Grace?” Grace asked, and after a moment Ronan realized she was addressing him.
“I’m sorry, what?”
She pouted at having to repeat herself, his attention clearly not on her. He couldn’t force it, even though he had accepted the invitation for the sole purpose of flirting openly with Lady Reid. But his treasonous eyes and ears kept drifting toward Imogen.
“Iasked,” she began in a playful, chastising tone while leaning forward, giving him a bountiful view of her breasts, “if ye were looking forward to returning home, to Maclaren.” Her hand touched his knee under the table, and her fingers started rubbing slow circles over the fabric. “I was telling Lord Granger how beautiful it is there, and how much I miss it. What I wouldnae give to breathe in the Highland air again.”
She was utterly transparent. Not just with her comment but with her aggressive tactics. Had she been like this before, when they’d been young? He’d been so head over arse in love with her that he’d been blinded. Now, however, he felt none of the overpowering desire that he’d kept trapped in his memory for so long whenever he thought of Grace.
She was still lovely, perhaps even more so than when he’d lost his heart to her. But the only woman who shined brightly in the dining room right then, the one who seemed to beckon him just by standing in the same room as him, was the petite, tawny-haired lady currently captivating her small, rapt audience.
“Aye, I miss Maclaren,” he answered, shifting in his seat and reaching for her hand. He should have suggested she come visit at her earliest convenience, but instead, he flattened her fingers under his palm and then gently peeled them free.
Grace’s expression went stony as he released her hand and moved his leg. She sat back, fussing with her napkin in her lap. Her lips pressed together as she turned her attention toward Imogen.
“Lady Imogen,” she said brightly. “Ye’re clearly relishing the conversation at that end of the table. Dunnae keep us at this end in the dark.”
Several guests near to Imogen swung their heads toward their hostess. Imogen took a leisurely sip of her wine and then skipped her eyes to Ronan. He felt a tug in his chest. He shouldn’t have felt so relieved to have her attention on him instead of the two men she’d been engaging at her side. It was absurd. He’d accepted the invitation tonight in order to make Imogen jealous, not to allow himself to feel the same way. The confident poise of her chin revealed she didn’t feel jealous in the least.
“I was speaking of the work I do in Edinburgh,” she said, “at the charity home, Haven. Have you heard of it, Lady Reid?”
Grace sat taller, practically purring at the advantageous opening. “The home for wayward girls and their illegitimate offspring? Aye, I’ve heard of it. Though I cannae say I understand why ye’d divert yerself with such a place. Associating with women of such low moral character must have an impact on ye after a time, I imagine.”
Imogen had likely faced any number of ignorant questions over the years, as well as outright hostile ones. Grace’s contained unmasked insult, and its delivery lacked any sort of finesse. Ronan admired his betrothed as she smiled serenely and replied, “I would not be the same without them. They’ve shown me my true purpose.”
“I thought a lady’s purpose was to please her husband,” Grace said with an arch look at Ronan.
He had the sudden desire to reject the statement, even if it was counterintuitive to his plans. “It seems a shallow purpose, to please just one person when ye can make a difference to many more who need it.”
Imogen’s eyes snapped to his in surprise.
“Truly, Yer Grace?” Lady Reid chuckled, though it was with an edge as she looked around the table at her other guests. “I never would have expected such sentimentality from ye.”
