Page 60 of What a Scot Wants
Ronan signaled the waiting phaeton. He couldn’t blame her in the least.
Once she’d comported herself and more color had come back to her cheeks, Ronan turned to her. “Will ye think about what I’ve asked?”
Her expression was inscrutable, but the Imogen he’d come to know was much too intelligent and wily to give anything away. He’d taken her by surprise up in the balloon, and her honest reaction had helped him test his theory. But now…now she was composed. Battle-ready.
“I have thought about it.” She tilted her head. “Perhaps Lady Reid will be amenable to your marriage of sexual convenience. Elope withher.”
“Are ye conceding, then?”
“Not in the least.” She smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “I’m just suggesting she might be a more enthusiastic partner for your needs, rather than a much frostier bedfellow in the marriage bed.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to shout he didn’t want another woman, but he clamped his lips shut.
“Doyouconcede, Your Grace?”
His grin matched hers in ferocity. “No’ on yer life.”
Once more, they were at an impasse.
Chapter Sixteen
A brisk ride down Rotten Row was doing little to calm Imogen’s roiling senses. They’d been in a right stew since daybreak, ever since she’d woken from yet another rough night. A visit with her mother, more shopping, and now handling a surly Temperance hadn’t helped matters.
Even having moved from Ronan’s home to her old room at Kincaid Manor on Berkeley Square hadn’t offered the respite she’d been hoping for. Ronan hadn’t been happy about her choice to return to her parents’ home, but she didn’t care. She needed space. Not that the distance had helped any.
Imogen was starting to note an unwelcome pattern, most of it having to do with her perplexing fiancé, who had put it in very plain terms what he wanted from her as a wife in that blasted hot air balloon.
Heat saturated her skin at the memory of his crudeness. Every thought she had was of the duke. Even the ride in Hyde Park had made her think of the last time she’d raced on the Row with him, and for some ridiculous reason, she missed his company. Not that she needed it after the debacle in that balloon.
God, she’d never been so terrified in all her life, but, even at the crux of it, she had understood deep down that Ronan would never let anything happen to her. When they’d been flung to the ground, he’d cradled her with his big body, taking the brunt of the fall himself. A part of her had warmed at the thought of having someone like the Duke of Dunrannoch at her side, protecting her for the rest of her life.
Flushing, she dismounted Temperance and handed the reins to the waiting groom in the mews behind Kincaid Manor. The mare had sensed her underlying turmoil and had been particularly difficult to manage, refusing to heed the simplest commands, but even that hadn’t been enough to wear Imogen down.
Maybe Ronan had a point. Maybe they could both get it out of their systems, whateveritwas. Desire. Lust. Attraction. She felt all those things and more. Then again, they didn’t need a marriage to do that. Instead of a broodmare, it sounded like the duke wanted a bedmate. Her thighs clenched. Waking up next to him wasn’t a terrible prospect…it was everything else that came with marriage that was the problem.
Namely, a complete lack of independence. No man, no matter how sexually proficient he was, was worth giving that up for.
With a sigh, she climbed the stairs to her childhood bedchamber.
“Hilda?” she called out. “Are you here? I’m in the mood for one of your tonics. Preferably one with a splash of brandy.”
There was no response from the maid, and the bedroom was empty, though everything from earlier that morning was put away and in place. Imogen pushed the door leading into her bathing chamber open, but that was empty as well. Walking to the door, she summoned one of the undermaids to find Hilda and also call for a bath. She had a few hours before she had to attend her parents’ impromptu gala that evening.
Imogen shrugged out of her riding habit, which had front closures, thank God, and pulled on a robe over her underclothes. She would need Hilda’s help for the stays. While she waited for her maid and the bath to be readied, perhaps she would have a lie down. As she approached the bed, she smiled. Hilda hadn’t been as tidy as she usually was. There was something resting on her pillow. Her smile crashed. It was a lily.
A white lily.
Panic clogged her throat as the ground tilted beneath her feet. Why the bloody hell was there a lily on her bed?Howhad the thing gotten in here?
It was from Silas. It had to be. No one else ever sent her white lilies. But this was going too far, much too far. She wrapped her arms about herself, her eyes frantically darting around the room. Was he still here? Had he come himself? Paid one of the servants? How had he known that she was back here in her old bedroom? The questions came one after the other, like blows to her head, making her flinch.
The thought ofthatman being in her private bedchamber made her stomach quail. Slowly, she backed away, part of her wanting to throw the offending thing out of the window and another part not wanting to touch it. When her body bumped into something solid, she screamed, but it was only Hilda.
“What is it, my lady? Are you well?”
“How did that get in here?” she whispered, pointing to the flower.
Hilda frowned, her face twisting with disgust. “I don’t know, my lady. It wasn’t here when I left to take your garments downstairs to be laundered this morning.”
