Page 63 of What a Scot Wants
“I’m staying here with my parents, or did you forget?” She dug in her feet once they moved off the ballroom floor.
“I dunnae ken why ye couldnae have just stayed at Dunrannoch House. I allowed ye to move, but—”
Her brows leaped in indignation. “Allowedme?”
They were interrupted by her father, who chose that moment to welcome his future son-in-law with a wide smile. “Glad you could make it, son!”
Imogen scowled.Son?That was a bit premature, wasn’t it? But her bitterness faded as soon as she registered who was behind her father. Dread bubbled in her stomach at the sight of the man, but she quelled it with ruthless force. That man had no hold on her. He had no power over her. He wasnothingto her.
“Imogen, you know Mr. Calder, of course,” her father said to her and then turned to the duke. “Silas Calder, my former steward, Your Grace, until we lost him to the lure of London, and then the Continent, I hear. But he’s here for a long-overdue visit to renew old acquaintances.”
“We’ve met,” Ronan clipped through his teeth.
Her father opened his mouth and closed it, and for a moment Imogen wondered if he would blunder terribly and bring up her past engagement. Luckily, he did not.
Imogen felt Silas’s eyes on her as they exchanged short greetings, but she kept hers on her father, a smile fixed in place.
“Lady Imogen,” Silas said. “How much you’ve grown.”
“Indeed, Mr. Calder,” she replied. “It’s been some time since I was seventeen.”
“Enough to wear such a daring ensemble,” he went on, his eyes shifting to Ronan. “I must say, if I were in your place, Your Grace, I might worry.”
Imogen couldn’t help noticing that Ronan had shifted so that his arm was touching hers, and she felt him bristle at Silas’s words. He couldn’t possibly know what the man was to her, but she took greedy comfort from his presence all the same.
“Why should I worry?” Ronan drawled, a hand coming to rest on the small of her back. “Imogen is a beautiful woman who kens her own mind, and I trust her judgment in all things.”
Her mouth almost fell open in shock. It was completely at odds with the possessive jealousy she’d seen brewing on his face when he’d dragged her off the dance floor.
“Then you will not mind if I ask her to dance?” Silas put in smoothly. “For old times’ sake. We used to be dear friends, you know. One could also say, at one point, almost like family.”
With a sharp inhale, Imogen opened her mouth to refuse, but her father smiled and nodded. “You should, dear. I think it was you who taught this young man the steps to the quadrille. Do you remember?”
She bit her lip hard. How could she forget? She’d been a fool with stars in her eyes, so eager to dance with him, to teach him how to be a gentleman in her world. She’d fallen for his act…hook, line, and sinker.
Silas, the rotter, lifted a brow and extended his arm.
God, she should cut him dead, walk away, do something. But he knew she wouldn’t. If she did, then she would have to explain why to her parents, andthatshe could not do. Those secrets belonged in the grave with a very young and very reckless Imogen.
“Fine,” she replied ungraciously. “Unless the duke disagrees.”
Please disagree. Please. Please. Please.
“Nonsense,” her father interjected jovially before Ronan could speak. “Why would Dunrannoch mind? Go on. We need a moment to catch up anyway.”
Her heart in her throat and her body wooden, Imogen let Silas lead her back to the dance floor. Thankfully, the set was no longer a waltz and was an older cotillion-style dance. She wouldn’t have been able to stand having him so close.
“You are trying my patience,” he murmured when they came together for a turn.
Imogen found her voice and her spine. “How so? I hardly see how anything I do affects you.”
She felt him stiffen in anger, but he kept his outward expression bland. They twirled apart and came together again. “Did you receive my gift?”
“I burned it.”
His fingers tightened painfully on her wrist, and Imogen winced. She would have bruises beneath her gloves. “You did what?”
“Oh, you poor thing,” she said, refusing to let her pain show and grateful for the brief reprieves when they separated. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you, Mr. Calder, that grown men shouldn’t play with dolls? There’s a place for men who do, you know. It’s called Bedlam.”
