Page 70 of What a Scot Wants
Ronan gritted his teeth as Calder left. Speculating would do little good. Imogen needed to confide in him…and to get her to do that, he would have to earn her trust. Ronan was well aware of the predicament he was in because of their games. Trust was not something they shared.
He turned to Imogen, who had collapsed weakly onto a chaise lounge as if all the pent-up energy keeping her standing had suddenly drained away. She put her head in her hands and struggled for breath, her slim shoulders rising and falling at an accelerated rate. He recognized the signs of delayed panic. His sister Sorcha used to wake up in much the same way when she’d had night terrors after the wolf attack, as if she was so frozen she couldn’t take in enough air. He’d spent many a night stroking her hair and comforting her.
“Deep breaths, love,” Ronan said gently, crouching in front of Imogen. He didn’t touch her, even though he ached to. She would not welcome it. “Easy. Slow and even, like this.” He inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled through his mouth. “With me. Breathe in, and now out.”
It took a few minutes but as he breathed with her, she started to match his pace. After a while, her erratic breathing had calmed considerably.
“What was that?” he asked, sensing she would not answer but needing to ask anyway. “What happened between ye and Calder?”
Huge green eyes met his, glimmering with unshed tears and banked emotion. Her face was ashen. “Not here.”
“Do ye want to go back to Kincaid Manor?” he asked, knowing she’d likely be more comfortable there.
“No, to your house.”
He nodded. “Wait here. I’ll speak to Langlevit and see if we can leave through another entrance. Lock this door behind me and don’t open it until I return.”
Ronan found the earl and quickly communicated that Imogen wasn’t feeling well and they needed to leave discreetly. Langlevit didn’t ask any questions and ushered them through a side door that led to the small courtyard, where Ronan’s coach was summoned posthaste, and they were on their way to his residence. They did not speak in the carriage, and until Ronan had her ensconced in his warm study with a tumbler of brandy in hand and sitting in front of the fire, he didn’t broach the subject. He intended to wait until she was ready, no matter how long it took.
Imogen stared into the glass, and when she spoke, her voice hushed. “I’ve known Silas Calder since I was a girl. He was my father’s steward, but Silas quickly became more like the son my father never had. We were near the same age and became friends. But then…”
“Something more,” Ronan supplied after she went silent a few moments. “I have heard the history, Imogen. I ken ye were engaged to Calder.”
Surprise registered on her face but then ebbed. She would have known the gossip, even a decade old, would still make its way to Ronan’s ears.
“How did it end?” he asked softly.
“The official excuse was that he was summoned to London to care for an ailing aunt,” Imogen replied, lips pressed thin.
“And the truth?”
She hesitated, as if grappling with whether to tell him or not. But then she sighed and lifted her eyes to him. “He hurt my friend. My governess, Belinda. I was seventeen, and though I no longer required a governess, I asked her to stay on as my companion. She was so kind, so gentle and thoughtful, and…Silas took advantage of her. As well as others.”
Ronan nodded, disgust flaring his nostrils. The man was a worm. He knew the type. They worked as upper servants for peers, and too much power went to their heads, especially when it came to female servants in their households. They often thought themselves lords of the manor, in lieu of their masters. Clearly, Silas had gone a little further by coveting marriage to the daughter of an earl. Ronan frowned. What had possessed Lord Kincaid to agree to such a match?
“Belinda hid her increasing state well under loose dresses and baggy clothing,” Imogen went on. “I didn’t even know she was with child until her time came.”
“You were with her?” he asked, trying to piece together what happened. Imogen shook her head, eyes dropping to the glass of brandy.
“No. Things went…terribly wrong. She and the babe both died.”
Ronan shook his head, his stomach in knots. Women and infants died in childbirth often. Too often. Whenever one of his sisters or sisters-in-law approached her time, it was an unspoken fear in the back of his mind. Losing her friend had to have been difficult, and learning that her betrothed had been the father, a crushing blow.
“I’m sorry, Imogen.”
“Thank you. The thing was, none of us knew his true character. Not me, not my parents. After I came of age, he made his intentions clear on what he wanted—that we belonged together. I believed him.”
“Ye considered him yer friend?” Ronan asked.
She shrugged slender shoulders. “He was, I suppose. He was interested in what I had to say. He was always there when I needed him, and we became more.”
“Ye? Hismaster’sdaughter?”
Her mouth quirked. “Silas was never treated like a servant. He always felt like a member of the family, and Papa thought of him as a son. He brought me gifts and sought out my company, even when he worked for my father. I taught him to dance; he took me riding. Practiced with me when I learned history and mathematics. When Silas was a boy, my father had seen to his education, you see. Papa considered the senior Mr. Calder to be a friend.” She drew a breath. “I had never taken the interest of anyone before. Even during my first Season, I was a wallflower. It was heady for me to be the focus of such attention.” Her voice took on a slight strain. “Perhaps I was simply foolish and lonely.”
Or perhaps he was a self-serving bastard.Ronan kept his opinion to himself.
“I didn’t have many friends, and most of the people who interested me were acquaintances of my parents. Adults, not children. At the time, it didn’t seem strange for Silas to take an interest in me. My parents always took care to include him, and we naturally seemed to pair up.”
