Page 74 of What a Scot Wants
“She says nae,” Ronan said, his deep voice piercing her stifling fear as he stepped into view.
“Oh, Your Grace,” Lord Kincaid said, eyes widening as he turned to make a clumsy bow. “I didn’t see you there.”
Imogen blinked, feeling Ronan’s warm hand squeeze around hers. He’d said he wanted her, didn’t he? Right now, with Ronan beside her, Silas looked like he’d sucked on a rotting lemon. She could do this. She could say no and not be afraid. With Ronan, she felt strong. She feltpowerful. She would take the gamble that Silas would not lay his cards on the table. At least not right then. She was betting that the target of his convoluted scheme wasn’t her. It was her father.
Imogen took a deep breath and glanced up at Ronan. “Did you mean what you said before?” she asked in a quiet voice for him only. “That you’ve changed your mind about…wanting me?”
He nodded, wintry eyes warming for a brief second as they touched on her. She felt the caress deep in her soul. As he’d done to her in his study before, she lifted his hand and brushed her lips over his knuckles. “Then I accept.”
He didn’t smile, but she saw it in his eyes.
The duke addressed the room. “As ye can see, my suit still stands, and I have nae intention of breaking the arrangement. Neither does my bride-to-be.”
“Is this true?” her father asked, incredulity written all over him. “But—forgive me, Your Grace—but Imogen, I thought you hated him.”
Imogen squared her shoulders, unable to miss Silas’s look of thwarted rage. “No, Papa. It turns out I don’t hate him at all.”
Chapter Twenty
“Ye’re acting a bit funny today, Lady Im.”
Imogen glanced up from the pale blue cloth and a brighter buttercup yellow that the modiste had been showing her. Rory stood on a wide stool before a mirror, her slouched shoulders and dark expression displaying her overt annoyance at the dress fitting.
They had been in Kincaid Manor’s sewing room for the last hour with Madame Despain, a celebrated modiste from Bond Street who came highly recommended by a duchess and two former princesses, and other than taking the young girl’s measurements and trying a few different fabrics, she and her assistant had not made much headway into the task of designing Rory a dress for the engagement ball.
“How do you mean?” Imogen replied, selecting the yellow cloth. It would complement Rory’s amber eyes and dark hair, though the girl couldn’t care less what she wore. Twelve-year-old girls did not usually attend balls of any sort, but for this occasion, Imogen would make an allowance.
It was important to her to include Rory in the evening, and even though she had scowled at the idea of wearing a fancy dress and put her foot down that she would not, under any circumstances, dance, Imogen swore she could see a little flicker of excitement in her eyes. It would be her first ball. Imogen wanted to make it special for her, so they’d sent for Madame Despain, who had only made time out of loyalty to Brynn, Lana, and Irina.
There were just a few days left for the modiste to create Rory’s dress in time for the ball, and Imogen only had herself to blame for waiting until the eleventh hour. But before last night and Ronan’s declaration that he wanted to marry her, she hadn’t even truly accepted that therewouldbe an engagement ball. In fact, these last few weeks she’d worked tirelessly toward its cancellation. Obtaining a dress for Rory for the occasion had been the last thing on her mind. But now, that had all changed.
“That,” Rory replied. “That giddy grin of yers, right there. It’s new. That’s what I mean by ye’re actin’ funny.”
“Acting. There’s another letter at the end, remember?” Imogen touched her cheek, where indeed a small indent had formed. “And don’t be silly. I’ve smiled before.”
“No’ like that.”
She shouldn’t have been surprised that Rory had picked up on the changes since yesterday. Come to think of it, this smile did feel different. Everything did. Imogen had barely been able to sleep last night after Silas had departed Kincaid Manor on a wave of barely repressed fury. But he was gone, and she was engaged. To Ronan. For real this time.
Oh, she knew it had been real before as well, though she’d had every intention of finding a way out of it no matter what it took, but now there would be no more friction. No more desperation or games. Because he wanted her. And Imogen had spent the bulk of the night exploring all the ways she wanted him in return.
“And ye’re staring off into the corner of the room like that, too, actingdaft,” Rory said, exaggerating thegand stopping Imogen before her mind could wander back to those scandalous thoughts of her fiancé. “Ye look half-cocked.”
“Rory. That isn’t polite,” she said. “And what would you know about such things?”
Rory smirked. “I ken plenty about girls who make calf-eyes at the boys. I dunnae ken what the fuss is. Boys are only good for one thing—beating them bloody.” She rolled her eyes. “Sorry, Lady Im. But ye’re all right, arenae ye?”
“I’m perfectly fine,” Imogen answered. “Now, what do you think about a few rows of lace and scalloped edging for the hem?”
Rory threw back her head and groaned as Madame Despain nodded approvingly and her assistant jotted down a note.
Rory had settled into Kincaid Manor with a bit more ease than she had when first arriving in London. The housekeeper had turned a guest chamber into her new room, and Imogen’s mother had even suggested they interview potential governesses. Her parents had not blinked at Imogen’s plan to take Rory under her wing, and it had reminded her why she adored her parents so. They were simply caught between convention and progress, leaning one way one moment and the other way the next. Even their scheme to see Imogen married and settled had come from a place of love. To her shock, the bitter anger she’d first felt whenever she thought about their conspiracy didn’t make an appearance.
Haven would be safe, and she would be, too.
A giddy swell of something new and unfamiliar bubbled up inside of her. She turned away from Rory, who was still watching her reflection in the mirror closely. The girl was far too sharp. She’d see the emotion on Imogen’s face for what it was: hope. Before this betrothal business ever happened, Imogen had pinned all her hopes and dreams, her entire future, onto Haven. She’d had fleeting moments when she’d imagined a different past that would have led her into marriage and motherhood, but she’d always shoved them aside. Now, however, anything seemed possible. Imogen was entering entirely new territory, and it both scared and invigorated her.
She’d given up on sleep around dawn and had sat down at her writing desk to pen a letter to Emma, informing her of everything that had happened. She’d written at length about Ronan and how he had turned out to be the complete opposite of what she’d expected. How the brute they’d met in Edinburgh had transformed into a man who made her feel cherished, whose size and fierce strength, once intimidating, now made her feel safe.
