Page 93 of What a Scot Wants
“Are ye no’ happy to see me?” She pouted and dropped her gaze to his thighs. “Parts of ye seem like ye are.”
“I told ye,” he said. “There’s nothing between us any longer. Now get up and get dressed. What ye’re doing is unseemly, even for ye.”
Ronan was going to find whoever let her in here and strangle him. He’d never put it past Grace to be so bold as to find herself naked in a man’s home in the middle of Mayfair, so he shouldn’t be surprised. Was she trying to force a marriage? Catch another husband by getting herself in a compromising position? Hurriedly, he backed out of the room and almost crashed into a body behind him.
“Vickers, where the hell have you been? And how did that bloody woman get—”
He glanced over his shoulder and promptly forgot how to speak.
“Not Vickers,” Imogen said. She peered around him, green eyes widening at the sight of the woman clad in a corset and chemise clambering out from behind the desk. She arched a brow, lips twitching. “You work fast, Your Grace.”
“It’s no’ what it looks like,” he said, shock receding enough for his eyes to drink her in and notice the temptation of a dress she wore. It hugged her breasts and hips like a second skin. A woman in underclothes had hardly warranted a second look, but Imogen in emerald silk made his head spin. “Are ye going out?”
“Staying in,” she replied.
He frowned at her answer, given the elegant gown she wore, but Vickers chose that moment to stride down the corridor and come to a halt in front of the study door. The valet stifled a guffaw at the half-naked, red-faced woman struggling to fasten her dress.
“I fail to see the humor in this, Vickers,” Ronan growled.
Imogen made a small noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. “Itissomewhat funny. Unless, of course, she is the real reason you’re calling off the betrothal.”
Ronan opened his mouth to deny it. But then shut it. Would she accept that? That he’d chosen another woman over her? Was it truly that easy?
“If that’s the case,” she went on, “then I accept your forfeit with all the terms as agreed. On one condition.”
Ronan blinked. “What’s that?”
She didn’t answer him but turned to his valet with a sweet smile. “Vickers, will you please see to it that Lady Reid is seen safely home and inform the rest of the servants that His Grace is not to be disturbed.”
Vickers grinned. “As you wish, my lady.”
With that, she turned and ascended the staircase. Ronan froze, staring at her, his eyes fastened to the hips currently making that green silk cling to a pair of long, slender legs. At the top of the landing, she shot him a look over her shoulder so full of promise that he nearly spent himself right then and there. “I’ll be in my old chamber.”
He stood there, rooted to the ground, until Vickers poked him in the shoulder. “What are you waiting for, Duke?”
Ronan scowled. “Ye do ken that we’re no’ betrothed any longer?”
“Ye’re no’?” Grace piped up, her smile widening.
He shook his head. “Nae. Grace, go home.”
“Ye want me. I ken it,” she whined.
“No, I dunnae.” He held her elbow, steering her to the foyer, where his butler had already summoned his carriage. “This is beneath ye, Grace. I can offer ye friendship, but nae more than that.” He glanced to the upper level where Imogen had disappeared. “My heart is…elsewhere.”
For a moment, Grace paused, and Ronan braced himself for another round of protesting. But then she nodded, a sad smile sliding over her mouth as her eyes followed his. “I lost my chance, I ken it. Ye’re a good man, Ronan. I should have chosen ye.”
He didn’t reply, and after Grace left he stood in the foyer, his heart racing, knowing that Imogen was only a few steps away.
What did she want? Why was she here? She was dressed in a gown to slay the most valiant of intentions but had said she was staying in. Here, at Dunrannoch House? In her old chamber?
Ronan shook off his questions and ascended the staircase. He knocked gently on her bedroom door, belatedly questioning why she’d chosen this room from the many others available. And now, as he entered her former room, found it darkened.
“Imogen?”
A slim line of light emanated from the door that led to his own bedchamber. Not once had he opened the joining door in the weeks Imogen had lived at Dunrannoch, though he had stared at it many a night. Now, however, the door opened. Imogen’s figure filled the doorframe, backlit by the lights in his chamber.
“In here, Your Grace,” she said. “I didn’t take into account that my room would not be prepared for me.”
