Page 94 of What a Scot Wants
He swallowed hard and crossed the floor toward her near the threshold. How many late hours had he lain in bed on the other side, wanting that door to open? Longing to see Imogen standing there, waiting for him? And now, there she stood. Waiting.
For ye, ye amadan.
To talk, another voice interjected.
He cooled his desires and closed the distance between them. Since she could not hope to thwart the duel, she no doubt wanted to talk about terms for the dissolution of the agreement. The truth was, he wasn’t of a mind to argue the finer points, but he wanted to see her. If things went badly at dawn, he would never have the chance again. If they went well, he would have to walk away from her for good.
But now…now she was here.
Ronan cleared his dry throat and halted a step away. He couldn’t help himself—he drank her in. Counted the diamond-tipped pins in her hair that secured the silky curls to her crown. Slipped into the unreadable green pools of her eyes, slid down the slope of her nose, and fixated on the pink pout of her lips. He traced the elegant lines of her jaw to her neck, watching that creamy, rose-tinted skin rise into the slopes of her breasts and disappear into folds of emerald silk that left precious little to the imagination.
“Don’t you know it’s rude to stare, Your Grace?” she murmured.
“Turns out I’m no’ very good at being a duke.”
Her mouth parted on a whisper of a smile. “You aren’t?”
“I’m a Highland barbarian, remember?” Her scent curled around him, each second making it harder to keep his desires at bay. For once, he was grateful he wasn’t wearing a kilt, though the placket of his trousers wouldn’t last much longer from the steady pressure of his flesh. “Or was it a boor?”
“Both, I believe. I had quite a few in my repertoire to describe you.”
He’d miss this. Their banter. Their sparking rivalry.
“Why are ye here, Imogen?”
She stared at him for an interminable moment, those guarded green eyes finally shedding some light into what she was thinking. Her hands lifted and went to the pins in her hair. Mesmerized, Ronan watched as she pulled each of them out, allowing each glossy lock to spill free. It didn’t quite hit him until she’d removed her gloves and kicked off her slippers, but then Imogen’s intentions all but pummeled him straight in the gut.
Staying in.
“Imogen,” he began hoarsely, refusing to take one step into his own chamber. If he moved, he wouldn’t stop until they were on that bed. Together. Entwined. With every stitch of clothing gone. Andthatwould be an irreversible mistake. “What are ye doing?”
“Undressing.”
The simple answer made his chest seize. “I see that. Why?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” she said.
His control felt like it was hanging on by a string. “Nae.”
“Then I shall endeavor to be more…explicit.” The throatiness in her voice went straight to his excited cock, and his senses were so deluged in lust that he almost didn’t take her meaning—until her fingers went to the satin ribbon at her bodice and tugged.
Oh, sodding hell, no.
He wasn’tthatmuch of a saint.
Ronan stalked toward her, closing his shaking fist over hers. “Dunnae,” he growled, trying not to feel his knuckles pressing into the soft give of her bosom.
Imogen licked her lips, and the sheen of moisture on them almost made him groan. Tension throbbed between their bodies, parts of her straining toward him and parts of him refusing to obey the simplest of commands.
“I want this, Ronan,” she said. “I’m calling in my favor that I won fair and square during our race on Rotten Row. I want one night with you.”
He closed his eyes. Ofcourseshe would use it to claim this. Now, when he barely had a leg to stand on. When he was hanging on to decency by the skin of his teeth.
“Nae.”
Her lips tightened. “Yes. You lost. I won. This is what I claim.”
“Imogen, this willnae change anything, ye ken,” he said in a rasp.
