What a Scot Wants (Tartans and Titans)

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  Ronan’s ears ached as Lady Imogen stared at him, her green eyes wide and expectant. “I dunnae like lemon,” he replied, even though he did in fact love lemon.

  “Oh, I’m certain I could tempt you with it.” She took hold of his arm. “Come, perhaps we can pop into the kitchens before dinner and I can introduce…”

  Ronan backed away without realizing it.

  “Your Grace?” she asked with an innocent look over her shoulder.

  “Another time,” he bit out. “Excuse me.”

  Back in the empty foyer, Ronan passed a hand over his sweating forehead. Good God, if she said one more word, he was going to drown himself in the first vat of whisky he could find, even if it wasn’t a Maclaren batch. Gladly.

  Christ, clearly she was too much of a nitwit to be offended. He’d fondled her arse in polite society. Insulted her completely. And apart from that first unguarded reaction, she hadn’t run crying to Lord and Lady Kincaid, which was exactly what he’d intended. No, she’d waxed on about jiggly blancmange and sodding pudding recipes.

  Then again, he hadn’t missed that first spark of defiance, of disgust… It was almost as if she’d wanted to crush his foot with her heel and smack him across the face. What had stopped her? Had her parents bred her to overlook such behavior? Or had her mind simply been sidetracked by the thought of food? The woman’s erratic moods made his bloody head spin.

  With some desperation, Ronan reached for the flask in his coat pocket and took a deep draught. Now more than ever, he knew what a disastrous match they would make. He’d slit his own throat within a week of being married. Less, maybe.

  Bloody blancmange.

  He would have to renew his efforts to make her cry off, no matter what it took.

  …

  In the privacy of the retiring room, Imogen wanted to break something. Preferably a large crystal bowl over a certain Highlander’s thick head. God but he was dreadful! Never had she been so offended in all her life. Her bottom still burned beneath her many layers of clothing where he’d touched her so boldly. So crassly.

  The ungracious oaf had bitten her, too! She flushed, clenching her fist. The heat from his mouth had seared her, and when she’d felt the scrape of his teeth, it’d been all she could do not to combust.

  And his filthy words…good Lord.

  The only sounds I want to hear are moans. And my wee wife telling me what’s for dinner—after she’s taken all I can give her.

  Her cheeks went hot, and she caught her breath, fanning herself with renewed vigor. Imogen couldn’t remember the last time her body had responded in such a visceral way to anyone, much less an uncivilized, cloddish excuse for a man. She couldn’t explain the simmering of her blood in her veins, the sudden inability to catch her breath, the weakness of her limbs. She was angry, that was all. Positively livid.

  What on earth had her parents been thinking?

  Imogen splashed her hot face and patted it with a soft cloth. Despite his conduct, the Duke of Dunrannoch wasn’t an eyesore. Apart from his enormous size, his face hadn’t been unpleasant. No, to many women he might be considered handsome, ruggedly so.

  He had a strong nose that looked like it might have been broken a time or two, an uncompromising jawline, and sharp, aristocratic cheekbones. His hair was thick and dark, and his eyes were the bluish-gray mercurial color of a loch caught in a storm. In the space of a handful of minutes, she’d seen those striated irises shimmer from translucent blue to darkened gray. If she didn’t loathe him to distraction, she might have found them beautiful.

  Her man of business, Mr. Jobson, Emma’s cousin, had been thorough in his assessment, and while she’d been daunted by what she’d found out about the duke, she wasn’t deterred. He was a man, after all. And a man who valued industry and intelligence. Two things she would pretend not to be.

  That was the easy part. The hard part, as she’d just discovered, would be not responding to his odious, vulgar behavior. The duke had practically salivated over her bosom, licking his lips as though she were a meal! She went hot again at the memory of that ravenous look. What would it feel like to be consumed by a man like him?

  Good Lord, ten minutes with the man and she was turning into a philistine.

  Imogen shook her head and calmed her unruly thoughts. Once she regained her composure, she would have to go back out there and put on the show of a lifetime. Flirt and act the dimwit. Ignore his crude insinuations. Gauge the man’s weaknesses and load them into her arsenal. There was no rush. No need to panic.

  Dissuasion, like seduction, was an art. It had to be done with care.

  She took one last bracing breath and left the retiring room. It wasn’t hard to locate her ogre of a fiancé, but she avoided where he stood in conversation with a few people. He kissed the cheek of an elegant-looking older woman in greeting, a half smile crossing that hard face of his. His mother, she presumed.

  Her father glanced over at her as they turned out of the salon, but Imogen looked away. She couldn’t even make eye contact with him without feeling ill. He would see her married off to such an objectionable man? Suddenly, she felt an unwelcome heat against her back as though she’d summoned the cad, and before she could prepare herself, a heavy palm landed on her hip.

  “There ye are, my mouth-watering confection of a bride.” Ronan Maclaren’s broad hand practically burned through the layers of silk. “I do hope we’re seated next to each other at dinner, my wee pudding-lover,” he whispered, taking fast, long strides down the corridor, forcing her to keep in step. Imogen nearly tripped, but the Highlander’s arm gripped her tighter, pulling her more firmly against his side.

  She let out a breathless oomph at the tight squeeze but resisted the urge to claw at his hand and extricate herself. It was inevitable that they would be seated together, but she would play the part and try not to stab her foul-mouthed betrothed in his solid, muscular, raven-clad thigh with a salad fork. With a determined breath, she pulled herself into character and forced a giggle.

  “Oh I don’t think I can sit, I’m just so excited for the music after dinner. Do you like music, Your Grace?” He looked like he would prefer the cadence of gunshots and battle cries to anything from a civilized instrument. Before he could answer, she went on. “Because I love music, especially a waltz—a Schubert waltz, to be precise, though I’m not very good with the foot placements, so if you don’t mind, I’ll just stand on your toes.”

  Lord Dunrannoch paused as they came to their seats—as Imogen had dreaded, placed side by side, though thankfully at the other end of the table from her parents—and replied, loud enough for their nearest dinner companions to hear, “Lass, ye can stand on my toes any time.” He leaned in as they sat, his tone lowering just for her ears. “There’s nothing like a waltz to let a man feel his way around a woman. Gives him a taste of what’s to come.”

  Scandalized beyond belief, Imogen spent an extra moment flattening the napkin over her lap while the zinging urge to wallop him right in his square jaw bubbled up her throat. The low-bred, foul-tongued knave! She took a breath, shook off the outraged heat billowing within her, and blinked owlishly up at him.

  “I do love waltzing.” She punctuated the statement with another high-pitched giggle and felt the side of the duke’s large body flinch against hers. “Isn’t it curious how some words, Your Grace, when you say them over and over, don’t even sound like words anymore? Waltz, for instance. Say it.”

  He finished pulling in his chair and frowned at her. “Say what?”

  “Waltz.”

  “Waltz?”

  Imogen bounced in the seat of her chair. “Yes! That’s it! Waltz. Say it again. Waltz, waltz, waltz, waltz, waltz,” she sang, bobbing her head side to side. She tamped down the urge to laugh when Lord Dunrannoch’s flinty eyes went sharp with alarm.

  “Waltz, waltz, waltz, waltz,” she finished, chirping out a contented laugh. “See? It doesn’t even sound like a word anymore, does it?”

  He stared at her, the
muscles along his hard jaw rippling, though he made no attempt to speak. She bit back a satisfied grin, her cheeks aching. Do not laugh, Imogen.

  “Aye, I suppose it doesnae,” he muttered eventually. And when he didn’t tack on a ribald comment, she sat back in her chair, victorious.

  Victory, though sweet, was woefully short. Her parents sent her sharp looks from their seats, surely having witnessed her mortifying display, but she knew they would never reproach her in public. And though the duke did not so much as turn his head toward her during the soup course, he set about sucking from his spoon like some untamed wild man.

  At every awful slurp, Imogen shuddered and eyes around the table shifted, startled, toward him. Even Lady Dunrannoch’s cheeks were pink when the meat course was brought in on platters by the footmen. Imogen had a flicker of inspiration. One platter was set before the duke, and adhering to etiquette—something she was astonished to see—he slid one finely sliced round of beef from the platter and moved to place it upon her plate.

  Imogen shot out her hand, her voice a fierce whisper. “No, thank you! I cannot eat that.”

  He held it on the serving fork over her plate. “Whyever no’?”

  She had always been very good at drawing up tears whenever necessary. They beaded up in the corner of her eyes as she gazed at the duke, and then at the fork he held.

  “That poor, poor cow. I simply can’t imagine putting anything in my mouth that was once a living, breathing animal. With those big eyes and that sad, mournful moooooo.” Imogen shook her head and touched the napkin to the tip of her nose—it helped mask the tremor of a smile threatening to break over her lips.

  “Ye’re worried about the cow?” he asked, sounding as incredulous as she’d hoped he would.

  “Of course. Aren’t you, Your Grace? I can barely stand to look at her,” she said, waving away the forkful of tender red meat. She pursed her lips, her chin wobbling. “I do so look forward to when I am in command of my own dinner table. There will be no meat.”

  He scowled and placed the beef onto his plate instead. “And what do ye plan to serve, if no’ meat?”

  “Root vegetables, of course. And broths. Oh, and bread. I love bread. Pudding, too, but you already know that, don’t you?” Imogen poked him in the side, expecting to feel her finger sink into his flesh. However, it was like poking a granite wall. He peered at her, and though her finger throbbed, she felt a surge of delight as the Highlander stuffed his mouth and chewed, purposefully ignoring her. She counted it as a win.

  “I agree with Lady Kincaid, don’t you, Dunrannoch?” the duchess asked, her voice reaching through Imogen’s thoughts, and, by the look of surprise, also her son’s. They had been so caught up in their own intrigues that neither of them had taken in the other conversations going on around the table.

  The duke lowered his fork. “Agree with what?”

  “Lady Kincaid and I agree that there should be an engagement ball,” she answered. “I will host it at our home here in Edinburgh.”

  Ice sliced through Imogen’s veins, numbing her. Things could not get that far. Though her ploy seemed to be working, whenever Dunrannoch peered at her as if she had two heads there was a glimmer of battle in those eyes of his. That gleam worried her. It hinted that he was much more resistant to her methods than she would have preferred. Then again, he stood to lose a lucrative family business.

  She would have to work harder.

  “Oh, yes! I want the most beautiful dress for our engagement ball,” she squealed with as much enthusiasm as possible, ignoring the fine brackets of skepticism that formed between her mother’s brows.

  Lady Dunrannoch, however, brightened visibly. “Well, of course you do, my dear. Everything will be beautiful, and I’m more than happy to help in the planning.”

  Beside her, Imogen heard the duke take a deep breath and, with a quick look, caught the tail end of a grimace.

  “Everything must be pink,” Imogen gushed.

  “Pink?” Lady Dunrannoch repeated, alarmed.

  “With embroidered rosebuds,” she went on. “The linens, the drapes, my dress, all of it. I do so adore rosebuds.” Imogen drew a dramatic breath. “I think a future duchess deserves to be swaddled in them from her head to her toes.”

  Her intended let out a snort, his words garbled with an indiscreet cough. It sounded like he’d muttered “more like smothered.” Imogen bit back a tickle of laughter. She eyed him with dreamy delight.

  “Perhaps you can have a waistcoat with matching embroidery. Yes, yes, that would be splendid, don’t you think?” She poked him again for good measure. “Perhaps even identical wreaths of pink rosebuds. You would look adorable!”

  Dunrannoch froze, a strangled noise emerging from his throat.

  Everyone went silent as the duke abruptly stood and left the table. The duchess gaped at her son’s departing back, an appalled look on her face. Squashing her triumph, Imogen made it through the rest of dinner while her betrothed left it to his mother to make her excuses for his rude departure. It appeared the good duke decided not to return.

  Victory!

  Before the music was to begin, Imogen went up to her bedchamber, desperate to loosen some of the fasteners on the hideous dress. It had served its purpose, but the thing felt like an oven. She was overheated from all the fabric.

  “How are you faring, my lady?” her longtime lady’s maid, Hilda, asked.

  Imogen grinned, fanning herself near the open window. The bracing air felt glorious on her cheeks tonight. They had been far too warm most of the evening. Darling Hilda had been a part of her schemes for years, and Imogen had more than compensated the maid for her loyal and faithful service, over and beyond what her father paid her.

  She breathed in the night air, drawing a deep breath, happy to have her voice back at its normal low-registered cadence. “Oh, Hilda, it’s gone brilliantly. Perfect.”

  “And the duke?”

  “Running as fast as his heels can take him, if I have to guess. Dear God, Hilda, you should have seen the look of abject terror on his face at the thought of being adorned in rosebuds for the wedding. Honestly, I pity the woman who has to marry the ham-handed oaf.” She spun, staring out at the stars twinkling in the sky, and then peered back at Hilda. “But I only have a minute before I’m expected back downstairs, so enough about that awful man; any news of my sweet babe? How is he faring?”

  “Good,” the maid said, having run an errand to Haven that afternoon. Hilda enjoyed volunteering at the home whenever she could. “The bairn has a calm disposition and is ever so sweet. You’ve done well.”

  Imogen took a last lungful of cold air to settle her flushed cheeks and nodded to her maid. As she descended the staircase after setting her gown to rights, her thoughts returned to the Highlander and his abrupt flight from dinner. She savored the sweet taste of triumph.

  It wouldn’t be long now, and Maclaren Distillery would be hers.

  Chapter Three

  Ronan remained outside the Kincaids’ townhouse, a forgotten cheroot in hand, several minutes after the maid had closed the shutters above his head. He wasn’t much of a smoker, but by God, the aggravating lass had driven him to it.

  Though now, his mind raced and his blood rushed in a hot frenzy. What the devil had he just overheard? Where had Lady Imogen’s glass-breaking pitch gone? The one that had made him want to protect every last piece of china in the dining room.

  At first, he hadn’t even recognized the low, husky voice coming from the open window. But when he’d heard words like fiancé and wedding and ham-handed oaf, its owner had been clear. That clever little charlatan! The shrill tone that made eardrums bleed and teeth grind wasn’t her true voice at all.

  And the hogwash that had poured from her lips…

  Ronan had abandoned dinner before the third course could be delivered, dismaying not only his mother but their hosts and the rest of the guests. He hadn’t cared. He’d been desperate to leave. But as his driver had pulled up to Dunrann
och House, Ronan let out a string of curses and ordered a return to Lord Kincaid’s home. He’d embarrassed himself and his mother tonight with his coarse behavior in order to strong-arm Lady Imogen into refusing his suit, and yet somehow, he’d been the one to break decorum and bolt.

  But he could not end the contract. The idea made him sweat. He couldn’t imagine losing Maclaren Distillery—it was the very heartbeat of his clan—and yet he’d been unable to endure another second with the absurd chit. When she had insisted he wear a kit of matching rosebud everything to the engagement ball…even his wedding-obsessed mother had looked green at the gills. The nerve to call him adorable!

  A dark chuckle broke from him. His dandy of a brother-in-law, the Marquess of Riverley, would relish the irony of his future bride’s execrable taste. Lady Imogen Kinley was, without a doubt, the worst imbecile he had ever met.

  At least, that was what he’d believed.

  Until five minutes ago.

  As he’d walked toward the front door a second time that evening, determined to get his wits back in the game, the pair of voices had sounded from an open window above the front salon. One of which was undeniably amused, laughter drenching her every word…about him. Ham-handed oaf, was he? Good. Ronan grinned, until he realized Lady Imogen herself seemed to be celebrating her own victory. But it wasn’t until the mention of the baby that Ronan’s ears pricked with predatory focus.

  Any news of my sweet babe? How is he faring?

  He all but quit breathing then. A bairn? Her own? Hell, did Lady Imogen have an illegitimate child somewhere, sired by a secret lover? If that were the case, the betrothal would dissolve easily enough.

  After snuffing out his cheroot, Ronan turned on his heel and retreated to his carriage, a new plan forming. He’d made a mess of the evening, but he would employ every resource at his fingertips to determine what the woman was hiding. If there was a child, a lover…he could use the discovery of them to convince Lady Imogen to walk away from the betrothal. Her secret would remain intact—he had no interest in ruining the woman’s life—and he would be free to return to the Highlands.