What a Scot Wants (Tartans and Titans)

by Amalie Howard; Angie Morgan

  Along with Archer, they were the only Englishmen he did not want to kick in the teeth. Ronan eyed Langlevit, who studied his new hand of cards with casual intensity. Perhaps with his vast network of contacts, he would know more about the man who had approached Imogen. Then again, North and Archer might be of assistance as well.

  He cleared his throat. “What do any of ye ken about a man called Silas Calder?”

  North scowled. “Silas Calder, eh? I’ve heard he recently returned from a lengthy stay in Italy. If I recall, he’s a man of business, though not here. He was the Marquess of Paxton’s at one point, I think. Why do you ask?”

  “I saw him at Bradburne’s ball,” Ronan said. “He seemed to ken Imogen.”

  Several loud bangs of champagne popping pierced the conversation, followed by raucous laughter in a nearby alcove. Across the table, Langlevit went frighteningly tense, his face blank, but his mouth flexed in a slight twitch. Ronan recognized Langlevit’s look—it was one many battle-hardened soldiers had—an acute awareness of one’s surroundings, even outside of times of war.

  “Langlevit still travels in Italian circles,” North interjected, drawing the man’s attention. “Perhaps he knows more.”

  “Calder did a lot of business in Edinburgh,” the earl said, exhaling and relaxing his grip on the glass before taking a large gulp of his drink. “He was Kincaid’s estate steward. At one point, he was engaged to Lady Imogen, but it ended rather quickly. After that he lived in London and then spent the last seven years or so in Italy.”

  Ronan frowned. “Is he married?”

  “Not that I know of,” Langlevit said. “There was a murmur some years back about an English girl, but it was swept under the rug quickly, and then he left for Rome. As far as I know, this is the first time he’s been back on English soil in years.”

  The coincidence of the timing stabbed at Ronan. Why had the man returned after so long? Did it have anything to do with Imogen? It didn’t make sense that the two things would be connected. No one had known that Imogen would be accompanying him to London. Even she hadn’t known. But the way that Calder had looked at her had gotten under Ronan’s skin.

  “How did he come to be at yer ball?” he asked Archer.

  The duke shrugged. “Briannon does the guest list. I suppose he might have arrived with someone. Do you have reason to dislike the man?”

  Ronan deliberated how much to reveal and decided against being too candid. Confiding in these men about his speculations would undermine Imogen and perhaps betray her privacy. In hindsight, he should have spoken to her directly after the ball, but she’d suddenly become very busy, her hours filled with social engagement after engagement as if she did not want to speak about it. If Ronan had to guess, he would say that she was diligently avoiding him.

  “It’s no’ dislike,” he said. “But I’ve reason to be concerned.”

  Langlevit’s stare speared him as though the man could see right through him. “I’ve never cared for the man myself. He always struck me as shifty.”

  “Shifty?”

  “He’s an opportunist,” Langlevit said. “Comely, charming, and clever, he makes a living off the unsuspecting. Skims money off the top of his business dealings and plays the Lothario with rich heiresses and widows. He’s a cheat to the core.”

  When another round of shouts and laughter rolled across the gaming floor, followed by more banging, it was no surprise that the earl stood without warning, gathered his winnings, and gave a short bow before signaling to the factotum to call for his carriage.

  “I will take my leave.”

  “He doesn’t do well with noise,” North said after Langlevit left. “From the war. Though he’s gotten better in recent years.”

  Ronan nodded. “I understand.”

  And he did. It used to take him days to recover after clan feuds, the sound of any loud bang making his heart race and his body tense like a spring. He couldn’t begin to imagine what a man like Langlevit had faced on the Continent.

  Bradburne took a quick glance to his timepiece. “I have to leave as well. I’m going to be late. We’re supposed to have supper before the opera this evening.” He shot a glance to North. “Your sister keeps me on a tight leash.”

  “Someone has to,” North replied.

  As North and Bradburne made their way out to the waiting carriage, Ronan shook his head at the two men. It was clear that they were close. Their easy camaraderie made him miss his brothers. But it wasn’t just that. The way they spoke of their wives, with such fondness and desire and laughter, made him feel something that felt strangely like envy.

  The feeling stopped him in his boots.

  He didn’t want a wife. He didn’t need one. In fact, he had an unwanted betrothal that he had yet to get rid of. And Imogen was nothing like those men’s wives. She was an unmanageable, unpredictable spinster who loved one thing—her women’s shelter. And she clearly didn’t need him, either, if her tireless efforts to get rid of him were any signal. At least until Archer’s ball. Ronan frowned. Before he continued their charade, he would find out exactly who Silas Calder was to her.

  Once back at his residence, he climbed the stairs and called for a bath. “Where’s Lady Imogen this evening?” he asked his valet. Vickers knew everything that went on in the house.

  Vickers didn’t bat an eyelash. “Your fiancée plans on attending the opera, or so that old battle-ax of hers, Hilda, says.” The valet met his eyes in the mirror, an odd sparkle in them. “Do ye prefer to wear the plaid? Or trousers tonight, Yer Grace?”

  “Dress kilt,” Ronan said without hesitation. He’d forego the sword, but he needed to remind himself of the part he was playing. That the game was still ongoing.

  “Where’s the lass? Has she settled in?” Ronan hadn’t forgotten his promise to Imogen to have the urchin girl moved from the stables. She hadn’t put up much protest, and though he still felt the need to keep a close eye on her with the silver, he also felt relieved that she was in the house. And it made Imogen happy.

  “Miss Rory is…adjusting.”

  Ronan stifled his grin. “Causing havoc, is she?”

  “She refuses to wear the clothing the other maids have provided, curses like a sailor, and has disrupted the entire household.” He shrugged. “She’s a smart little git, though. Doesn’t miss a thing going on around her.”

  “Keep an eye on her,” Ronan said. “Let me know if she causes any problems.”

  When he was shaved, dressed, and ready, he descended the staircase, only to be informed by her smirking maid that his fiancée had already left. That cheeky little harpy! Ronan swallowed his ire. Despite her recent setback, it appeared that the battle was still on. Luckily, it was a clear night, so he took the phaeton and arrived at the opera house in no time at all. The lavish foyer was well-lit and crowded, full of immaculately dressed people.

  Eyes swiveled toward him when he entered. He endured several greetings, as well as no small amount of whispers at his clothing. He first searched the foyer for Imogen, and then directed his eyes up, to the balcony.

  His gaze landed on Silas Calder. The man stood at the balustrade, glowering at Ronan. As soon as he met Calder’s glare, the man turned away, giving him his back. He wondered if Calder had already seen Imogen and vice versa. Ronan scanned the thinning crowd as most people went to their seats, but there was no sign of her. Perhaps she’d changed her mind and had gone elsewhere this evening. Though Vickers was rarely wrong.

  Ronan decided to wait a few more minutes. His searching gaze touched on a head of red hair, and his stomach jolted as a pair of entreating green eyes met his. In all the commotion with Imogen, he’d forgotten about Grace. Lady Reid, he corrected. She’d said at the Bradburne ball that she was here for the Season. Where was her husband?

  His jaw tightened as she sashayed toward him, clad in a fitted, cream-colored gown. She’d been a beautiful girl, and she’d become a beautiful woman. He’d have to be blind not to notice that, but it was strange th
at her beauty did not affect him as it had in the past.

  “Ronan,” she said in a honeyed voice. “I was hoping to see ye again. We have so much to catch up on.”

  “Where’s yer husband, Lady Reid?” he asked pointedly.

  “Oh, ye havenae heard? He died last spring.”

  Ronan heaved a breath, her motives becoming clearer. “And ye’re back. In London? Why not Edinburgh?”

  “Because ye’re here,” she said, inching closer.

  He narrowed his eyes. “I am betrothed, Lady Reid.”

  “Ronan, I need ye to ken that I made a mistake—”

  But before she could continue, a curious prickle of awareness passed over his shoulders. He glanced up and froze. Everything around him cut off but his ability to breathe, and even that was failing him by the heartbeat. A siren in sapphire silk entered the foyer. Heads turned and conversations ceased, and for once, Ronan was glad for the sporran on his dress kilt, because all his blood decided to rush below his waistband.

  Lady Imogen Kinley was a vision.

  Ronan had known that she had a pleasing figure from the plain dress she’d worn in her office at Haven, but her assets weren’t hidden tonight. She wore a deep blue dress that clung to every feminine curve. Her lustrous hair was wound into an intricate updo, a vibrant hothouse orchid tucked in the crown, leaving the creamy column of her neck and her plentiful décolletage on display.

  Christ almighty, she was stunning.

  He sensed the moment she saw him, her gaze flicking and narrowing on the woman at his side. Gone was her vacant expression, childish posture, and the doll-like smile on her lips. No, now she stood like a queen, regal and poised, confident in her female appeal. Her brilliant green eyes glittered as she approached him, the seductive roll of her hips making him suck in a ragged breath.

  “Hello, darling. Sorry I’m late.”

  Darling?

  Imogen lifted her cheek for his kiss, and, in a daze, he leaned down to press his lips to her soft skin. She smelled delicious, heat and spice and wildflowers, and it took almost all of his willpower not to move an inch to the right and claim those smiling lips.

  “Ye look beautiful tonight, leannan,” he told her, returning the endearment and relishing the slight widening of her eyes. “But I’m sure ye’re well aware of it.”

  She met his gaze directly, a wicked smile surfacing to her lips. “Doesn’t hurt to hear it, however.” Her gaze swept over him, a dark eyebrow hitching at the dress kilt. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

  The look she gave him was so full of sultriness that for a second he couldn’t speak. “Thank ye.”

  “Oh, Lady Reid, I didn’t notice you,” she said sweetly, turning to the woman beside him. “Lovely to see you again. You are a dear for keeping my fiancé company in my absence. Though I can take it from here. Enjoy the opera.”

  With a consummate smile of dismissal, Imogen slipped her arm in his and ushered him toward the corridor that led to the private boxes. Ronan didn’t know whether to protest or applaud. But between the eye-opening dress and the lowered register of her voice, both his brain and body were in a state of utter confusion.

  “I see a different Lady Imogen is out to play tonight,” he said, finding his sanity and falling into step beside her.

  “Disappointed, Duke?”

  He met her gaze again, stunned by the wry humor and intelligence glimmering in them and shocked by the difference from the woman he’d been with the last few weeks. “No’ at all, actually.”

  “Good.”

  They stopped as she greeted a few people she knew. Most, like him, seemed pleasantly surprised. One gentleman even asked if they’d met before. Her throaty, uninhibited laughter rang through the foyer like the sound of wind chimes, making Ronan’s gut clench. He didn’t think he’d ever heard her real laugh.

  “Why didnae ye wait?” he asked. “At the house?”

  She lifted her fan and smiled coquettishly behind it. “And spoil the surprise? Where’s the fun in that? I have to admit, seeing your jaw on the ground was worth it.”

  “I imagine I wasnae the only one, lass.”

  As they left the foyer, he felt the sting of Grace’s gaze on his back, and as he looked over his shoulder he also caught the black look on the face of Silas Calder, who hadn’t moved from his spot at the balustrade near the entry doors. He had been waiting for Imogen, Ronan realized. The expression wasn’t for him, however. Calder’s gaze was branded to the visible expanse of Imogen’s back, which was on glorious exhibit in that revealing gown. The man looked positively enraged.

  When they reached his family’s box, he escorted Imogen inside. As the curtains shrouded them in privacy, the tension left her body in a rush, and Ronan frowned. Had that all been an act? Of course it was. Imogen did nothing without a reason. If she meant to seduce him, to turn the tables by acting the tart, her performance would continue. However, she seemed almost relaxed and relieved, as if she wasn’t acting. At least not any longer.

  He played back her earlier entrance in his mind, taking in all the people who had been in the foyer, including Calder…and the man’s livid expression. Had Imogen’s performance been for him? And if so, why? His gaze flicked to her. Asking her outright would only make her close off and shut down. And she was stubborn enough to refuse to answer.

  “I miss the frills,” he said eventually.

  Her eyes met his, wariness in them now that they no longer had an audience. “You hated the frills.”

  “They were growing on me.” He smiled. “Though I cannae say yer voice ever did. That was torture.”

  Imogen swallowed and grasped her fan in her gloved fingers when he took the seat beside her. She cleared her throat. “You must know that was fake. All of it. My attempt to get you to walk away. You abhor silly women.”

  “Aye. So why the change?”

  “I realized such obvious tactics weren’t going to work.”

  His eyes scanned her, snagging on her bosom, until two spots of color rose into her cheeks. “So ye opted to play the seductress instead?”

  “Something like that.”

  Ronan held her gaze. “I’m no’ that easy of a target, Lady Imogen.”

  “I don’t expect you to be,” she said.

  He leaned close. “In the interests of disclosure, I kenned all along yer plan. I overheard ye speaking to Hilda about a baby and Haven. Ye used yer real voice, too.”

  A strange expression crossed her face then, as if she was torn between being vexed and being flustered. “Well, this is the real me, so get used to it.”

  He could get used to it.

  Though she had changed the rules, the match was still ongoing, and two could play at the seduction game.

  “Are ye planning to seduce me, then, my lady?” he whispered, his voice pitched low and husky. A visible tremor shook her shoulders, her grip so tight on the fan in her lap he was sure it would snap. She kept her eyes shut as Ronan’s breath blew against the fine hairs of her nape, traveling up to the lobe of her ear. “It wouldnae be too hard, ye ken. I want to kiss yer cheek again, drag my mouth across yer fragrant skin to yer lips and dip into yer sweetness with my tongue. I want to tug down that bodice and gorge myself on the silk of yer nipples. To peel away all yer layers and get to the truth of ye. The sweet, damp heart of ye.”

  His voice was almost a growl by the last word, and from the sound of her shallow, panting breaths, some deeper part of her wanted those things, too. He could sense her arousal, hear it in her breaths, see it in the rosy flush beneath her skin. But his seduction was a double-edged sword. He was so hard it bordered on agony. Ronan clenched his shaking fists.

  “Would ye like me to kiss ye, Imogen?” he whispered.

  Her eyes flew open, meeting his, shock and resentment burning in hers. “No, of course not.”

  “Ye only have to ask and I will.”

  “No, I don’t want it,” she replied in a shaky voice. “Or you.”

  But she was lying. They
both knew it.

  “As ye wish, darling.” Ronan smiled, lifting her gloved hand and pressing his lips to her knuckles, nipping his teeth over her flesh as he’d once done. Her suffocated moan as she snatched her hand away nearly broke them both.

  God help him with this new version of her…and surviving the next few hours.

  Chapter Eleven

  It took hours to reach intermission. At least, that’s what it felt like to Imogen as she sat beside Ronan in their private box, each of them pretending to watch the opera below on the stage. Such an obvious farce. The air practically vibrated with tension, and every rustle of his clothing, every shift of his body, every breath ricocheted along Imogen’s shredded nerves.

  God, those sinful words he’d whispered to her. The wicked things he wanted to do to her. She couldn’t get them out of her mind. The juncture of her thighs ached, and the points of her breasts were overly sensitive. Ronan had described setting his mouth to their tips, and curse the man, now she couldn’t go a handful of seconds without returning to the image of his head at her bosom, his teeth and tongue working her.

  As the actors carried on, the first act unfolding without Imogen paying the least bit of attention, she gave her own desires free rein. Ronan had only said those things to agitate her, but she didn’t believe they were false. He was a man, and, thanks to the women at Haven, she was all too familiar with the wants of men. He wanted her in every way he described, and in the safe privacy of her own mind, she waded into the dangerous thoughts of what she wanted. What she would do to him, if she truly wished to seduce him.

  Imogen would start at his lean hips. She’d felt his strength the day at Haven when he’d pinned her against him and kissed her until she’d nearly burst into flame, but she wanted to put her hands on his bare skin and feel his muscles harden under her touch. She wanted to cup her palms over his buttocks, which she was almost certain would feel like two granite boulders. And most of all, she wanted to touch the manly length of him between his legs. They had traded barbs about his sword before, but she wanted to explore it thoroughly, make his stormy eyes darken with mindless pleasure.