For one, her belief in love wouldn’t be dead.
Ronan Maclaren was a man a woman could easily fall in love with, and not just because of his exterior, though that was arguably fine. No, it was because underneath all that gruffness, he was a good man. He was honorable. His family loved him. His clan respected him. And he was here. With her, holding her hand while she cried…while she made excuses for a monster and told only half truths about what had happened to her in the past.
Ordinary men didn’t do those things.
Uncaring, hard-hearted men didn’t rescue cynical, broken, unvirtuous girls.
But he did.
Her gaze traced the sharp-hewn features that had become so dear in so short a time—the expressive eyes that could scorch or slay without words, the bold slope of his nose, his strong, square jaw, and that stern but sensual mouth that made her mind shift to other things. She’d tasted the press of those lips on hers and wanted it again.
Imogen dragged her gaze away and focused on the dancing flames in the hearth. She needed to think of something else or she’d fling herself into his arms, to hell with the consequences. “Tell me about growing up with your sisters,” she blurted. “What were they like?”
A smile lit his eyes as he rocked back on his heels and then stood to take the seat beside her. He seemed to sense her need to talk about something else. Something that mattered.
“Sorcha, as ye can imagine, was a handful,” he began. “Even as the second youngest, she was always in the thick of trouble. She wanted to be like her older brothers, and my brothers, Evan and Finlay, goaded her terribly. When she was attacked by that wolf, she’d gone exploring on a dare from those two. Being scarred so badly, she had a tough time of it, but she’s courageous, that one, with a heart as big as Loch Rannoch. Then there’s Makenna. Ye willnae find a stronger woman in Scotland, nor a more compassionate one. I have a soft spot for her. She was always saving puppies and chicks and baby hedgehogs. Lastly, the eldest of the girls is Annis. As a girl, she never let anything stop her from going after what she wanted, even if our parents didn’t approve. She knew exactly who she was, even as a child. I suppose with me as her older brother, she wanted to rebel. And she did.”
Imogen smiled. “Sounds like you love them very much.”
“Most days,” he said.
“I always wanted a large family,” she murmured quietly. “Alas, it wasn’t meant to be. I am an only child. My parents tried again for years, but after a few ugly miscarriages, a doctor advised against it. Your family sounds wonderful. Boisterous.”
“They would love ye.”
Imogen’s lip curled. “The princess, the prude, or the coquette?”
“All of ye.” He shot her a wicked grin that made her insides clench. “Though I admit I might be partial to the last, but perhaps we can keep that wicked side of ye between us.”
“I get it now,” she said after a beat, watching him. He lifted a brow, and she pushed on. “Why you were so picky about a wife from the start. I mean, Aisla and Sorcha told me about Grace, but I can’t see her as a match for you. She’s too self-absorbed. But with so many strong, amazing women in your life, it stands to reason that you would want a wife who can come close to the standard you grew up with. It’s hard to match that.” She shook her head. “For what it’s worth, I admire Sorcha, and of course Aisla.”
“I’m sure the feeling is mutual.”
“Oh?”
He gave her a wry smile. “They both promised to wreak havoc upon my person if I upset ye in any way. And let me tell ye, the only person who has ever bested me by claymore has been my wee baby sister Sorcha. I claimed it was luck, but it was pure skill. I wouldnae want to cross that one.”
Imogen wouldn’t want to, either. Sorcha Montgomery was a force of her own.
“And let’s no’ get started on my sister-by-marriage,” Ronan went on. “That woman’s tongue is as sharp as steel and equally as lethal. Honestly, I’m still wincing from Aisla’s last set-down at North’s garden party, where she told me to get my head out of my arse if I kenned what was good for me.”
Imogen couldn’t help it; she laughed, and the look of pleasure in his eyes was almost her undoing. Again. He offered her some more brandy, but Imogen refused. She was sure her parents would be wondering and worrying why she’d left the Langlevit ball so abruptly without so much as a by-your-leave. It was unlike her, and she wouldn’t put it past Silas to make some underhanded remark.
“I should be getting back,” she said, clearing her throat.
“Ye can stay here,” Ronan offered.
Imogen nodded. “I know, but my things are at Kincaid Manor, and I should check in with my parents.”
“As ye wish.” He canted his head and rose to call for a footman to fetch his carriage.
“You don’t have to accompany me,” she said. “I shall be quite all right.”
He grinned. “Stop trying to escape me, woman.”
God, she didn’t deserve him. Not as a future husband, not even as a friend. Though she’d been mostly honest with Ronan, she hadn’t told him the full truth tonight. Imogen didn’t know if she could. Telling your possible future husband that you were ruined goods was a bit more daunting than explaining why a man from your past was slavering at your heels. Even if the two were connected.
Imogen wasn’t sure she had the courage. She could only imagine the way Ronan would look at her if he knew of her visit to the Golden Antler and what occurred there, even if she’d instantly regretted it. The same way her parents would see her.
With disgust. And disappointment.
“Shall I come in with ye?” he asked when they arrived at Kincaid Manor.
“No,” she said much too quickly. “No, thank you. I’ll be fine from here. Good night, Ronan.”
He caught her hand before she could leave the carriage. “I meant what I said earlier, Imogen. I’ve reconsidered everything. I hope ye can as well.”
His warm, earnest stare made her chest tight. She nodded, the motion ungainly. “I will think on it.” He released her to the curb, and her knees nearly dissolved underneath her.
She needed space to breathe. To think and sort through all of these confusing emotions at war inside of her. I dunnae want to be free of ye. He had meant it. Truly? Imogen groaned. Ronan Maclaren had smashed through every last protective barrier she’d built around her heart over these last dozen years. She’d never felt more exposed.
But as she stood on the stoop, it wasn’t fear she felt because of it. She stared at the man standing there and felt her ribs loosen as if a great weight had been removed from her person. She felt unencumbered…an odd sensation for someone who had always felt the constant yoke of her station, her wealth, her family name, and her gender.
Was he the cause?
Imogen exhaled. It was early yet. And from the looks of it, her parents had yet to retire, if the blazing lights in the foyer were any signal. Normally, they were quick to bed after any function, leaving only a small candle burning for when she returned. But they were still awake, it seemed.
“Actually, Your Grace, if it pleases you to come in, it appears Mama and Papa are still awake,” she said, amending her reply with a shy smile. “Though it’s not necessary.”
“I will see ye inside, then, my lady,” Ronan said, making a gallant bow.
The reason for the lights was evident when they entered the foyer.
“Imogen, is that you, dear? Come in, come in. We have news.”
News? Her father’s jovial voice, coming from the drawing room, surprised her. She looked to Ronan, who stood back and gestured that she should go to him.
As soon as she did, Imogen almost fled the way she’d come. Especially when she saw that her parents weren’t alone. She blinked in disbelief. What in the hell was Silas Calder doing there, sitting as cool as a cucumber in the drawing room? Especially considering what had already happened that evening? Was her father in his cups? She inched forward through the open door and notic
ed Lady Kincaid ensconced in her favorite armchair. Her face denoted nothing of concern, and she seemed in good spirits as well.
Her gaze slid to the wolf in sheep’s clothing, who was sipping a brandy as bold as you please. Silas shot her a sly, victorious grin that snaked across her skin. Imogen frowned, worried, knowing she had to be where he was concerned. Had he come to share her secret? Lay her shame bare? Tell her parents that she was ruined and he’d been the one to do it. Her heart hitched. It was a part of the story she had left out with Ronan. What would he think of her? Would he still want her, knowing she’d been with another man?
She shook herself and tamped down her frantic emotions.
“News?” she asked, proud that her voice remained strong.
“Yes, yes. Silas, as you know, has returned from the Continent and has expressed an interest to court you. Now, before you make any protest, he has told us the truth of why he cried off.” With some alarm, Imogen saw that her father’s face held a ridiculous amount of fatherly sentiment toward the man. It made her sick. What kind of lies had Silas told them? Lord Kincaid went on, oblivious to the horror keeping her mute. “He said he didn’t think he was enough for you back then and wanted to make his own way and his fortune to be worthy of you. Before what tragically befell Lady Beatrice, he realized his heart was here, with you. He can take care of you now, if you truly do not want to marry the boorish Highlander, as you call him. You accepted him before, and I am happy to give my blessing if this is what you want.”
“No,” she croaked, but the word did not emerge. Nothing came out but an inaudible noise. How dare he speak of Lady Beatrice! He was responsible for that poor girl’s death! Imogen composed herself and drew a bracing breath, stifling her urge to scream. “What about the betrothal agreement with Dunrannoch? And the rest of my dowry?”
Her father shrugged, a strange, guilty-looking expression crossing his face. “We have always acted in your best interests, Imogen. Your mother and I only want for your happiness and to see you secure and safe. We were desperate, you see. You seemed so determined not to wed, and we had to use the thing you held the most dear to force your hand.”
“Haven,” she breathed out.
He nodded. “But that property is yours and will always be yours. I will provide recompense to the duke in lieu of it. However, you will still forfeit the rest of your dowry, as promised in the contract. Silas here, good man that he is, has agreed to marry you with no dowry, given the circumstances.”
He clapped the man on the shoulder with an approving grin. Imogen’s eyes narrowed. No dowry? What was Silas playing at?
“He only wants you, Imogen,” Lady Kincaid said as if reading her mind, and Imogen could see the rainbows in her mother’s eyes from where she stood. “He says you are his dearest love and the only thing that will make him happy. And he has agreed to come back and work for your father. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Imogen couldn’t breathe as her eyes met Silas’s. Gracious, he’d thought this scheme out to the letter. Spun her parents a fantastic tale about true love and had them eating out of his hand. He’d come back to get what he felt he’d been cheated of.
Silas didn’t want her. No, what he truly wanted was to ingratiate himself to Lord Kincaid and fleece him for all he was worth. Which was quite a lot. Her dowry, as obscene as it was, was a drop in the bucket of her father’s wealth.
“What say you, Imogen?” her father boomed, and she jerked out of her fugue. “Come now, put the poor boy out of his misery, will you? I’ll send a man to the duke with our regrets.”
Silas met her eye and smirked. The look on his face was smug, as though he’d already won. Imogen bit her lip, her heart battering her rib cage. She had known it would come to this…that she would have to face her demons sooner or later. Only, she didn’t think she would have to marry the worst of the lot of them. If she refused, would he reveal her shame? Expose her ruination and cause a scandal? A chill swept across her neck, and she felt lightheaded. Dear God, she wasn’t going to swoon, was she?
A large hand slid against hers, and she gripped it gratefully. She’d forgotten Ronan had escorted her inside, though he’d remained just out of sight of the doorway. Until now. Horrified at how her father had referred to him, Imogen spared him a quick glance. His face was expressionless, though his body had gone tense beside hers at the realization of the unexpected guest’s presence. And, no doubt, his offer.
“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 felt powerful. 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 there would be 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.�
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“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, acting daft,” Rory said, exaggerating the g and 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.
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