Chapter Sixteen

A brisk ride down Rotten Row was doing little to calm Imogen’s roiling senses. They’d been in a right stew since daybreak, ever since she’d woken from yet another rough night. A visit with her mother, more shopping, and now handling a surly Temperance hadn’t helped matters.

Even having moved from Ronan’s home to her old room at Kincaid Manor on Berkeley Square hadn’t offered the respite she’d been hoping for. Ronan hadn’t been happy about her choice to return to her parents’ home, but she didn’t care. She needed space. Not that the distance had helped any.

Imogen was starting to note an unwelcome pattern, most of it having to do with her perplexing fiancé, who had put it in very plain terms what he wanted from her as a wife in that blasted hot air balloon.

Heat saturated her skin at the memory of his crudeness. Every thought she had was of the duke. Even the ride in Hyde Park had made her think of the last time she’d raced on the Row with him, and for some ridiculous reason, she missed his company. Not that she needed it after the debacle in that balloon.

God, she’d never been so terrified in all her life, but, even at the crux of it, she had understood deep down that Ronan would never let anything happen to her. When they’d been flung to the ground, he’d cradled her with his big body, taking the brunt of the fall himself. A part of her had warmed at the thought of having someone like the Duke of Dunrannoch at her side, protecting her for the rest of her life.

Flushing, she dismounted Temperance and handed the reins to the waiting groom in the mews behind Kincaid Manor. The mare had sensed her underlying turmoil and had been particularly difficult to manage, refusing to heed the simplest commands, but even that hadn’t been enough to wear Imogen down.

Maybe Ronan had a point. Maybe they could both get it out of their systems, whatever it was. Desire. Lust. Attraction. She felt all those things and more. Then again, they didn’t need a marriage to do that. Instead of a broodmare, it sounded like the duke wanted a bedmate. Her thighs clenched. Waking up next to him wasn’t a terrible prospect…it was everything else that came with marriage that was the problem.

Namely, a complete lack of independence. No man, no matter how sexually proficient he was, was worth giving that up for.

With a sigh, she climbed the stairs to her childhood bedchamber.

“Hilda?” she called out. “Are you here? I’m in the mood for one of your tonics. Preferably one with a splash of brandy.”

There was no response from the maid, and the bedroom was empty, though everything from earlier that morning was put away and in place. Imogen pushed the door leading into her bathing chamber open, but that was empty as well. Walking to the door, she summoned one of the undermaids to find Hilda and also call for a bath. She had a few hours before she had to attend her parents’ impromptu gala that evening.

Imogen shrugged out of her riding habit, which had front closures, thank God, and pulled on a robe over her underclothes. She would need Hilda’s help for the stays. While she waited for her maid and the bath to be readied, perhaps she would have a lie down. As she approached the bed, she smiled. Hilda hadn’t been as tidy as she usually was. There was something resting on her pillow. Her smile crashed. It was a lily.

A white lily.

Panic clogged her throat as the ground tilted beneath her feet. Why the bloody hell was there a lily on her bed? How had the thing gotten in here?

It was from Silas. It had to be. No one else ever sent her white lilies. But this was going too far, much too far. She wrapped her arms about herself, her eyes frantically darting around the room. Was he still here? Had he come himself? Paid one of the servants? How had he known that she was back here in her old bedroom? The questions came one after the other, like blows to her head, making her flinch.

The thought of that man being in her private bedchamber made her stomach quail. Slowly, she backed away, part of her wanting to throw the offending thing out of the window and another part not wanting to touch it. When her body bumped into something solid, she screamed, but it was only Hilda.

“What is it, my lady? Are you well?”

“How did that get in here?” she whispered, pointing to the flower.

Hilda frowned, her face twisting with disgust. “I don’t know, my lady. It wasn’t here when I left to take your garments downstairs to be laundered this morning.”

Imogen turned to stare at the maid. “It’s from him, isn’t it? How did he get up here? That’s where I sleep…”

“I’ll get rid of it, my lady, and replace the sheets.” Hilda shook her head and then handed over two large boxes. “Oh, these came for you. It’s from one of the stores we visited, don’t worry. It must be from the shopping earlier.”

Maybe it was because of the lily, but every hair on Imogen’s body stood up in warning. With shaking hands, she opened one box, and her erratic breathing evened out. It was a royal blue bonnet she’d admired, though the shopkeeper had insisted at the time that it hadn’t been for sale. Perhaps he’d changed his mind. The second box was rectangular, and she took comfort in the fact that it wouldn’t be more jewelry. Imogen flung off the cover and felt bile gurgle into her mouth.

A doll lay there. A porcelain doll with pink cheeks, green eyes, and brown hair. Its resemblance to her was uncanny, but that wasn’t what made her breath hitch. The toy was dressed in a pale green gown with pink embroidered peonies. An exact replica of the dress she’d worn when Silas had proposed.

She remembered the day clearly because he had taken her on a picnic and he’d told her she looked like a forest fairy. Imogen shivered. He’d always had the gift of a silver tongue, making her feel special and wanted. But he’d done the same to Belinda and, as it turned out, other girls as well.

Another bit of card stock lay tucked at the doll’s feet. Imogen almost didn’t want to read the card, but she had to.

I dream of that day. You still have my heart. -SC

Her stomach dropped. Oh, sweet God in heaven, the man was demented. How could he possibly imagine that they were still connected after all this time? He’d lied to her, manipulated her and others, only to return without a care in the world, as if no time had passed, and he expected to be welcomed as lord of the manor? It was unconscionable. If he thought her a nitwit or an easy target, he was wrong!

With no small amount of fury, Imogen slammed the cover back and met Hilda’s eyes. “Burn it. Burn all of it.”

When the bath was ready, she soaked until her skin was waterlogged, and when she finally came back into the bedchamber, the bed had been stripped and remade and there was no sign of the box or its contents.

A somber Hilda wrapped her plump arms about her. “Do you still wish to attend the ball this evening? I can tell Lady Kincaid that you have a megrim.”

“I won’t let him, or any man, chase me into a corner, Hilda.”

Hilda looked worried. “You do realize he might put in an appearance. As he did at the opera. And Lord Kincaid still holds him in fond regard.” She shook her head. “More fool he for not knowing what that man did to you.”

The thought had occurred to Imogen in the bath. It had made her belly ache, and a part of her had wanted to dodge any confrontation, especially to avoid any hint of scandal for her parents’ sake at least. But another part of her—the part that had seen countless women stand up and fight against men who’d taken things from them without consent—had decided it didn’t want to give in. She had to be strong for every girl who had her voice stolen from her.

“I realize that,” Imogen said softly. “No, I will attend. Instruct the servants to inspect every package.”

“Yes, my lady, I will check them myself from now on,” Hilda said. “And for the evening, might I suggest the silver satin.”

Imogen nodded, feeling indignant rage start to build. To hell with that man. “That’s exactly the one I was thinking.”

Two hours later, Imogen was ready. The silver satin gown had been meant to be a lark. She’d commissioned the thing from a Parisian designer for a Grecian masquerade she and Emma had been toying with as a fundraiser for Haven. While the ball hadn’t quite come to pass—she’d needed her dowry for the expenses—the dress had been sewn and delivered. Imogen had no idea why Hilda had thought to bring it to London, but she was grateful all the same.

The gown itself was sumptuous, the satin draping across her body like a glove and leaving one shoulder scandalously bare. The low-cut bodice was edged in silver lace, adding to the illusion of bare skin, even though she was completely covered. Nipping in at the waist, it fell in voluptuous folds to the floor, molding to her hips and outlining her thighs with each movement. She’d decided to forego extra petticoats for the occasion.

“I think you’ll break hearts tonight, my lady,” Hilda said, her cheeks red. “Or other organs.”

Heat rushed into Imogen’s own face. “Hilda!”

“Well, it’s true, my lady. You better hope your Highlander doesn’t throw you over his shoulder and cart you out of there.”

Imogen felt a flicker of hesitation. “It’s not too much, is it?”

“No. It’s perfect. You’re a sight to behold.”

The maid’s heartfelt words filled her with confidence, and as Imogen descended the curving staircase to the ballroom, she let it buoy her spirits.

Ronan had sent a terse message earlier with his valet that he would be arriving late because of a business meeting. A part of her wondered how he would react to the dress. Her fingers plucked at the shimmering, clingy fabric that whispered against her legs with every step. The gown was sultry and over-the-top and more risqué than anything she’d ever worn. She had a strong feeling the duke wasn’t going to approve. Imogen squared her shoulders. She wasn’t there for Ronan’s approval or disapproval. She was there for one purpose only—to send Silas a message once and for all.

She was not to be trifled with, and she was no man’s bloody doll.

At the entry to the ballroom, Imogen smiled at the majordomo, whose white eyebrows shot up to his hairline. Rogers had known her since she was a child, so she sent him a saucy wink and twirled.

“Lady Imogen Kinley,” he intoned, sounding like he was choking for a brief moment.

If his reaction hadn’t prepared her for how she looked, the lull in conversation and the stares she garnered from the guests did. Imogen felt nothing but dark satisfaction as Silas’s eyes bulged upon seeing her. Good. That high-handed, smarmy bastard was here. Chin regally high, she walked over to where her parents were standing.

“Mama, Papa,” she said and kissed their cheeks.

“You look…radiant, Imogen,” her mother murmured, even as her father turned a dark shade of puce and tugged at his cravat.

Imogen grinned. “You’re supposed to say I look beautiful, Papa.”

“You do,” he managed. “But you’re missing a shawl or some such.”

“Come now, Papa, this style is all the rage in Paris.”

He looked dubiously at her. “If you say so. And you do look lovely, dear. Now, where is that fiancé of yours? I’ve a feeling you’re going to need him, and perhaps his claymore, at your side.”

Imogen laughed. Her gaze scanned the crowd, but Ronan had not yet arrived. “He said he would be late. And let’s hope he doesn’t come with his sword.”

The next two hours passed in a blur of greetings and introductions, especially to the gentlemen in attendance. It was incredible the attention a simple dress could inspire. Imogen had done her best to remain unnoticed in the last decade, determined to chase off anyone interested in giving her a first or second look, but tonight, she let loose. Imogen laughed, she flirted, she danced, and she also knew the moment her fiancé arrived.

“His Grace, the Duke of Dunrannoch,” Rogers announced. “And Lady Reid.”

The last was a blow to her sternum, all thoughts of Silas Calder forgotten.

Imogen spun around, disregarding the gentleman who had come to claim the next dance. Sure enough, the simpering lady hung on Ronan’s elbow. Imogen lifted her gaze to her fiancé and saw his fastened on her.

Even with the distance between them, she could feel the blaze in his eyes as he swept her form, and she saw his stare narrow dangerously at her partner. Imogen shot him a cool look and returned her attention to the man bowing before her.

Lord Firth. Heavens, no wonder Ronan had looked furious. In truth, she hadn’t even thought twice when the man had signed her dance card an hour ago. But now she was trapped for a waltz, no less. She shook her head. It didn’t matter. Ronan was with another woman.

Had that been the business that had made him late? Was he trying to make her jealous by bringing that woman here? It would not work. Imogen had been the one to suggest Grace as a replacement bride, after all.

Then why did her heart feel like someone had stomped on it? Why did she want to rush over there and pull that grasping redhead’s hair out by the roots? Ronan had made it more than clear what he expected in his marriage of convenience, and Imogen couldn’t fathom the thought of Grace in Ronan’s arms, in his bed, being his wife in every carnal way, without feeling like she wanted to scream.

“How have you been, Lady Imogen?” Lord Firth asked. “I must say, you look marvelous this evening. That dress…” He licked his lips, and Imogen felt a beat of disgust.

“Thank you. I wore it for my fiancé.”

She hadn’t, but Lord Firth didn’t need to know that. His eyes flicked to where Ronan was standing. “The fiancé who just arrived with Lady Reid?” His lips curled into a knowing smirk. “He’s a lucky man to have such beautiful women fawning over him.”

“I do not fawn, Lord Firth.”

To Imogen’s dismay, she felt the man’s hand on her waist slip down to rest on the curve of her hip. Perhaps it was because of the slippery fabric. But that thought died as he tugged her closer, close enough to feel parts of him she had no interest in feeling.

“Lord Firth,” she began, just as a large shadow loomed over them.

“Allow me to cut in with my betrothed,” Ronan growled. His grim tone left no room for argument, and Lord Firth conceded with a sullen look. From the violent expression on the duke’s face, the man was lucky he didn’t get smashed into the ground.

Imogen pasted on a smile, despite her suddenly racing heart when Ronan’s large hand replaced Lord Firth’s. Funny how his touch didn’t repel her. No, it only stole the breath from her, made her wicked brain want him to drop it lower, to cup her behind and bring her close.

Unlike her previous partner, she was not averse to feeling parts of him. Ronan looked incredibly handsome tonight, she had to admit, even clad in his dress kilt. The virile-Highlander look was growing on her.

“You’re late, Your Grace,” she told him as he spun them with expert ease.

“What are ye wearing, Imogen?” His voice was a low growl. “It looks like a night rail.”

She would die before admitting that it also felt like one. Instead, she fluttered her eyelashes. “No, darling, it’s a dress. From Paris. Do you like it?”

Imogen could almost hear the grinding of his teeth. “Nae. Yes.”

“Which is it? Yes or no?”

He grabbed her hand and dragged her off the floor. “It’s neither. We are leaving.”

“I’m staying here with my parents, or did you forget?” She dug in her feet once they moved off the ballroom floor.

“I dunnae ken why ye couldnae have just stayed at Dunrannoch House. I allowed ye to move, but—”

Her brows leaped in indignation. “Allowed me?”

They were interrupted by her father, who chose that moment to welcome his future son-in-law with a wide smile. “Glad you could make it, son!”

Imogen scowled. Son? That was a bit premature, wasn’t it? But her bitterness faded as soon as she registered who was behind her father. Dread bubbled in her stomach at the sight of the man, but she quelled it with ruthless force. That man had no hold on her. He had no power over her. He was nothing to her.

“Imogen, you know Mr. Calder, of course,” her father said to her and then turned to the duke. “Silas Calder, my former steward, Your Grace, until we lost him to the lure of London, and then the Continent, I hear. But he’s here for a long-overdue visit to renew old acquaintances.”

“We’ve met,” Ronan clipped through his teeth.

Her father opened his mouth and closed it, and for a moment Imogen wondered if he would blunder terribly and bring up her past engagement. Luckily, he did not.

Imogen felt Silas’s eyes on her as they exchanged short greetings, but she kept hers on her father, a smile fixed in place.

“Lady Imogen,” Silas said. “How much you’ve grown.”

“Indeed, Mr. Calder,” she replied. “It’s been some time since I was seventeen.”

“Enough to wear such a daring ensemble,” he went on, his eyes shifting to Ronan. “I must say, if I were in your place, Your Grace, I might worry.”

Imogen couldn’t help noticing that Ronan had shifted so that his arm was touching hers, and she felt him bristle at Silas’s words. He couldn’t possibly know what the man was to her, but she took greedy comfort from his presence all the same.

“Why should I worry?” Ronan drawled, a hand coming to rest on the small of her back. “Imogen is a beautiful woman who kens her own mind, and I trust her judgment in all things.”

Her mouth almost fell open in shock. It was completely at odds with the possessive jealousy she’d seen brewing on his face when he’d dragged her off the dance floor.

“Then you will not mind if I ask her to dance?” Silas put in smoothly. “For old times’ sake. We used to be dear friends, you know. One could also say, at one point, almost like family.”

With a sharp inhale, Imogen opened her mouth to refuse, but her father smiled and nodded. “You should, dear. I think it was you who taught this young man the steps to the quadrille. Do you remember?”

She bit her lip hard. How could she forget? She’d been a fool with stars in her eyes, so eager to dance with him, to teach him how to be a gentleman in her world. She’d fallen for his act…hook, line, and sinker.

Silas, the rotter, lifted a brow and extended his arm.

God, she should cut him dead, walk away, do something. But he knew she wouldn’t. If she did, then she would have to explain why to her parents, and that she could not do. Those secrets belonged in the grave with a very young and very reckless Imogen.

“Fine,” she replied ungraciously. “Unless the duke disagrees.”

Please disagree. Please. Please. Please.

“Nonsense,” her father interjected jovially before Ronan could speak. “Why would Dunrannoch mind? Go on. We need a moment to catch up anyway.”

Her heart in her throat and her body wooden, Imogen let Silas lead her back to the dance floor. Thankfully, the set was no longer a waltz and was an older cotillion-style dance. She wouldn’t have been able to stand having him so close.

“You are trying my patience,” he murmured when they came together for a turn.

Imogen found her voice and her spine. “How so? I hardly see how anything I do affects you.”

She felt him stiffen in anger, but he kept his outward expression bland. They twirled apart and came together again. “Did you receive my gift?”

“I burned it.”

His fingers tightened painfully on her wrist, and Imogen winced. She would have bruises beneath her gloves. “You did what?”

“Oh, you poor thing,” she said, refusing to let her pain show and grateful for the brief reprieves when they separated. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you, Mr. Calder, that grown men shouldn’t play with dolls? There’s a place for men who do, you know. It’s called Bedlam.”

His lips peeled back from his teeth in a grimace. “One day, I will look forward to taming that unruly mouth of yours.”

“Will there be more dolls?” she asked brightly. “Perhaps we could have a tea party. I do love a good tea party with a healthy side of male posturing. Honestly, it makes me hot and bothered.”

“You will show me respect.” His eyes narrowed. “And dress like a lady befitting my future wife.”

“Respect is earned, Mr. Calder,” she said, feeling a sense of power replacing the rage curdling inside of her. “And as far as my clothing, you won’t have anything to worry about, because I’m now engaged to a duke who happens to like the way I dress.”

“You’re mine, Imogen.”

Determination and fury twined along her veins as she danced with the monster who’d made her life a mockery and a living hell. Somehow, she would make him pay for the innocence he’d stolen from her that night at the Golden Antler. For the future he’d stolen from Belinda and her child. For all of the women he’d lied to and cheated. She would not cower. She would not bend.

Imogen smiled. “I’ll never be yours.”