Chapter Two

Once his carriage crossed the city limits into Edinburgh, Ronan felt a change take place inside of him. He knew the city well, having traveled there numerous times every year, and had done so all his life. Though his heart belonged in the Highlands, he still enjoyed the break Edinburgh offered, especially these last two years.

Life as duke and laird had not been difficult to adjust to; he’d been primed for the role and the duties it required for a long time. However, he still felt constricted. His every move watched, every word obeyed. He was the center of Maclaren, all else revolving and working intricately around him, and Edinburgh…well, it had allowed him to breathe.

He took especially unrestricted breaths at the two gentlemen’s clubs that he and his brothers belonged to—the New Club, when he wanted to conduct business, and the Golden Antler, when he wanted to loosen his starched cravat a bit. On the whole, Ronan enjoyed his trips to Edinburgh.

Never did he imagine he’d dread one.

Namely, this dinner with the Earl of Kincaid, where he would meet his intended bride. The idea of marriage made him break into a cold sweat. It had ever since his first love, Grace Donaldson, the only girl he’d ever wanted, had crushed his hopes when she’d eloped with another. And now he found himself in this predicament.

Forced wedlock to a spinster.

Ronan recalled what Stevenson had been able to uncover about Lady Imogen Kinley. At twenty-nine, she was a spinster by choice, even though she was dowered with an obscene fortune. She had been engaged once, to a man called Silas Calder, steward to the expansive holdings of the Kincaid earldom; however, the engagement had been broken, and the man had cried off for unknown reasons.

Following that, she’d apparently refused nearly two dozen proposals. As far as the solicitor had discovered, she spent her days entertaining callers in her city manse, gifted to her by her indulgent father, and working with various charities whenever the fancy struck her. Clearly, she was a spoiled, vain heiress with nothing but time and money on her hands.

He swallowed his disgust. Getting her to cry off should be an easy feat.

When the carriage pulled up to a beautifully appointed residence in Charlotte Square of New Town, a few streets over from his own residence, Ronan hopped out and straightened his formal dinner clothing. The snowy white cravat choked him, almost like a premonition of what was to come. He was glad he’d chosen to come separately from his mother, who had also been invited by the Kincaids. It gave him the means to leave separately later, should the need arise. And he fully expected it to.

He climbed the steps and was announced by the butler. “His Grace, the Duke of Dunrannoch.”

Instantly, the voices in the nearby salon dropped as a handsome, smartly dressed older man accompanied by a slender, blond woman walked forward.

“Welcome, Your Grace,” the earl said.

“Thank you,” Ronan said.

Kincaid’s wife smiled up at him. “What a pleasure it is that you are here at last.”

Lady Kincaid had been childhood neighbors with his own mother in England, and her clipped accent reminded him of Lady Dunrannoch’s. Kincaid, however, had a soft Scottish drawl, though it was nothing like Ronan’s own thicker burr. His eyes scanned behind them for the woman he was here to meet.

Kincaid turned, as if sensing his curiosity, and looked over his shoulder. “Ah, yes, Imogen, there you are. Come, my dear.”

A petite woman emerged from the salon, wearing a pastel pink gown that was better suited to a debutante making her come-out. What seasoned woman wore bloody pink?

Ronan felt his breath catch when a pair of leaf green, almost-feral eyes met his. The fierce challenge in them wasn’t hidden, and the boldness of her perusal hit him like a punch to the gut. Other details like the sable color of her hair and the sharp angle of a dimpled chin registered, but he could not look past the glittering, appraising stare.

God but she was tiny, barely coming up to his chest. Those eyes of hers, however, could slay dragons. Or him, if he wasn’t careful. He had a ridiculous urge to draw his claymore and prepare for battle.

Her eyes narrowed, and he could almost sense the wheels of her mind turning, when an exuberant smile broke over her face.

“Your Grace!” she squealed in a voice that could break glass. “I am so pleased you could come.”

Ronan almost backed away, right through the door, down the stairs, and into his carriage, if it was still there. Good God, that voice made his teeth ache and his ballocks shrivel up in painful tandem. Shocked into immobility for a handful of seconds, he blinked as a twitch crossed the full pink bow of her lips.

Focus, ye dunderheid!

He bowed and reached for her gloved hand, assessing the challenge. It wouldn’t take much to have someone like her fleeing. Playing the part of a vulgar, oversexed Lothario should do the trick nicely, and something about her grating voice and pink dress allowed him not to feel an ounce of shame or guilt over what he was about to do.

Squashing his grin, he pressed his lips—open-mouthed—to her knuckles, letting his teeth close over a small pleat of fabric and skin. As she gasped and tore her hand away, his eyes lifted to hers.

“Oh,” she breathed. Twin flags of hot color lit her cheeks.

“A pleasure to meet ye, my future duchess,” Ronan said, thickening his brogue and watching those green eyes widen. With shock? Horror? He glued his lips together to keep from grinning.

Let the games begin.

As her parents stepped away to greet other arriving guests, he let his gaze sweep appraisingly over her body. All the way down to the tips of her beaded slippers and back up, pausing at her hips and making a low sound of approval in his throat at her nipped-in waist. He stopped at the pink-clad mounds of her breasts and licked his lips as though presented with a great feast.

Christ, it was foul what he was doing. His mother would be disgusted, and his sisters…well, Sorcha would not hesitate to pummel him to a bloody pulp. Such vile behavior went against every grain in his body, but it was the only way to get his future bride to back out. It was the only way to win.

Lady Imogen’s gasp was audible, as was the blush saturating her throat and into her décolletage. “You’re a pig,” she blurted in a furious, scandalized whisper.

He forced himself to wink. “Oink, oink. And to think, I’m to be all yers, leannan.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.” She pinned her lips shut, and Ronan couldn’t help remarking that her voice wasn’t quite as shrill as it had been earlier. Curious…and intriguing. “And don’t call me that,” she snapped. “I’m not your darling in Gaelic or any other language.”

He rolled his shoulders and arched a lazy eyebrow. “What makes ye think ye have a say in anything at all? I like my women silent and biddable.” The flash of temper in her eyes goaded him to push further. “In fact,” he added, leaning closer to her ear, “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.” Lady Imogen’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, and Ronan smirked, nodding. “Aye, lass, like that, but a tad breathier.”

He swore he could hear her teeth grinding as she turned on her heel, about to stalk away, but she had not taken one step before he gave her a light swat on her rump. She whirled around, eyes snapping with outrage, and for a moment Ronan thought she might slap him then and there—it was nothing he wouldn’t deserve.

Hell, he could hardly believe he’d touched her so familiarly. But, to his shock, she collected herself and smiled a controlled, polite, dainty smile. And curtsied. Bloody curtsied as though he was the King of England.

“Of course you would, Your Grace.” Her voice had spiraled back up to its former octaves. Ronan winced and then narrowed his eyes.

“Of course I would what?” he asked before he could stop himself.

“You’d want to have dinner,” she said with a vacant look, those plump lips forming into a bow. “Most men do. Sadly, I’m a kitchen’s worst enemy. I cannot cook, not even an egg. The last time I attempted it, I burned the yolk, something Cook told me should be completely impossible to do. But I do know some delicious recipes I can get Cook to make…if it pleases you, that is.” Sighing, she batted her eyes. “I once saw Cook make a blancmange, and it was just so jiggly—I couldn’t countenance even putting a spoonful of it in my mouth!” She suppressed a shudder and giggled, her eyelashes fluttering like trees in a strong gale. “And then, to make things even worse, I couldn’t eat jelly for a whole week. Do you like blancmange, Your Grace?”

He blinked, surprised that she’d stopped to draw breath, and answered before he could think twice about it. “Er, no. I dunnae eat sweets.”

Her smile widened to frightening proportions. “Oh, how sad! I love sweets. I love pudding. I could eat tea cakes and shortbread and pudding all day long. You know, Cook has the best recipe for lemon shortbread. Do you like shortbread? Don’t worry, it isn’t very sweet at all.”

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.