The fluttering of her pulse might have made her think she was falling in love—or some such ridiculous notion—but she wasn’t a ninny. They’d only just met. No one fell in love overnight.
This was physical attraction, pure and simple; some animal craving for which she was hardwired as much as he was.
She might have limited experience—that was to say, almost none—but her father had given her full reign over his library. Defoe’s Moll Flanders had taught her a good deal.
Determined to remain in charge, she pushed away. “You aren’t throwing me in the hay—or whatever it is you usually do with women. You need to maintain a respectable distance.”
Rye wiggled his eyebrows but did just as he was told, creating the requisite space between them. “Yes, ma’am. Rules are rules. Can’t have us forgettin’ them and goin’ wild.”
Going wild? She couldn’t begin to imagine; and now certainly wasn’t the time.
She cleared her throat, and fixed her gaze somewhere around his clavicle. Everything would go easier if she avoided looking him directly in the eye.
“The waltz from Swan Lake—by Tchaikovsky. The idea is to float around the floor, in a fluid and elegant manner, moving in waves to the count of three. It’s really very simple when you get the hang of it.” For the next few minutes, she made him follow her feet. “Step and lean, and slide and rise. That’s it—as if you’re making a repeating box with your feet. Anti-clockwise around the room, making small extra turns as we go.”
He grasped quickly all that she showed him. By the time she’d given the gramophone a fifth cranking, they were twirling at full speed. Really, it was quite wonderful. Rye seemed to be a natural, for all he’d never tried before.
She’d danced with any number of men during her season and none had made her feel like this—as if she could stay in their arms for hours, letting them spin her in circle after circle, to music rising and swelling.
As the waltz came to its crashing, tumultuous conclusion, he brought her to a stop by the window, both of them a little short-winded and laughing with pleasure.
“You did—very well.” Ursula beamed, catching her breath.
He offered a bow to her curtsey and another of his grins. “You’re an excellent teacher.”
“Thank you.” She was surprised at how much satisfaction it gave her to hear his praise. “Of course, there’s a lot more to learn yet. For instance, you shouldn’t dance more than once with the same lady, unless you wish to show particular favour.”
He’d suddenly stepped closer again. “And here we are, turning about the room over and over.”
“Yes, well…it’s perfectly acceptable while you’re learning.”
“Is that so?”
The way he said it, his drawling voice low in her ear, made it sound anything but.
Remember, it doesn’t mean a thing. He has five would-be brides waiting in the wings, and you’re nothing at all—just the hired help. Good enough for a quick squeeze, but don’t fool yourself into thinking it means anything else.
Shaking her head clear, she went to pour them some water.
On her return, he was looking upward at a bunch at mistletoe hanging in the alcove.
“It has sacred powers you know.” Ursula handed him his glass. “The old Druids used it in their ceremonies, thousands of years ago, and this time of year was when the plant was said to be most potent.”
“Interesting.” Rye drank down the water and craned his neck. “Potent for what exactly?”
“Healing illness, protecting against nightmares; predicting the future, even.” Hurriedly, she relieved him of his glass, setting both on the little seat under the window.
She happened to know that the ancient Greeks had gathered mistletoe as well—for their festival of Saturnalia and for marriage ceremonies—because of its association with fertility, but she wasn’t about to discuss that.
He reached up, plucking one white berry off the sprig.
“You shouldn’t; it’s unlucky just to pull them off. The only way to remedy it is to…” She paused, suddenly embarrassed. She’d been about to—almost had—invited him to kiss her!
“What’s that, Miss Abernathy?” He bent down, so that his lips almost brushed her ear. “Is there somethin’ else I need to know?”
It was bad of him, he knew, teasing her like this, but it was too darn fun to resist.
He’d been a perfect gentleman, just as he’d promised, but there was a time for a man to show a woman what he was feeling—regardless of propriety.
And he’d been waiting all day for this, watching that sweet mouth of hers as she explained a hundred and one things he could barely see the reason for. It was all to make other people feel comfortable, she’d said, as well as setting an example—but he couldn’t see the tenant farmers caring if he knew which fork was right for eating fish, or how he should be handling his napkin.
There was something else he did care about, and that was letting her know she was the best thing to have happened to him since he’d landed in this goddam place. He’d no idea if she’d been kissed before. It was hard to tell. She was all sorts of feisty but innocent with it: the way her face lit up when she laughed, and how the blush came roaring every time he brushed his fingers against hers.
But there was something mischievous, too—and not altogether ladylike, for someone who was supposed to be a teacher of etiquette.
As to whether she wanted him to kiss her, there was only one way to find out and that was to take the initiative. He’d cup his palm to that peach of a cheek and graze his lips against hers—going gently, of course.
She’d have the chance to get all indignant and stop him, if that was what she wanted. He only hoped he’d read the signs right, for once he started kissing her, he’d an idea it was going to be damn hard to stop.
They were already standing near hip to hip, so it was easy as pie to slide an arm back around her waist.
He surprised her alright, going by the gasp she gave as he pulled her in, but he’d been right about her being ready for kissing.
He let their lips touch just a little, to get acquainted, and she sighed right into his mouth. Tugging those petal-soft lips with his own, he had her arching into him. And, when he ran his tongue inside, she opened right up. She wasn’t fighting him and she wasn’t prickly. She was pliant and willing and pressing close.
She was trembling in all the right ways and kissing him back as if it were the only thing she wanted.
There was nothing about Miss Ursula Abernathy that was telling him to stop. On the contrary; she was waving a big old flag emblazoned with the word “go”.
Deepening the kiss, he remembered what it had felt like to lie beside her all night, to feel her warmth and listen to her breathing. That scent of hers, too—talcum powder and roses, and a little hint of something musky.
He groaned with the pleasure of it and clasped her tighter, thinking about the whole damn sweetness of what she was offering.
A woman didn’t melt like this unless she wanted a man to make love to her.
Yes, sir.
Miss Abernathy might talk of propriety but she was brimful of passion—and he was the lucky man to have discovered it before she even realised the fact herself.
Chapter Twelve
Early-evening, 16th December
All night, she’d tossed in her bed, thinking about Rye Dalreagh.
Thinking about that head-spinningly delicious kiss, and how good it had felt, being embraced by all that manliness.
She was pretty certain that one, if not both, of his hands had somehow ended up cupping her bottom. There may even have been a moment in which he’d pushed his thigh between hers and, rather than slapping his face, she’d let him do it!
To top it all, she knew she’d pulled out the back of his shirt—with the sole intent of laying hands on his bare skin.
She was a hussy!
A brazen strumpet!
A jezebel in the making!
She was also an utter idiot. Because the kiss hadn’t meant anything; none of it had.
When they’d come up for air, he’d gasped, “I don’t think we should—” and then the female contingent of his family had squawked into the room.
Fortunately, at least, it seemed her floozy-like display had gone unwitnessed. If the countess had an inkling of Ursula’s carnal proclivities, wouldn’t she be thrown out on her ear? As it was, she’d merely summoned Ursula to the gramophone and asked her to get it going again, so that Rye might show them all he’d been learning.
All he’d been learning!
She’d been forced to stand and watch while his five cousins took him for a spin and, clearly, Ursula wasn’t alone in harbouring shameless tendencies. Hers were not the only eyes admiring Lord Balmore’s buttocks as he executed his turns. The women were like cats licking their chops over a particularly juicy bit of fillet.
Declaring herself delighted, the countess had promised they’d assemble again the following morning to teach him some cèilidh dances—those Scottish jigs in which you swapped partners at every corner and most of the places in between.
Rye had gone along with it all, and she could hardly blame him. He’d told her all about his idea of duty—of his intention to live up to his family’s expectations and marry as they directed. It was only a waiting game.
Her lips—and other tender parts—had been nothing more than an hors d'oeuvre.
Come the afternoon, young Cameron had returned and whisked Rye off to discuss some new treatment for removing ticks from cattle—or something equally revolting—leaving Ursula to her own devices.
Retiring to her room, she’d brooded in maidenly frustration, wondering for the forty-seventh time what she was doing at Castle Dunrannoch. Even settling to a book seemed troublesome. What would Miss Abernathy have advised? To have her fun before the clock chimed midnight, or to pull herself together and behave with dignity?
She pulled out the little book again—The Lady’s Guide to All Things Useful. It had some queerly titled chapters, broaching subjects she would hardly have expected.
Flicking through, Ursula alighted on something about husbands, then seduction. Did the two go together? Surely, you didn’t need to worry about seducing your own husband? There was some old wives’ rubbish on aphrodisiacs and how to prevent pregnancy. Ursula gave a snort of derision but, on further consideration, made a small fold at the corner.
She scanned down the pages and her eye alighted on the word “lust”. That was more like it. What was one supposed to do when in the throes of some unreasonable passion? Take up cold baths and knitting? Pray for guidance?
To lust is to desire without rational limit. It is a headstrong, galloping beast which marks not the rein. A craving of the blood for the forbidden. A darkness most alluring when the stakes are high. To lust is to lose oneself, but to find something, too—that part of us which wishes to tear at life and devour it. Without passion, what are we?
All things in moderation, as the adage goes—including moderation itself. There is a time for recklessness and the unbridling of desire. Only choose well the object of your cravings, and remember that bright flames are apt to quickest burn.
Well, that was a surprise. Ursula read the section a second time. These sorts of books didn’t generally encourage one to give in to anything sinful.
Perhaps, with her time at Castle Dunrannoch being so short, she’d better get started on a little of that devouring, before Lord Balmore was permanently apportioned to someone else’s plate.
The notion of normalcy had departed when she’d boarded the Caledonian Express, so she might as well embrace it and behave like a true adventuress.
As a starting point, she needed to dress for dinner. She’d been so irked the previous evening that she’d pleaded a bad head and taken a tray in her room, but the countess was adamant she join them tonight, and the gong wouldn’t be far off.
Ursula only hoped she’d remember everyone’s names correctly, and how they were all related. There were so many generations and step-children…and how many Lady Balmores were there? It was tricky keeping it all straight. She’d quizzed the maid who’d brought her hot water, but there were still some gaps in her understanding.
Taking a piece of writing paper, she began jotting down all she could remember. She’d pop the mnemonic in her reticule and could take a peep if things got too confusing.
Certainly, there were no difficulties in choosing what to wear, for the restrictions of her luggage had permitted Ursula to pack only one change of skirt and jacket, three shirtwaists, and a single evening gown—one of dark blue silk with a low-scooped neck, embellished finely with midnight lace. She’d been confident that Daphne would lend her anything else she needed.
Still, the dress was flattering. She might sit at the Dalreagh table without feeling too humble.
Having contorted herself with the rear buttons, Ursula had begun pinning her hair—sighing for the absence of Tilly to help her—when there was a scratching at the door.
She pulled it open a crack and heard a faint feline mewl. A small but determined paw pushed the door wider and McTavish manoeuvred himself inside. Brushing past Ursula’s legs, he made a leap for the bed, stalking over the nightgown she’d laid out for warming, and settling himself bottom-first against her pillow.
She noticed then that he’d something in his mouth.
Something limp and scrawny, and very much dead.
With a satisfied air, McTavish deposited it on the coverlet.
“Urgh!” Ursula made no bones about shooing out the cat, closing the door firmly against McTavish’s protests.
Bringing the oil lamp closer, she peered at the thing on the bed—a scrap of brown fur damp with feline drool, four tiny paws pointing ceiling-ward and a very long tail.
What was she to do with it? She might move the corpse to the peat basket and ask one of the maids to remove it for her. Certainly, she didn’t intend to leave it where it was.
She was just reaching for the tail, when the mouse leapt up and burrowed under her nightdress.
Ursula gave more than a squeak!
The mouse, meanwhile, was quivering in fright, its whole body trembling.
“Oh dear,” said Ursula. “You were only pretending—and now what shall I do with you?”
The mouse looked back at her with beady eyes, twitching its nose between layers of ribbon and lace. It was quite a pretty mouse, truly, with soft little ears.
“You need to go outside.” Making herself brave, she scooped it up and went to the window.
That was no use at all. The glass didn’t open. Besides which, it was simply too cruel. She could hardly throw the poor thing from the fourth floor. It had suffered quite enough.
With a sigh, she put it in her reticule. Downstairs, she’d release it from the outer doors.
Chapter Thirteen
A little later in the evening, 16th December
The portrait dominated the far wall—a devastatingly attractive man in full kilted regalia, complete with cascading lace ruffles on his shirt and glinting broadsword in hand. He’d the same dark, curling hair and chiselled jaw as Dunrannoch’s newly arrived lord. The same air of sensual promise. The same dangerous mischief in his eyes.
Sipping from her sweet sherry, Ursula peered at the plaque on the frame: Dougray Dalreagh, thirteenth Earl of Dunrannoch. It had been painted in 1683.
Clan blood clearly ran strong.
“Ah, Miss Abernathy! ’Tis a pleasure to welcome you to the castle. I trust we’re making you comfortable.” The voice behind her was a little rasping but there was no doubting it as that of Dunrannoch’s laird.
Ursula caught her breath. Finlay Dalreagh lacked the strength to hold himself fully upright in his wheeled chair but he bore the same piercing look as the portrait. Even in his weakened state, she recognised the bearing of a man who was accustomed to being master of those around him.
“Forgive me for nae meeting you afore tonight.”
He fastened his pale eyes upon her—the same grey as Rye Dalreagh’s. “Age is both a privilege and a curse.” He smiled weakly. “I hadnae thought to see another Yule season, but here we are.”
Ursula curtseyed low, managing with scarcely a wobble.
“I must give ye my thanks for taking on my grandson at such short notice.” The laird gave a rascallish half-smile. “I’ve nae doubt he’s a handful, being woven from Dunrannoch yarn. Ye have only to look at him to ken that!”
The countess, hovering not far away, kissed her husband’s forehead. “No woman minds a handful when it’s so handsomely packaged, my love.”
Ursula averted her eyes as the earl gave his wife’s behind a playful pat. “’Tis your sweet heart that keeps mine young, Lavinia.”
“Flirting with all the pretty ones, sir?” The unmistakable Texan drawl of Lord Balmore carried towards them.
“Ha! There’s the young scallywag, seeing well to the Dalreagh tartan, too.”
The laird spoke nothing but the truth. It was the first time Ursula had seen Rye in much else but his shirtsleeves. Now, he wore a full kilt of dark russet accented with green, and a sporran of beaver, his broad torso encased in an evening jacket, its buttons gleaming.
Though the hair still curled at his neck, his jaw was clean and smooth. Without his stubble, he looked almost a different man, though the glint in his eyes spoke of his wild streak, regardless of the shaving.
Until now, she’d hardly believed Rye might manage what he intended. Not that his accent mattered, nor whether he remembered to butter his bread on his plate. It had simply seemed that he was too much of the outdoors to be polished up and put on display.
As it turned out, he was proving her wrong—and she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about it.
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