Page 80 of Duke It Out
“What’s the matter, Jones?” Rory says teasing. “You’re not afraid of a dance, are you?”
It must be the whisky talking. He sounds like the dry, amused Rory I met in New York. His mouth curves in a sexy half-smile.
“I failed Scottish dancing in school,” I protest weakly as he takes both my hands.
“Follow me,” he murmurs. “It’s not that hard, I promise.”
“It is if you have two left feet,” I mutter, but I can’t help laughing as he tows me to the top of the two lines of people facing each other. And then the music starts and we’re off. I’m whirled around in Rory’s firm grip, then twirled by Annabel then tossed like a cork back into the melee before it starts all over again. By the end of the dance I’m sweating, tendrils of hair are hanging loose around my face, and I feel like I’ve done an hour-long spin class.
We tumble off the dance floor, laughing and gasping for breath. I’m clutching my sides, laughing so hard I can hardly breathe.
“That was possibly the worst Strip the Willow that has ever been danced.”
“That’s slander,” Rory replies. “I was excellent. You were deeply suspect.”
“I can’t feel my ribs.” I put my hands on my sides.
“You have to respect the rhythm.”
“I could go off you, you know.”
Rory grins.
“Could I change your mind with a drink?”
I nod, still breathless. “I could be persuaded.” My heart is hammering against my ribs and it’s not just because I’m out of breath. Something feels like it’s shifted, like for tonight Rory’s off duty and he’s more like the man I first met.
But we don’t get a chance to escape. The band surges into another reel and suddenly I’m gathered up and swept into a group of eight by a charming old man who smells of whisky and woodsmoke, grinning at me as he twirls me through the next dance. And then another, and another. I catch sight of Anna twirling in Jamie’s arms with a cat-who-got-the-cream expression on her face. She’s clearly got over being trumped by Fenella.
I lose count of how many hands I grab, how many kilts spin past in a blur of tartan, how many hoots of delight raise the roof as the drinks keep coming and the atmosphere gets wilder. I end up laughing in the arms of Rory’s farmer friend from earlier as – fuelled by cocktails and Dutch courage – I spin around the room doing a terrible attempt at the Military Two-Step.
My dress is crumpled. My hair is a mess. My cheeks ache from smiling. It’s chaos but it’s amazing.
Eventually the music fades and the lights dim slightly. A bell chimes from the balcony where the ceilidh band are taking a well-earned break.
Gregor, flushed and grinning, his apron gone at last, is standing beside Janey who’s looking at him with a fond smile.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he calls, his voice carrying easily. “Ror—His Grace would like to say a few words before the whisky sees off the last of your brain cells.”
Rory shoots him a look. I think that the last thing he wants right now is to give a speech, but duty always comes first, and so we watch as he steps up onto the makeshift dais and pauses for a moment.
The crowd quiets. I wipe sweat from my brow and accept one of Gregor’s cocktails from someone passing by with a tray.
He looks magnificent. Rugged and dark against the gold candlelight, kilt showing off his strong calves, his sleeves rolled up so the muscle of his arms flexes as he crosses them for a moment and surveys the room. And yet he looks tired to me – dark shadows under his eyes and the stubble on his jaw emphasises a hollow to his cheek that wasn’t there before. It’s a lot for one person to take on. The title is one thing, but the responsibility is huge.
“I know my father used to give this speech,” he begins, and the room seems to hold its breath. “And I know I’m not him.”
Kate slides me a sideways glance and I think she’s noticed too that for a moment the mask slipped, and Rory’s face looked almost haunted. I wonder if everyone who remembers the crazy antics that took place at the ball also knew the dark side to the late duke. There’s a rustle of agreement. It’s polite, but cautious.
“I don’t intend to be.”
That gets a stronger response. There’s some laughter, some nodding.
“I do intend,” he says, more seriously now, “to keep Loch Morven as it’s meant to be. A place where community matters more than ceremony. Where history isn’t something framed on a wall” – he waves an arm towards the huge portraits hanging in the ballroom – “but something we reckon with.”
I swallow, thinking of the contents of the diaries.
“To all of you—” Rory raises his glass. “Thank you for being part of this.”
