Page 59 of Christmas at Castle Dunrannoch
“Certainly not, Lord Balmore.”
“Call me Rye, please; you know that’s m’name.”
Removing the offending bagpipes, she flipped through the other recordings, selecting an alternative. “You’ll have to get used to it. Officially, everyone will refer to you as Balmore from now on—or Dunrannoch, when you come into your grandfather’s title.”
Rye frowned. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used t’that.”
As the first strains of the music rose, she directed him into position, placing his right hand on her waist. “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Helping you get used to new things. Now, I’m going to teach you to waltz, your lordship.” She placed one hand in his, and her other on his upper arm—an appendage, she noted, that was hard with muscle.
With a grin, he wrapped her more firmly. “If it means holdin’ you like this, I’ve no objection.”
For a moment, she wanted only to remain still and savour how close they were standing; the way his arm was encircling her.
His fingers crept round farther, and he was staring hard into her eyes. He wasn’t just teasing. She felt the force of something altogether more powerful. She’d never felt like this before, but she had an inkling of what it was.
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’sMoll Flandershad 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 fromSwan 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.”
