“Hmm? Oh, yes, it’s part of the whole look. It’s called a sgian-dubh, and it’s—”
I hold up a hand. “No. No history tonight,” I tell him, and to my surprise, he grins, a dimple flashing in his cheek. His curly hair has been tamed tonight, but it still curls around his earlobes, and he looks . . . nice.
Better than nice, but I’m not quite willing to admit that right now.
“No history,” he agrees, and then holds out his hand. “But how about dancing?”
Chapter 27
The ballroom is crowded when we walk in, my hand tucked into the crook of Miles’s arm, and for a moment, I stare at all the whirling skirts.
“That is just . . . so much plaid,” I mutter, and Miles does that huffing sound that, for him, almost passes for a laugh.
“How do you not get migraines looking at so many clashing patterns all the time?” I ask him. There’s an older lady glittering with emeralds, her skirt a riot of bright orange, green, and black, and she’s standing right next to a woman decked out in diamonds and a yellow-and-blue tartan dress. And that’s not even taking into account the kilts on every guy.
“Guess we’re used to it,” Miles replies.
Then he steps back a little bit, looking down at my dress. I remember the way Seb had looked at me in my bedroom, his eyes sliding from the top of my head to my toes, and how that had made me want to pull a blanket over my head.
Miles’s gaze doesn’t do that, which makes absolutely no sense. But maybe it’s that he’s looking at me sort of . . . admiringly as opposed to just assessing.
“The plaid suits you,” he finally says, and I squint at the two spots of color high up on his cheekbones.
“Are you complimenting me?” I ask, and I think those pink patches grow a little bit, which is funny because that implies Miles’s blood is not actually blue, but red, just like us commoners.
“It’s called manners,” he says, and then shakes his head, leading me farther into the ballroom but not quite to the dance floor yet.
I’m fine with that, as the current dance is some kind of folk deal involving people standing in a line, switching partners, swinging . . . it all looks a little dangerous to me, but I spot Ellie in the crowd, her golden hair bright and a smile on her face as she switches from Alex to Seb, her skirt billowing as she twirls.
I’m still smiling at El when I glance up and my eyes meet the queen’s.
She’s standing on the other side of the ballroom, talking to some ancient-looking man in the same bright red tartan the queen is wearing, but she’s looking at me, and, seeing my arm in Miles’s, she nods slightly and purses her lips in what I think is meant to be approval.
Out on the dance floor, Ellie swings back to someone else, a tall man I’ve never seen before, and Seb takes Tamsin’s hands. He’s grinning down at her, and she smiles back, her dark hair flying as he spins her into the next part of the dance, but she keeps looking around, her gaze sliding to the edge of the dance floor.
“Do you know her very well?” I ask Miles, pressing closer to speak into his ear. “Lady Tamsin?”
Miles has been clapping along with the rhythm of the music like most of the other people watching the dancers, and he pauses, his hands still pressed together. He has pretty hands, long-fingered and elegant, probably perfect for pointing imperiously at things.
“Not really,” he says, “but the queen has been set on her and Seb for ages.”
“Why?” I ask, and he gives another one of those shrugs.
“The Duke of Montrose is one of the richest men in Scotland, so maybe that. They also have a really excellent hunting lodge not far from here, and the queen does like her stag hunting.”
Twisting around, I stare at him. “So in this, the year of our lord 2018, she’d marry off her son to get access to hunting grounds?”
One corner of Miles’s mouth kicks up. “Royalty,” he says, and I think of Sherbet, telling me that a monarch could just take anything they wanted out of his house.
“You’re all insane,” I say, and Miles, to my surprise, doesn’t get all huffy and offended. Instead, he nods.
“More or less.”
“Monters! Lady Daze!”
Sherbet is heading toward us, grinning, his eyes bright and his face flushed, Galen following in his wake.
When I’d first heard about Sherbet’s Greek shipping heir boyfriend, I’d assumed he’d be as blindingly handsome and glamorous as Sherbet. Instead, he’s a good head shorter than Sherbet, kind of chubby, and so shy that he blushes any time he has to make small talk.
And Sherbet is totally nuts about him.
“Why aren’t the two of you dancing?” Sherbet asks, and Miles nods at him and Galen.
“Could ask the two of you the same thing,” he says, and Sherbet laughs, throwing his arm around Galen’s shoulders.
“Didn’t want to show everyone up, old man,” he says, then turns his eyes to the dance floor, where the dance is wrapping up. Seb leads Tamsin away, his head bent low as he talks to her, and Sherbet heaves a sigh.
“So that’s on, then,” he says, and Miles nods. “Seems so.”
Turning his hazel eyes back to me, Sherbet nudges my arm. “We’d all hoped Seb might settle on you since you’re such a laugh.”
I shoot him a wry look. “I don’t think ‘a laugh’ is what Seb needs.”
That makes Sherbet chortle, and he shakes his head, dark hair flopping over his brow. “True, true. But it’s good for Monters here, at least!”
He slaps Miles’s arm, and I try to keep the surprise off my face. So Miles hasn’t told them that we’re not the real deal?
The music changes suddenly, going from sedate background music into something wild and raucous.
Sherbet’s whole face lights up, and he grabs my hand and Miles’s. “Strip the Willow!” he yells, tugging us both toward the floor, and I yell back, “What?”
But it’s clear as soon as we’re in the crowd that Strip the Willow is a dance, not some kind of potentially perverted Brit slang.
I dig my heels in, coming to a stop. “Whoa, I don’t know that,” I say, watching as men and women begin to form two lines. My parents are in there, as are Ellie and Alex. Even the queen is in the lineup now.
But Sherbet is not taking no for an answer. “Neither does Galen,” he says, “so you can both learn. Me and Monters will teach you!”
Shooting a panicked glance at Miles, I lift my eyebrows and mouth, Help, but he only smiles and shakes his head.
“If you can get this, you’ll survive anything,” he says.
And the next thing I know, I’m standing next to Sherbet, facing Miles, Galen at his side, and my sister a few people down.
What happens next is . . . chaotic.
Strip the Willow is an enthusiastic dance that involves clasping hands, swinging, moving down the line . . . And it’s complicated enough that only a few people really know what they’re doing, so there’s a fair amount of colliding into each other, stumbling, and I’m dizzy within about thirty seconds.
I’m also laughing.
It’s hard not to, with the general chaos, the Royal Wreckers stealing partners from each other, the loud fiddle music, and for the first time since I came here, I’m not thinking about people watching me or judging me. I’m just . . . having fun.
I hold up a hand. “No. No history tonight,” I tell him, and to my surprise, he grins, a dimple flashing in his cheek. His curly hair has been tamed tonight, but it still curls around his earlobes, and he looks . . . nice.
Better than nice, but I’m not quite willing to admit that right now.
“No history,” he agrees, and then holds out his hand. “But how about dancing?”
Chapter 27
The ballroom is crowded when we walk in, my hand tucked into the crook of Miles’s arm, and for a moment, I stare at all the whirling skirts.
“That is just . . . so much plaid,” I mutter, and Miles does that huffing sound that, for him, almost passes for a laugh.
“How do you not get migraines looking at so many clashing patterns all the time?” I ask him. There’s an older lady glittering with emeralds, her skirt a riot of bright orange, green, and black, and she’s standing right next to a woman decked out in diamonds and a yellow-and-blue tartan dress. And that’s not even taking into account the kilts on every guy.
“Guess we’re used to it,” Miles replies.
Then he steps back a little bit, looking down at my dress. I remember the way Seb had looked at me in my bedroom, his eyes sliding from the top of my head to my toes, and how that had made me want to pull a blanket over my head.
Miles’s gaze doesn’t do that, which makes absolutely no sense. But maybe it’s that he’s looking at me sort of . . . admiringly as opposed to just assessing.
“The plaid suits you,” he finally says, and I squint at the two spots of color high up on his cheekbones.
“Are you complimenting me?” I ask, and I think those pink patches grow a little bit, which is funny because that implies Miles’s blood is not actually blue, but red, just like us commoners.
“It’s called manners,” he says, and then shakes his head, leading me farther into the ballroom but not quite to the dance floor yet.
I’m fine with that, as the current dance is some kind of folk deal involving people standing in a line, switching partners, swinging . . . it all looks a little dangerous to me, but I spot Ellie in the crowd, her golden hair bright and a smile on her face as she switches from Alex to Seb, her skirt billowing as she twirls.
I’m still smiling at El when I glance up and my eyes meet the queen’s.
She’s standing on the other side of the ballroom, talking to some ancient-looking man in the same bright red tartan the queen is wearing, but she’s looking at me, and, seeing my arm in Miles’s, she nods slightly and purses her lips in what I think is meant to be approval.
Out on the dance floor, Ellie swings back to someone else, a tall man I’ve never seen before, and Seb takes Tamsin’s hands. He’s grinning down at her, and she smiles back, her dark hair flying as he spins her into the next part of the dance, but she keeps looking around, her gaze sliding to the edge of the dance floor.
“Do you know her very well?” I ask Miles, pressing closer to speak into his ear. “Lady Tamsin?”
Miles has been clapping along with the rhythm of the music like most of the other people watching the dancers, and he pauses, his hands still pressed together. He has pretty hands, long-fingered and elegant, probably perfect for pointing imperiously at things.
“Not really,” he says, “but the queen has been set on her and Seb for ages.”
“Why?” I ask, and he gives another one of those shrugs.
“The Duke of Montrose is one of the richest men in Scotland, so maybe that. They also have a really excellent hunting lodge not far from here, and the queen does like her stag hunting.”
Twisting around, I stare at him. “So in this, the year of our lord 2018, she’d marry off her son to get access to hunting grounds?”
One corner of Miles’s mouth kicks up. “Royalty,” he says, and I think of Sherbet, telling me that a monarch could just take anything they wanted out of his house.
“You’re all insane,” I say, and Miles, to my surprise, doesn’t get all huffy and offended. Instead, he nods.
“More or less.”
“Monters! Lady Daze!”
Sherbet is heading toward us, grinning, his eyes bright and his face flushed, Galen following in his wake.
When I’d first heard about Sherbet’s Greek shipping heir boyfriend, I’d assumed he’d be as blindingly handsome and glamorous as Sherbet. Instead, he’s a good head shorter than Sherbet, kind of chubby, and so shy that he blushes any time he has to make small talk.
And Sherbet is totally nuts about him.
“Why aren’t the two of you dancing?” Sherbet asks, and Miles nods at him and Galen.
“Could ask the two of you the same thing,” he says, and Sherbet laughs, throwing his arm around Galen’s shoulders.
“Didn’t want to show everyone up, old man,” he says, then turns his eyes to the dance floor, where the dance is wrapping up. Seb leads Tamsin away, his head bent low as he talks to her, and Sherbet heaves a sigh.
“So that’s on, then,” he says, and Miles nods. “Seems so.”
Turning his hazel eyes back to me, Sherbet nudges my arm. “We’d all hoped Seb might settle on you since you’re such a laugh.”
I shoot him a wry look. “I don’t think ‘a laugh’ is what Seb needs.”
That makes Sherbet chortle, and he shakes his head, dark hair flopping over his brow. “True, true. But it’s good for Monters here, at least!”
He slaps Miles’s arm, and I try to keep the surprise off my face. So Miles hasn’t told them that we’re not the real deal?
The music changes suddenly, going from sedate background music into something wild and raucous.
Sherbet’s whole face lights up, and he grabs my hand and Miles’s. “Strip the Willow!” he yells, tugging us both toward the floor, and I yell back, “What?”
But it’s clear as soon as we’re in the crowd that Strip the Willow is a dance, not some kind of potentially perverted Brit slang.
I dig my heels in, coming to a stop. “Whoa, I don’t know that,” I say, watching as men and women begin to form two lines. My parents are in there, as are Ellie and Alex. Even the queen is in the lineup now.
But Sherbet is not taking no for an answer. “Neither does Galen,” he says, “so you can both learn. Me and Monters will teach you!”
Shooting a panicked glance at Miles, I lift my eyebrows and mouth, Help, but he only smiles and shakes his head.
“If you can get this, you’ll survive anything,” he says.
And the next thing I know, I’m standing next to Sherbet, facing Miles, Galen at his side, and my sister a few people down.
What happens next is . . . chaotic.
Strip the Willow is an enthusiastic dance that involves clasping hands, swinging, moving down the line . . . And it’s complicated enough that only a few people really know what they’re doing, so there’s a fair amount of colliding into each other, stumbling, and I’m dizzy within about thirty seconds.
I’m also laughing.
It’s hard not to, with the general chaos, the Royal Wreckers stealing partners from each other, the loud fiddle music, and for the first time since I came here, I’m not thinking about people watching me or judging me. I’m just . . . having fun.
