Her mouth fell open. “Certainly not.”
“Then dance with me,” he said low.
“I shouldn’t.” She wiped her brow. “I’m already exhausted.”
He could see her warring within herself. Against propriety. Against her strict upbringing. He leaned closer, forcing her gaze back up to him. “Your next challenge, then. A dare. Dance the reel here, in the country where it originated.”
Arabella raised her chin. “Me? Dance with a brute like you?” She set her mouth, trying not to smile.
And then he was taking her hand, and couples were finding their places, and the fiddler’s tune led them into the first steps of the reel. The light in the room was soft, and the corners of Arabella’s lips curved up as they turned around the room in their circle of eight. She performed the intricate steps of the reel perfectly as they whirled through an exchange of partners, forming circles and arches, doing the cross springs and the traveling step.
The pace of the fiddle quickened as the next song began. Gavin grinned at her. “Ready for another?”
Her eyes widened as she realized there would be no break before they started into the next reel, one that wasn’t as well known in London circles. He raised his brows at her inquestion, in challenge, but she only lifted the hem of her dress and followed his lead, catching on to the rhythm and formation with ease.
“I can see what ye’re thinking, lass,” he said to her when the dance brought them close.
Her brow wrinkled in confusion, though she didn’t miss a step.
“Ye wish I’d worn a kilt.”
“Gavin,” she scolded low, laughing as they whirled away from each other. Skirts were swirling, chests heaving, and several couples retired from the circle, unable to keep pace. The room was stifling now, even with the windows open. The open step, a whirl and exchange of partners, a double kemkossy. Arabella was smiling wide, cheeks flushed, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor.
Gavin spun her in a clockwise turn. “For an Englishwoman, ye’re doing quite well.”
The staccato rhythm of their steps kept time with the beat. “Just see if I can’t best you at your own Scotch reel, Mr. McKenzie.”
The fiddle grew louder and faster, bridging into the next song, and more people dropped out. There were only three couples left now, including Gavin and Arabella, and they pushed forward, every move made on instinct because there was no thinking, only dizzying movement, the clapping of the crowd around them, the shouts of encouragement to the remaining couples.
Sweat beaded on Gavin’s brow and Arabella’s breaths came hard and fast as they circled right, then back again. The open step, a side hop and back, the fosgladh. Now there were only two couples remaining. Their feet were a blur.
The speed of the fiddle continued to mount, urging them on. Arabella was laughing now, her curls flying out behind heras Gavin spun her around. Unable to keep up, the other couple stepped back, both doubled over in laughter and in search of breath.
But neither Gavin nor Arabella was ready to stop, and they continued in a dizzying fashion, in and out, forward and back, circling, stepping, until finally, finally, Gavin couldn’t keep up. He stepped back while Arabella continued on, feet whirring, keeping time with the music until at last the fiddler slowed and played the closing chord with fanfare.
Gavin reached for Arabella’s hand and held it up in triumph. “Your victor,” he shouted, breath still heaving. The room broke out in a cheer and Arabella was laughing, beaming, and panting all at once.
“Open the back doors!” someone called, then the French doors at the back of the house were being pushed open, light spilling out into the darkness.
Gavin grabbed a drink from a nearby tray, guiding Arabella through the crowd that was slowly dispersing on the back lawn and into the gardens. A delicious breeze swept down the hills.
Several small saplings on the side of the house provided a quiet place for the two of them to catch their breaths. Arabella turned to face him, the moon lighting her features. “I’ve never been so tired in my life. You should have warned me!” she accused, laughing.
He grinned. “And risk ye refusing? Never.” He placed the drink in her hands, his fingers brushing over hers. The mood between them shifted in an instant as she stared up at him, eyes sparkling.
Gavin had guessed there would be dancing tonight. And from the moment he’d laid eyes on Arabella earlier this evening, he’d planned to dance the reel with her, wanting to see what he saw now. A woman free of constraints. Hair coming undone. Cheeks flushed. Smile wide.
He’d known, or at least suspected, that Arabella Hughes, if freed from stricture and propriety, would be a woman who would prove a formidable foe for his heart.
What he hadn’t expected was how quickly he might fall. Already there was this tugging inside him, a kind of pull he’d never experienced before. The strength of it, ofher, took him aback. The realization that if he gave in to these feelings, they could be deeper, stronger than any he’d ever known. That already, this woman had a hold on his heart.
Nan’sgranddaughter.
It was a realization he wasn’t prepared for.
Wasn’t sure what to do with. At least not yet.
For now, he needed something, anything between them. “Ye were impressive in there, Arabella Hughes.” His mouth tipped up in a half smile. “Must be your Scottish blood.”
