“More likely my English dancing master,” she shot back, finally taking a large gulp of the drink he’d given her. And then she coughed, spewing liquid all down her front, sputtering as she gasped in air.
Arabella pounded a fist against her chest, still coughing. “Whatwasthat?” she demanded.
Gavin winked at her. “Why, what did ye expect after putting us all tae shame doing the reel? It’s whisky, of course.”
ARABELLA SLEPT LATE the next morning. It had taken hours for her to fall asleep, mind whirring through last night’s events, replaying certain scenes again and again. The whole evening held a rosy hue. The chatter and informality. The camaraderie among neighbors.
And the dancing. So different from the ballrooms in London, cold and formal, everyone glittering with jewels. But there’d been something invigorating about it—the spontaneity, the young and old dancing together, the fiddle music.
And the reel with Gavin . . .
Arabella’s cheeks flamed every time she thought of it. Remembering the way he’d teased and goaded her. Remembering the warmth of his hands, the warmth of his gaze. The dizzying and exhilarating speed, the energy of the crowd, her moment of triumph when she realized she’d outlasted everyone, including Gavin.
It was a night she’d not forget.
And it was a night she knew her parents would not approve of.
Lying here in bed, a nervous guilt churned in her stomach. And she wondered why she should feel so culpable when all she’d felt last night was joy.
A knock sounded at the door, and Molly entered. “I’ve aletter for you, Miss Hughes. From your parents. I thought you’d want it at once.”
She handed the missive into Arabella’s hands.
And just like that, Arabella’s sunny mood burst into something far more somber. It was only a letter, only paper, but it felt heavy in her hands. Like a paperweight.
Her name was written on the front in Mother’s impeccable handwriting. Just looking at it made her feel guilty, as if her parents could sense from miles away that she’d been doing something wrong.
“What did you say you’d spilled on your dress again, Miss Hughes?” Molly asked. “I’m having a difficult time removing it.”
“Whisky,” Arabella said absentmindedly.
“Whisky?” she choked out.
“Yes, whisky,” Arabella said firmly, pulling the covers back.
After helping Arabella dress and arrange her hair, Molly stopped her as she was leaving.
“What about your letter, Miss Hughes?” she asked. “Don’t you wish to read it?”
“Maybe later,” Arabella said. “For now, you may put it in the drawer of my dressing table.”
Putting the letter from her mind, Arabella went downstairs. When she’d first arrived at Grandmother’s, Arabella remembered feeling anxious about how the days had stretched before her, with nothing to fill them. No events. No schedule.
Now she relished the freedom, letting each day fill itself with a walk down to the beach or taking a nap in the library or drying some of the flowers she’d picked in the hills.
After breakfast, she found Grandmother in the sitting room, looking out the window. She turned, smiling when she saw Arabella. “Did ye enjoy yourself last night?”
Arabella fought a blush. How could she even answer such a question? “I did. It was a very . . . nice . . . evening.”
“Nice?” she challenged.
Arabella smiled despite herself. Grandmother had a way of getting straight to the heart of the matter. “It was much more than nice,” she admitted. “I loved every minute of it.”
“That’s more like it.” Grandmother glanced back out the window. “’Tis sunny today,” she said abruptly. “I think a walk outside would do ye good. Go fetch a shawl.”
“It’s early yet. I thought perhaps we could—”
Grandmother shook her head. “My rheumatism is giving me trouble this morning. I’ll need tae rest.”
