“For heaven’s sake. Don’t growl, don’t slurp, don’t burp or make any other ungentlemanly sound. Eat your soup like this.” Of course, she did it perfectly. Dipping her spoon into an imaginary soup, lifting it up to her lips, sipping from it without making as much as a sound. His eyes were glued to those pale pink lips of hers.
He shook himself.
Spoon. Soup. Right. Blast it if he couldn’t do this.
“No growling, my lord,” she warned.
He dropped the spoon. “Don’t call me that.”
“My lord. You need to get used to this address.”
He glared at her. “If you call memy lordagain, I will slurp, burp, growl, and fart my way through dinner.”
A peal of laughter escaped her. Her eyes sparked bright blue with the challenge. “No you won’t —my lord.”
He dipped the spoon into the glass and flicked a spoonful of water into her face.
She spluttered.
He roared with laughter.
Miss Weston wasn’t amused. She got up, picked up the glass and dumped the content right over his head.
Rivulets of cold water ran down his neck.
He spluttered.
She laughed.
He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face. “You fight unfairly, escalating in this excessive manner.” Then he stared. “It is true, you know.”
She sobered. “What is?”
“You have stardust in your eyes. And when you are happy and laugh, like now, they turn into shooting stars.”
He could drown in her eyes. His gaze focused on her lips, which had opened slightly and which seemed very close. He leaned forward.
Then they heard the door outside open, followed by the trampling of footsteps and laughter. Fergus just returned with the children. Just in time.
He jerked back.
Arabella tucked an invisible strand of hair behind her ear. “Where were we? Next on the curriculum: dance.” She sounded breathless.
“Oh, no, no, no.” He raked both hands through his hair.
“Yes. I’d like Katy and your grandfather to join in. The more the merrier.”
Philip groaned. Something told him that holding Arabella in his arms for a waltz was going to be a very bad idea.
Chapter 22
It turned into a merry evening. Philip’s grandfather could play the fiddle, Arabella played a tune on the piano and then attempted to teach Philip and the children the basic steps of a country dance, interspersed by Fergus’ words of advice.
“Never say we Scots aren’t dancers.” Fergus grinned.
“We know how to dance a Ceilidh so this can’t be much more difficult,” Katy told her. Her cheeks were red with excitement. She grasped the two–hand turn quickly.
Not so her father, who had two left feet.
