“At least one person in each pair should know the steps.” Irene took her boyfriend’s hand. “Besides, I want to dance with you.”
Cilla thrust both her hands toward Lachlan. “No protesting. You can’t say you don’t know the steps, and you can’t say you don’t like to dance. You can only say you don’t want to dance withme, which would be unspeakably rude.”
Aye, it would. He stifled a groan, bowed to her, and extended his hand.
Her hand slipped into his, and his fingers contracted with a rush of satisfaction and completion, as if playing the final note in a scale.
Lachlan set his jaw and led her to the ladies’ line. She was abonny lass, but not for him. For a naval officer to step out with a double agent would violate all regulations.
Yet as she grinned and bounced on her toes in anticipation, he couldn’t help but smile.
The tune began, and Cilla watched Father and Mother intently. As the dance progressed, Lachlan extended his hand to Cilla, instructed her, pointed her in the right direction, nudged her shoulder when she went the wrong way.
Never once did she stop smiling, laughing, trying—and he couldn’t stop smiling and laughing too.
What a talent she had, to step into something new, without any training, and let herself be imperfect, to laugh at her own mistakes, to take correction, to smile and make others smile.
As they danced, a weight lifted from his chest—the weight of war and duty and censure and expectations and responsibility. All that remained was light, Cilla’s light directed at him, filling him, and radiating back out in his own smile.
Far too soon, the final chord sounded. Lachlan bowed, and Cilla curtsied.
Another set of eight dancers clamored for a chance—lasses still in school and only two lads, the young Gunn brothers.
“Would you fancy some tea?” Lachlan asked Cilla and Irene.
“Yes, please,” the ladies said.
In the dining room, teapots and cups lined the sideboard, and Lachlan and Arthur filled two cups each.
To Lachlan’s right, Arthur raised one of his crooked smiles. “Cilla has a boyfriend, you say? Too bad, old chap.”
A rumble built in Lachlan’s chest. “I’m not—”
“Dinnae give up hope, love.” Mother sidled up on Lachlan’s left, her eyes aglow.
“Hope?”
“Aye. Cilla said she hadnae been dating her boyfriend long, and she never mentioned him until I asked her. I dinnae think they’re close. And I’ve seen the way she watches you.”
“Mother.” Lachlan glanced behind him to make sure Cilla wasn’t near enough to hear.
She wasn’t. But from where she stood in the drawing room, she met his gaze and grinned.
He grinned back before he could stop himself.
“Aye,” Mother said. “Dinnae lose hope.”
Lachlan spun back and topped off the final teacup. “I’m not hoping. I’m not interested. She’s a friend.”
Arthur and Mother leaned forward and exchanged a knowing glance.
Frustration churned inside. He had to stop this. “Wheesht. She has a boyfriend. That’s the end of it.”
He took both teacups and strode out of the dining room. He’d told a lie. How could he blame Cilla for acting when he did the same?
The ladies thanked Lachlan and Arthur for the tea, and they stood and watched as the young folk danced “The Eightsome Reel,” holding hands in a circle and sashaying around.
Cilla sipped her tea. “I hope we can dance this one. It looks fun.”
