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Authors: Lecia Cornwall

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BOOK: Once Upon a Highland Autumn
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“But there are not enough partners for the young ladies. You must,” the Frenchman insisted, bounding across the room to Mr. Graves. He stood facing the English butler, his nose barely reaching the middle button on Graves’s shirt. Alanna was holding her breath, waiting for the argument to come to blows as the two stared at each other.

“What sort of dancing?” Graves asked at last. “The Scottish Reel, the Highland Fling?”

Monsieur LaValle’s face crumpled.
“Mais non!
These ladies are going to England. I am teaching them the classics every young lady must know—the quadrille, the polonaise, the waltz.”

“What of English country dances?” Graves demanded. “There will be country dances at every social affair, and being such pretty young ladies, they will most certainly be invited to dance every set at every party. They must be prepared. When I was a footman to the Duchess of—”

Monsieur LaValle snapped his fingers. “And I suppose you are an expert on these country dances?”

Graves flushed slightly and straightened his cravat. “Quite so.”

“Truly?” Sorcha asked, her eyes popping. “Where on earth did you learn?”

Graves sent her the quelling glance butlers and dignified gentlemen reserve for puppies and children. “As I was about to say, I was once a footman in the employ of the Duchess of Kelledge. That good lady loved to dance, and held balls and parties often. It was a matter of observing. The staff would practice the steps in their off hours when the lady was out of the house—with her full permission of course. We knew all the very latest dances.”

Monsieur LaValle bounced on the balls of his feet once again, and folded his arms over his chest. “Oh really? Do you know the Cat In Pattens, or Miss Mary’s Frolick? What of the Duchess of Devonshire’s Reel?” he demanded.

Mr. Graves smirked, if a mere quirk of his cheek could truly be considered a smirk. Megan noted the rest of his face remained impassive. “I know them indeed, but those are very old dances. No one in fashionable society has performed the Cat In Pattens in some thirty years. Her Grace kept to the very latest dances.”

“Such as?” Monsieur demanded, his dark eyes darting over the butler.

“The New Dash, or Prince Edward’s Fancy, and the Brighton Waltz—the
very
newest dances, the ones that young ladies in England are learning this very moment, in order to be able to execute them flawlessly during the next Season.”

Megan could have sworn that Monsieur LaValle’s nose quivered like a mouse’s. He snapped his heels together and held out his arms. “Show me,” he commanded.

Graves drew back. “Show you?”

“Dem-on-strate,” LaValle annunciated.

“With you?” Graves let a disdainful glare tar the Frenchman from head to toe and back again.

Monsieur ignored it. “At once, if you please. I must know this Brighton Waltz and this New Dash.”

Mr. Graves sighed and pulled his white cotton gloves out of his pocket and drew them on. “Very well, but I will lead.”

“We shall see,” Monsieur said tartly.

The countess’s lady’s maid—hired for her skill with hair and her ability to play the piano—sat down to begin an accompaniment. “Ready,” she said, and Mr. Graves gave a crisp nod and took Monsieur LaValle in his arms.

As the waltz music filled the room, Megan watched as the dour English butler whirled the French dancing master around the floor in a room that had seen far more drunken Highland reels than waltzes. Mr. Graves’s gloved hands were placed just so on his partner’s waist, and he kept his head high and his knees flexed as he carried Monsieur through the steps with elegant grace. Monsieur played the role of the perfect debutante, his head turned like a flower on a delicate stem, his smile placid.

“It looks like fun,” Sorcha whispered to Megan. “If I could dance like this every day, I wouldn’t mind going to England so much.”

It did look like fun—Megan pursed her kips, trying to imagine Eachann waltzing in his heavy boots and his plaid. She frowned at her sister. “Surely they don’t waltz
every
day.”

Sorcha gasped as Miss Carruthers appeared in the doorway. The Dragon’s yellow eyes popped in surprise and her hand flew to the high neck of her gown as her vast bosom heaved with horror at the sight before her.

“What’s the meaning of this?” she said, coming into the room like an ill wind. The music and the dancing died at once, and Graves stepped back, standing at attention, his expression inscrutable.

“It is a demonstration of dancing for the young ladies,” Monsieur said breathlessly. “It is always best to have a male partner.”

Miss Carruthers squinted at him. “Better for whom?” she demanded.

Monsieur LaValle blushed to the tips of his elfin ears. “For the young ladies, of course. In London, they will
not
be dancing with other young ladies.” Miss Carruthers looked confused. “
Cher Madam
, if there are other suitable fellows to serve as dancing partners—and Lady Megan assures me there are none to be found this far north— then bring them. Otherwise, I must teach as I see fit.” He clapped his hands and turned to his pupils. “Lady Megan, you will partner with myself. Lady Alanna, you will permit Monsieur Graves to lead you out.”

“Wait,” Miss Carruthers said. “I will try it myself first.” She stepped up to the butler and made a deep curtsy. “Like this, young ladies. She rose and allowed the butler to place his hand upon her thick waist. “Do not allow the gentleman to hold you too close if by chance you
are
given permission to waltz—and you
must
have
express
permission, mind you, and even then,
do not
give in to the perils of moonlight and music and a handsome face.”

“Thank you, Miss Carruthers. I shall observe every propriety,” Graves said dryly, maintaining a very proper distance indeed as he took her hand in his.

The Dragon blushed. Actually, she turned nearly purple. “Oh, I didn’t mean that! I mean, I thought—” Graves offered what Megan had come to think of as the English imitation of a smile. Was it characteristic of butlers only, or did all Englishmen smile with such cold hauteur? Why bother to smile at all if you didn’t mean it? Graves twirled Miss Carruthers, and she stifled a surprised whoop as he released her. He turned to Sorcha and bowed.

“Shall we waltz, Lady Sorcha?” he asked, holding out his hand. “With Miss Carruthers’s
express
permission, of course.”

Megan stifled a fit of laughter. She stumbled, crushing Monsieur’s toes. He winced and glared at her.

“It is all well and good here with me, Lady Megan. I am paid well to suffer the breaking of my toes, but what if I was a duke or an earl?
Non, mademoiselle
—you must not crush
his
feet. Your full attention, if you please.”

“But I won’t—” Megan began, but she was interrupted when her mother rushed into the room.

There were tears in her eyes, and she crossed to Megan at once, ignoring the unusual dance whirling around her. Monsieur stepped back as the countess took her daughter’s hands.

Megan gripped her mother’s icy fingers, her throat drying with dread. “Good heavens, Mama, what’s wrong?” A dozen possibilities whirled through her mind—Alec killed, Caroline hurt, Eachann shipwrecked and given up for lost in some foreign land.

“Oh my dearest girl. All our dreams have come true. An English lord has come to us! A
single
English lord, unmarried, and an earl!” she gushed. “It’s an answer to a prayer!”

Or a curse. Megan felt her skin go cold. “He just—appeared?”

“Shall we have a proper dancing partner for our lessons at last, then?” Monsieur interrupted brightly.

“How is that possible?” Megan asked. “An
English
earl? Here?” She imagined him sitting in the salon, waiting for her to arrive, so he could snatch her up and carry her south. She felt her stomach clench, her heart draw in. She might have fled if her mother wasn’t still holding her hands in a deadly grip.

The countess blinked at the dancing master through happy tears. “Oh, he’s not here to be part of our lessons, Monsieur.”

“What a pity,” Monsieur said, deflated.

“Then why has he come?” Megan asked. “Why now?”

But her mother was still beaming at the Frenchman. “It’s not a pity at all, Monsieur! He shall be my daughter’s husband before the year is out.” She turned to her daughter at last. “Oh, my dearest Margaret, you’ll be a countess!”

Megan’s stomach fell to her feet like a dead bird. Sorcha’s jaw dropped in surprise, and Alanna stared at her sister, her face blanching. No doubt she was afraid she’d have to go to London alone if Megan married. Miss Carruthers turned purple yet again.

“Countess of where?” Sorcha asked.

“Does it matter?” her mother asked. “He’s a bachelor, so he must want a wife. Peers must have heirs, and for heirs, they must have wives.”

“Why not an English wife?” Megan asked.

“I have heard the daughters of English peers are often horse-faced. Perhaps he has not found a lady to his taste, and has widened his search. How fortunate you are that he has,” the countess said, grinning like a horse herself.

“Is he here? I mean
here
in the castle?” Megan croaked, looking anxiously at the empty doorway.

“He is presently staying in Dundrummie village, I believe, at the inn. Everyone is talking of it. He’s said to be looking for a more permanent place to stay. Your aunt had word that he was seen in Glen Dorian only yesterday, poking around that dreadful old castle. I had your Aunt Eleanor send an invitation to him at once, of course, and I am pleased to say that he shall be here for supper tonight.”

“Yesterday? But I was at—” Megan snapped her lips shut. Had he been there, hidden in the rubble, or standing high on a hill, watching her? Hot blood flooded into her cheeks. She’d fled from the castle like a ninny, at a dead run, her skirts high. “Tonight?” She realized the horror of that, too.

“You must go upstairs and make ready at once,” the countess said, looking at her daughter’s plain dress. “Her hair—Miss Carruthers, it must be done in an English style, and her gown must be in the first stare of London fashion.”

Miss Carruthers drew herself up to her full height, looking proud. “I shall see to it at once, my lady. It will take a great deal of work indeed, but Lady Margaret shall be quite up to snuff by the time his lordship arrives. What time is that, pray?”

“Eight o’clock, which I understand is a very fashionable hour indeed,” the countess gushed.

“But it isn’t even time for luncheon yet!” Sorcha piped, but no one paid any attention, save Megan, who glanced at the clock. Nine hours.

“We’ll need every minute,” Miss Carruthers predicted.

“Mister Graves, I shall wish to confer with cook and yourself about tonight’s meal,” Devorguilla said.

Mr. Graves bowed.

The countess turned back to Megan. “We’ll plan a fall wedding,” she cried, and squeezed her daughter’s hands, which were now even icier than her mother’s. “It will probably need to be in England of course, at his estate, wherever that might be. There are so very many preparations to be made! Should we start packing?”

She glanced at the maid, still sitting at the piano, watching the proceedings with interest. “For heaven sake, don’t sit there—go and fetch the seamstress and the pattern books at once. We will need a completely different type of wardrobe if we’re to go south now! What does one wear to a wedding in England, Miss Carruthers?”

Miss Carruthers’s eyes glowed as if lit by a fiery furnace inside, and she smiled like a dragon as she set off with the countess to make plans.

She’d been forgotten, Megan noted, and wondered if she could slip out the door unnoticed, and flee into the hills and not come back until after the English earl had come, had his dinner, and left again.

But Miss Carruthers returned, rolling up her sleeves as she crossed the room, and took Megan firmly by the arm and marched her upstairs.

 

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

N
ews traveled quickly in the Highlands. Kit had been in residence at the Glen Lyon Inn in the market town of Dundrummie for scarcely two days before invitations began to arrive. The dour-faced landlord had dutifully carried the first five missives up the winding stairs to the suite of rooms he had assured Kit were the best in the house, but after that he had turned the seemingly endless task of their delivery over to a pair of younger legs, his daughter Catriona’s.

“There’s another letter for you, Your Majesty,” the innkeeper’s pretty daughter said, dipping a curtsy when Kit opened the door to her knock.

“Thank you, Miss Fraser, but I am simply your lord, not Your Majesty.” He watched her freckled face flush with pleasure.

“My
lord? Oh, my. Then you must call me
your
Catriona.”

Kit felt a frisson of fear climb his spine at the gleam in her eye. “Not your personal lord, Miss Fra—”

“Catriona,” she reminded him.

“Catriona,” he repeated gallantly. “I am not
your
lord, Catriona. Nor am I Your Majesty. I am,
my lord
.”

“Your very own?” she asked, her fair brow furrowing.

“I am an earl,” he said patiently. “What do they call earls here in Scotland?”

“The Earl of Bothwell is called Jamie, I think,” Catriona replied.

Kit swallowed his aggravation. “What’s written as the address on the letter you’ve brought me?”

“Oh!” she said, her face lighting. “I canna read.”

“Perhaps just call me Rossington, then,” he sighed.

“Or Ross, mayhap. There’s a Ross in the village one beyond this one. Ross MacIntosh. He’s a smith.”

Kit held back a sigh. “Would you bring up some hot water, Catriona?”

“For tea?” she asked, twining a dark curl around her finger.

“For bathing. I’m expected at Dundrummie Castle for supper.”

Catriona grinned. “Och, how grand. Lady Eleanor is kindness itself.”

“I know,” he said patiently. “It was she who invited me, and if it’s all the same Miss—Catriona—I’d like to be on time, so I’ll need that hot water anon.”

BOOK: Once Upon a Highland Autumn
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