The ball-disguised-as-a-ceilidh was in full swing, and it seemed to Mared as if everyone who lived in the glens surrounding the lochs was in attendance, their brightly clad bodies crowding the salons and spilling out onto the terrace that overlooked a serene Loch Ard. A quartet of fiddlers and a bagpipe were at one end of the grand ballroom, playing waltzes and Scottish reels and quadrilles. Dozens of couples danced, both in the ballroom and on the terrace.
Footmen, dressed in the old-style Douglas livery with powdered wigs and short pantaloons, passed through the crowd, trays of little tots filled with Eilean Ros barley-bree held high above their heads.
Mared helped herself to one tot, discreetly tossing it back as she stood against a wall, watching her mother and father dance a Scottish reel. Ellie danced with the parson of Aberfoyle, while Liam laughed with a group of Highland soldiers.
Payton, however, was nowhere to be seen. Miss Douglas had greeted them at the door and invited them to proceed through the marble entry, to the ballroom. Curious about Payton’s whereabouts, Mared thought that perhaps he was on the terrace and considered walking outside to have a look about. But she was ill at ease in her old gown among so many people and self-consciously stayed back.
Besides, she couldn’t possibly imagine why she might care where Payton was. She should be overjoyed there were so many in attendance this evening, for it would keep him quite well occupied. He could talk of his sheep at length to the various unmarried women here, who would undoubtedly hang on every single word, just as Beitris tended to do. How tire-some.
And then the devil himself appeared at the terrace door with a beaming Beitris on his arm. As they strolled into the crowded ballroom, she looked perfectly happy, perhaps even a wee bit in love.
And he looked…handsome. Diah, he looked quite handsome in his formal tails and white silk waistcoat. And content.
Mared ignored the fluttering in her belly and determined that he and Beitris were perfectly suited to one another. A pretty lass. A handsome laird. Mared could congratulate herself now—she’d done quite well in pairing the two of them.
If only he hadn’t kissed her, hadn’t touched her like that. If only she hadn’t kissed him back.
When a footman walked by with a tray of barley-bree, she took another tot.
It helped soothe her uneasiness, left her feeling warm and fluid.
When the quadrille ended, Douglas handed Beitris over to Mr. Abernathy, the smithy’s son. Then he turned and looked directly at Mared, startling her.
He moved in her direction. He had spotted her so damnably easily, she thought, as she lifted her chin and smiled at him with serene indifference as he approached.
He was not the least bit deterred. When he reached her—one corner of his mouth upturned in something of a lazy smile—he bowed. In response, Mared sort of slid a bit down the wall and rose up again in her version of a curtsey.
“Miss Lockhart, how good of ye to attend our affair,” he said, his gaze taking in her gown and hair.
“Aye, and thank ye for the invitation to yer ball, which ye cleverly concealed under the pretext of a ceilidh.”
One dark brow rose high above the other; his eyes sparkled with amusement. “Pretext? I beg yer pardon, but ye are mistaken. This,” he said, turning slightly and looking at the crowded room behind him, “is indeed a gathering with a wee bit of dancing to enliven the evening. Is that no’ the definition of ceilidh?”
“I believe a ceilidh is more an informal affair than a full-fledged ball, milord.”
He grinned. “Semantics. One canna give a Scot a tot of whiskey and no’ expect him to kick up his heels, aye?”
She couldn’t help chuckling at the truth in that statement. “I think it quite impossible, aye.”
“Then having partaken of a tot yerself,” he said, nodding at the two empty glasses on the chair beside her, “perhaps ye might like a turn about the dance floor as well?”
“Ye know me better than this, sir. I willna dance for yer amusement.”
“Then dance for yer own amusement,” he said, holding out his hand to her.
She shook her head and looked away.
“Come and dance with me, Mared,” he said softly. “It would be discourteous to refuse yer host, aye?”
A waltz was forming on the strings of the fiddle, the distinctive wail of the accompanying pipes pounding out the rhythm behind Payton, and she glanced at his upturned hand from the corner of her eye. “They’ll think ye’ve lost yer mind, dancing with the accursed.”