On the next dance step, he shifted his foot back as if to avoid my encroaching foot, and I laughed.
He grinned at my amusement and spun me in a faster circle, making the skirts of my gown bell out.
My cheeks flushed as the heat of the ballroom and the exertion of the dance began to warm me. I suspected Trevor and the other gentlemen might be sweating beneath their snowy white cravats, but he gave no indication of unease. Aunt Sarah had confided in me earlier that she worried the large ballroom would not hold the heat generated by the fireplaces on each end on this cold winter’s eve, but her concern proved unnecessary. Even though the gathering was not as large as I’d expected, being mostly extended family of my mother’s brother, Lord Rutherford, and his wife, and nobles and gentry from the nearby Border villages, the four score of people present still warmed the space quickly.
The Rutherford Hogmanay Ball and the accompanying bonfire and ceilidh dance for their tenants, the local tradesmen, and the servants of all who attended were an annual tradition. It had been many years since I last took part, but I had not forgotten the festive air, or the spirited ratafia punch so heavily brandied it burned the back of your throat. Great bowls of it stood on tables at one end of the ballroom next to bottles of whiskey, brandy, champagne, and a lavish spread of food—all within easy reach so that fewer servants were needed to attend to the guests of the ball, allowing them to enjoy their own gathering.
As a child, I remembered watching my mother ready herself for the Hogmanay Ball. Though I had been less fascinated than my older sister, Alana, who couldn’t wait to grow old enough to attend, I was nonetheless still enchanted by the sight of my parents together, descending the curving stair at Blakelaw House, dressed in full evening apparel. My father and mother certainly made a handsome couple, but it was the eager gleam I saw in each of their eyes, the joy and anticipation that arced between them that intrigued me. They kissed each of us children good night at the top of the stairs, and by the time they reached the bottom, it was as if they’d forgotten us entirely, so lost were they in each other and whatever mischief they anticipated that night.
I wished I could say that some of that enchantment remained. Perhaps had my father chosen differently, selecting a husband more like himself for me, someone steady and honorable, and without nefarious intentions kept hidden from us all until after the vows were spoken. Perhaps then I would feel more excitement at attending the Hogmanay Ball.
An image of Sebastian Gage swam to the forefront of my mind, as it inevitably did whenever I contemplated such matters. It had been almost two months since I had seen the golden-haired gentleman inquiry agent I had partnered with during two previous investigations, and somehow entangled myself with romantically, but the memory of his face, his voice, his lips pressed against mine had not lessened. The manner in which we had left things after I departed Edinburgh had not been satisfactory, but neither of us had been ready to discuss the tangled web of emotions that stretched between us. I had been raw with grief over my friend’s death during our most recent investigation, and he still had secrets he hadn’t reconciled with sharing.
As Trevor spun me through another set of turns, I couldn’t help wondering if Gage was still in Edinburgh. Was he attending another Hogmanay Ball, much like this one? Was he dancing with a lovely young lady?
“Stop.”
I glanced up at my brother. “What?”
“Stop contemplating whatever it is you’re thinking about,” he clarified and then shook his head. “It’s not making you happy. And I refuse to allow you to have any more gloomy thoughts. Not this night.” He leaned closer toward me, a twinkle in his eyes. “If need be, I shall force you to drink two, no three glasses of that vile ratafia punch, and then proceed to push you into every available male’s arms one after the other and order them to dance with you.”
“You wouldn’t,” I replied, feeling less confident than I sounded.
He narrowed his eyes. “Try me.”
I searched his face for any sign of weakness. “You know you would be risking your coach’s leather seats. I cannot always handle such strong spirits.”
“Oh, I know,” he chuckled ruefully. “Remember Dottie Pringle’s card party? You vomited down the front of my jacket.”
Our cousin Jock laughed loudly at Trevor’s words, clearly having overheard at least part of our conversation from where he danced with a pretty brunette next to us.
I turned to scowl at him as a blush burned its way up into my cheeks. “I didn’t know their wassail was mostly spirits,” I replied defensively.
Trevor’s stern expression cracked at that. “Well, regardless, I’m willing to risk my coach seats to keep that stark expression from returning to your eyes.”
“How do you know the punch won’t make me maudlin?”
He arched an eyebrow. “I’ve seen you foxed, Kiera.”