“It’s a waltz,” Sinclair said, tightening his grip on her waist. “Three steps. Here we go.”
He pushed her right foot backward, then her left foot to the side, a little pause, then her left forward, following the music. His hand was firm on her waist, his other hand warm on hers through their gloves. Sinclair pushed her through the pattern again, rumbling the steps in his fine Scottish baritone.
Memories stirred in Bertie’s head. She was a little girl again, she and her mother in their tiny parlor, her mother smiling as she pushed Bertie around the floor. One, two, three; one, two, three—there, you have it, my lovely.
Bertie’s eyes stung, and her step faltered. Sinclair’s brows snapped together. “Don’t cry, Bertie. I’m in a foul mood, but it’s not your fault. You’re doing beautifully.”
“It ain’t . . . it isn’t . . .” Bertie swallowed her tears. “Never mind. Don’t stop dancing.”
Sinclair pushed her around with more exuberance, turning with her in a wide circle. She saw why the uncomfortable skirt had been made the way it was—it floated out behind her, as Sinclair took her around and around the ballroom.
The room began to swirl—it was as though Bertie stood in place, in the arms of the man she loved, while the ballroom whirled around them. Colors flashed, the glittering lights ran together, but Bertie was safe, Sinclair’s strong arms holding her. She’d never fall. The boots Ainsley had laced so tightly clung to her feet while Sinclair spun her through the ballroom. Bertie threw back her head and laughed.
“Stop that,” Sinclair said, scowling.
“Why?” Bertie floated on pure sweetness, and she wanted to dance and dance. She was Cinderella in truth, and Sinclair was her handsome prince.
“Because it makes me want to kiss you,” Sinclair said, his gray eyes stormy. “I want to kiss you, Bertie Frasier. I want to haul you into my arms and never let you go.”
Bertie went hot, dizzy. “I wouldn’t mind that.”
“You would mind it, when you understood, lass.”
He was wrong. Bertie wanted to stay inside this bubble—like a scene in one of the snow globes Cat had. They’d be dancing, frozen in time, while the rest of the world went on around them. Bertie and Sinclair would remain together forever, and this joy would never end.
“Happy Christmas!” someone shouted.The orchestra ceased playing, and cheers erupted through the ballroom. The crowd rushed to the huge foyer, where the flowers Bertie had helped fold were being released, the light things floating down from the landings above. Sinclair caught one and handed it to Bertie—pink, one of the ones Beth had done. Bertie took it reverently, as though it were the most precious thing in the world.
The guests streamed outside—into the freezing cold and snow, no less—to watch fireworks bang and sparkle against the sky. The children, allowed to watch from windows in the gallery, shouted from above, and the dogs, somehow freed from their kennels in the stable yard, barked and flowed among the guests.
This was the perfect time for Sinclair to turn Bertie around in the dark and kiss her, but they were jostled apart. Bertie was swept away by excited ladies she didn’t know, who didn’t notice there was a governess in their midst.
Bertie looked around for Sinclair and saw him captured by his brothers, Steven’s hand on his shoulder. They made a fine sight, the three McBride men in black coats and blue kilts, fair hair pale in the darkness.
Sinclair caught sight of her and smiled. Didn’t matter how much space was between them, the smile said. They were still dancing, pulled tight together, while the world rushed by, doing things that were of no consequence at all.
No one had told Bertie that being a lady of luxury could be so exhausting. She crawled in bed in the wee hours, knowing she had to be up again soon. The children would be celebrating their Christmas morning in the nursery, with all the families, and Ainsley had said Bertie should be there. Andrew and Cat would be disappointed if she didn’t come.
All the beautiful and strange clothes had come off, taken away by Isabella’s maid, while Ainsley’s maid had collected the shoes. Unlaced and uncorseted, Bertie took a deep breath and fell facedown onto her bed. One of the kind maids pulled blankets over her and then left her alone.
Bertie expected to lie awake in her excitement, reliving the dance with Sinclair. She’d not been able to have another one with him, with all the Christmas fireworks, games, and the fairly silly skits some of the ladies and gentlemen had put on. The Scottish families had not done much—the English had done most of the celebrating. Ainsley had explained that in Scotland, Christmas wasn’t the important holiday—New Year’s was. At that time only the family stayed at the castle, but the whole village came up for the festivities, and the revelry would be unlike any Bertie had seen.
Bertie dropped off to sleep almost immediately, however, her body having spent its resources.
She woke again when a strong, warm hand landed on her back. The smell of whiskey and wool assailed her, and the bed creaked, as a man in a kilt sat down on it.
“Happy Christmas, Bertie.”
Sinclair’s voice was low and rumbling. He stroked her hair, now in a loose braid, and slid a tissue-wrapped box under her hand.
“Oh, no,” she moaned. “I didn’t get you nothing.”
His laughter was soft. “You didn’t have to, minx. I thought you might like this.”
Bertie’s curiosity rose as she tugged at the paper. “You shouldn’t give me presents. All the posh people at this do will gossip like mad.”