Soul Of A Highlander (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)(9)

“Likewise enchanted my lord,” she said, giving a low, elaborate curtsy.

Well! My first encounter with an eligible young lady at court. I survived it.

Francis wasn't sure he'd managed much better than mere survival, but perhaps he would get better at it with practice.

“Right. Now all I need to do is find more ladies like that and give it another go.”

Like learning to joust. The first time you fell off the horse, you just had to get back on again and give it another go. Francis took a deep breath and walked further into the hall.

“My lord? Do come and join us. I am Lady Gertrude.”

“Honored, my lady. Lord Francis,” Francis introduced himself hastily.

He found himself drawn into the circle, which included two young ladies. He felt uncomfortable and looked around, focusing on the surroundings. A quartet played a stately measure and couples were already sallying out onto the dance floor.

“Shall we dance?” he blurted.

Lady Mirella, with whom he was talking, giggled and curtsied. “I'd be pleased to, Lord Francis.”

Mirella was a beautiful woman – soft, curvy and compact, with abundant curly hair and a full bosom. Francis took her soft, scented hand. He found he was shaking as he walked out onto the dance floor.

What do I do now?

“My lord? You know the quadrille?”

“I...would be delighted to learn,” Francis said awkwardly.

Mirella giggled. “Well, I am happy to teach you. In this place, if nowhere else, you must follow my lead.”

Francis went red as his body responded to the implicit statement. He couldn't help that the images running through his mind were of other sorts of dancing.

“Th...Thank you,” he stammered.

“Now, you stand here, and I go over there,” Mirella explained briskly. “There.” She grinned at him across a space of perhaps ten paces away, across a polished marble floor.

He watched as other couples stepped out onto the dance floor – ladies in elaborate brocade gowns, trains sweeping the floor, sleeves overlapping long, slim hands. The muted candlelight shone off glossy hair in elaborate braids and diffused softly on the velvet doublets of the other young gentlemen, courtly and graceful, who accompanied them.

What on earth am I supposed to do now?

He looked at his hands, feeling desperately awkward. The music started up and he looked around a little wildly.

If in doubt, copy what the other people are doing. He heard his father's sage advice.

Francis looked to his left and watched the other gentlemen. They all seemed to be waiting too. He stayed as he was.

The quartet struck a particular cadence. All the gentlemen bowed and the ladies curtsied. Francis quickly did the same. Then they stepped forward, right hands out, to touch the right hands of their partners.

Francis found himself doing the same thing. He was a little bit out of time with the others, since he had to copy what they did. It wasn't that he'd never learned any formal dancing – he knew how to do a sarabande, a gigue, a gavotte...he just didn't know the quatrain or quadrille – more elaborate dances that must have hit the court first.

They're all stepping back now. Step back. Oh, no. You just stood on someone's dress. Never mind. Step forward again. No one'll notice.

Francis could feel the heat of a blush rising in his cheeks and his heart was pounding in his chest.

Right. Now round again. Breathe, Francis. It's a ball, not an execution. Touch her hand; put your other hand on her waist. Oh, my goodness what a lovely waist.

He winced as he touched her sweet body, and then stepped back shyly, following the lead of the other dancers. The dance led them in a graceful circle, and then they were bowing and curtsying to each other.

They left the floor and Francis cleared his throat.

“Um...thank you, milady. It was an honor to dance with you.”

“Thank you, sir. You managed very well for a beginner.”

She giggled, but the tone was not quite as friendly as it could have been and Francis felt cut. He shook his head, surprised by it.

“Um...” he cleared his throat again, but Mirella was already gone, lost in the throng of nobles in the hall.

Well, if that isn't a surprise.

Francis blinked. It wasn't a particularly nice feeling, having his dancing-skills insulted, even if the insult was framed as a joke. He sighed.

Well, she's right in that I've never danced a quatrain before. But that was a bit unkind, really.

He noticed that the mood in the hall was changing – he had arrived a little later than the rest and it seemed that a pause in the proceedings was in order. Guests who had been dancing were heading toward the tables to take their seats. Francis shrugged and followed them. He felt awkward and silly and as if he stood out from the rest.

He followed the guests to the nearest table and sat down wearily, covering his eyes with his hand. What did he even think he was doing here? He wished he'd never come.

Who do I think I am? I'm just a poor excuse for a French nobleman, a country bumpkin with no idea how to behave. Redcap. Fool.

“Excuse me?” a sweet voice said in his ear.

Francis dragged a weary hand down his face. “Yes?” he asked. Then he opened his eyes and stared. He blinked and stared again.

It is her! The girl from the balcony! The one he had noticed yesterday. She was sitting beside him, dressed in a pink gown, that beautiful golden hair a mass of soft, reflective curls about her face.