Swept off Her Feet

by Hester Browne

  “Yes, I’m going to wear her blue stretchy one,” I replied politely. In fact, only one of them had done up—a long navy sleeveless dress, so plain it looked like something Mother Teresa would have rejected as being a touch frumpy. But it fitted, nothing was going to fall out, and the last thing I wanted to do was to draw attention to myself. I’d do that enough with my dancing. “It had a note on the hanger—Caledonian Ball, 2007.”

  Robert nodded, as if he knew which one I meant. “She catalogues them, so she doesn’t repeat.”

  “She can’t remember?” I blurted out. I’d have it all imprinted on my brain for the rest of my life. “It was really nice of her to lend me something,” I added, in case my face was giving away my shock.

  “Very nice,” agreed Robert. “She’s a very nice girl.”

  The nice hung in the air. Nice wasn’t really how I’d like my boyfriend to describe me.

  “And her notes were helpful. I’ve been doing the Eight-some in my head all night,” I went on, talking quickly as the atmosphere between us thickened with the parallel conversation we weren’t having, the one about what would happen after the ball, with him and Catriona, “but it’s all very well seeing it in theory—in practice, it’s so much harder.”

  “You’ll be fine,” said Robert. “We’ll look after you. You just have to relax.”

  I nearly laughed out loud. “How can I relax when I’m constantly braced to land in the fireplace and concuss myself?” I demanded.

  “You’ve got to trust us!” He grinned at my nervous boggle, and his eyes crinkled sweetly at the edges, turning his earlier briskness back into something more boyish. “We’ll catch you if you start heading toward anything lethal.”

  “What? Like Janet Learmont?” I joked.

  The glint left Robert’s eyes, and I bit my tongue. The two conversations had crossed over. “Sorry,” I said quickly. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t let that spoil your evening,” he said quietly.

  “Don’t let it spoil yours.”

  We looked at each other—not romantically, but rather grimly. There were so many things I wanted to say to him, things Alice would have said, knowing she’d be long gone tomorrow, but I couldn’t. I wasn’t Alice. I could imagine this conversation in thirty different swooning permutations, plus strings, but I couldn’t actually set it in motion in real life.

  “I’ll see you later, will I?” I pushed my chair away from the table, unable to bear it. My voice sounded too bright. “What is it? Drinks at seven, dinner at seven-thirty?”

  Robert nodded. “Dad’s doing cocktails in the drawing room.” His voice sounded kind of forced too. “The Winemakers Club’s invented two new ones especially for the evening. And you should know that both involve the Mark I version of his Kettlesheer Gold.”

  “Oh, my God,” I said, thinking of the dancing to come. “Is that safe?”

  “If it’s not, at least we won’t remember a thing about it,” said Robert.

  He was walking me to the door, and yet again I felt as if time were moving too quickly, sweeping me along while I was still trying to savor each dusty, eccentric moment of this week in someone else’s life. Tonight was going to pass just as quickly, I realized; it was already eleven, soon it would be the afternoon, and then dinner and then the ball, and then my time here would have gone, and—

  “Thank you,” said Robert, jerking me back to attention.

  I stopped at the door, half-buttoned into Alice’s cocoon coat. “What for?”

  “For telling me first,” he said. “You’re right—I don’t think Mum and Dad would react well. This is something I can do. Maybe make it less painful for them.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what he meant. “Er, good?”

  Robert smiled back, his large brown eyes full of complicated emotion—regret? amusement? weariness?

  “I’ll see you tonight,” he said, and those simple words sent a skin-shivering thrill through me.

  Twenty-three

  Several hours, two pots of tea drunk standing up, one polished dance floor, and a flower arrangement so cack-handed it was gently taken off me later, I lay in Violet’s vast enamel bath and wondered if she had ever got used to bathing in such magnificence, or if her own bathroom in New York had been as sumptuous.

  More sumptuous, probably. According to a note in her desk, she’d had the local plumbers run ragged installing American hot-water innovations. Even now, I had a bare eight inches of water to wash in, but I was taking my mind off that by focusing on the gleaming brass heating rail that pumped a little warmth into the room from some enormous boiler clanking away deep in the cellars.

  Cocktails, Ingrid had reminded me before she was hurried off by Sheila to have her final dress fitting, were at seven, “and make sure you eat the canapés before you drink anything Duncan offers you.” It was nearly six o’clock: I had an hour to transform myself into a princess, using only one small makeup bag, Ingrid’s spare Velcro rollers, and Catriona’s stretchy ballgown.

  I had at least three paste tiaras at home I’d never been able to wear—until now. Talk about ironic.

  I glanced over at my phone, balanced on the towel rail in case it caught some reception. While I’d been rushing around with paper lanterns and suchlike, I’d had a couple of typically bossy messages from Alice. Was Fraser properly warned about my tendency to kick out under stress? Did I have my ticket? Was I wearing clean underwear? (Okay, maybe not the last.) I’d texted back crossly, pointing out that she’d forfeited her right to order me around and that I wasn’t a remote-controlled car.

  She’d been ominously silent for the past couple of hours, which had led me to wonder if she was, in fact, on a Valentine’s date with a third hitherto-unknown person.

  That, I decided, would explain a lot.

  I was applying the final layer of mascara at the dressing table, wishing I had a maid to flutter around me, beautifying, when there was a brisk double knock on the door.

  I took one final look at myself in the mirror before I went to answer. Even taking into account the low-wattage gloom, I wasn’t quite as glamorous in real life as I felt in my head.

  I’d done my best, but to be honest, I was there last-minute in someone’s old dress, and it showed. My soft arms, unlike Catriona’s toned biceps, weren’t my best feature, and my updo probably wouldn’t even stay up till coffee was served. I just didn’t have the sort of hair that could be piled with casual elegance, not unless there were trained professionals wielding tongs. As for my evening makeup look—without my full arsenal of slap, I looked all right but not spectacular.

  I pulled out the pins and let my hair fall back round my shoulders. At least it was clean. And I didn’t have tattoos, and there was no way I could fall out of this dress.

  Shaking my head, I went over to the door and opened it.

  “Good evening,” said Robert.

  For a moment, I couldn’t speak.

  Literally couldn’t speak.

  He was standing inches away from me in full evening dress, tall and spare and comfortable, as if he wore it every day. The outfit was crisp, properly formal—the angled white bow tie, the spotless tailcoat—but everything else about Robert was soft and touchable, from his dark hair brushed back into a quiff to his freshly shaved skin.

  He was gazing at me with his dark eyes, appraising me with a faint smile on his wide mouth.

  “You look . . . nice,” I managed.

  “Not as nice as you,” he said. “But listen, I’ve brought you something. Can I come in?”

  I stepped back to let him into my bedroom and he brushed past, smelling of cologne and starch. An old-fashioned, formal but sexy smell that I hadn’t realized would make my stomach flip over until I smelled it.

  “I was going through some boxes this afternoon, after you left,” he said. “Cat’s dresses tend to be a bit on the minimalist side. Thought you might be able to use these.”

  I took the bag and sank down at the dressing table. Robert leaned against the f
our-poster and watched me.

  “Can you not watch me, please?” I said. “I feel like I’m about to pull a rabbit out.”

  “Close.”

  “Oh!” I pulled out something white and feathery. It was a delicious ostrich-feather shrug, as light as marshmallow, the creamy strands floating on the air as if they were underwater.

  “Violet had a selection of fur whatsits,” he explained, “but I wasn’t sure if you were bothered about that sort of thing. Most of them still had little paws.”

  “This is gorgeous!” Carefully I slid one arm into the shrug. I’d seen plenty of feather shrugs in antique clothes auctions, but this one was exquisite, a thirties dream of marshmallow backed with Parisian satin and as froufy as the day it was made. As it settled around my bare shoulders, a caressing, tickling warmth spread over my skin.

  I admired my new reflection in the mirror: the plain dress was transformed by the halo of pale light round my face, and so was I.

  Robert was looking at me through the mirror.

  “Are you sure no one will mind me wearing this?” I asked.

  “It’s been in a box in my sitting room for the last fifty years—I doubt anyone would even recognize it. Violet would be thrilled that her finery was going to the ball again. There’s more, though.” He nodded toward the bag. “Keep going.”

  I reached in again, and pulled out a long pair of white satin gloves with tiny mother-of-pearl buttons running up the insides of the wrists, and a shell-shaped Art Deco evening purse, and a tatty leather jewelry case.

  “Don’t tell me,” I said, pulling on the gloves. “All this turns into two mice and a kitchen boy at the stroke of midnight.”

  I tried to be light, but my blood felt shimmery in my veins at the thought of sharing Violet’s own accessories, in her own ballroom.

  “No, three o’clock. I got you an extension for breakfast. Last reel is a three-thirty, so it’s cutting it fine. Do you want some help there?”

  I had the jewelry case in my hand, and as he spoke I pushed the fastener and opened it. Inside, on a red velvet bed, was a dazzling array of square diamonds. Even in the dim light, they sparkled and glittered against their setting.

  “Robert! I can’t wear these! Are they real? I mean, shouldn’t they be . . .” I looked up, and the words stopped in my throat.

  He’d been watching me, amused at the grown woman pulling on ladies’ gloves like a little girl, but now his expression changed into something more serious.

  “I really don’t know. I think it’s safe to assume they’re not. But even if they are, it’s the least Violet can do for you, lend you some of her finery.” Robert pushed himself off the bedpost and reached out a hand for the necklace. “Let me help.”

  I passed it to him and lifted my hair up, exposing the skin at the nape of my neck. It felt chilly, with the feathers tickling it. I think that was what was making the hairs stand up anyway.

  “She might not think that. Me exposing her secrets.”

  “She sounds like she was a big girl about that sort of thing. You can tell this hasn’t been opened since 1934. . . .” Robert was very close to me. I could feel the warmth from his wool jacket, inches away from my back, and I could hear his breath, moving gently through his nose, as he concentrated on the clasp. “Right, got it. Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  He reached round and put the necklace round my neck. I flinched, partly at the shock of the cold metal on my warm skin and partly at the brush of his fingers just beneath my ear.

  Robert’s hands hesitated, and our eyes met in the mirror: his dark and bright in the dim light, mine wide and round. Suddenly my lack of makeup didn’t matter. The diamonds—crystals, paste, whatever—sparkled on my skin, and suddenly the dress didn’t look plain: it looked elegant. And I looked like a duchess, with some bachelor duke leaning behind me, presenting me with a necklace but really thinking about kissing the hollow of my exposed throat.

  I swallowed, because the way Robert was gazing at me made me wonder if that was pretty much what he was thinking too.

  The moment hung and shivered between us. I didn’t dare move, for fear of breaking it. In this moment, I thought, he could kiss me. He hasn’t not kissed me yet. Until one of us moves, he could still kiss me. If I can just keep this moment perfectly still, I’ll have a real memory of Robert in his white tie and his burning eyes, looking like . . .

  As I watched, Robert closed his eyes and slowly, very slowly, leaned forward until his jacket brushed against my back. I couldn’t tear my eyes from the mirror, even when I could feel his breath on my skin beneath my ear, then his nose touching my clavicle. My whole body was on fire, but I kept absolutely still, my own breath burning in my lungs.

  He hovered there for a second, breathing in the air round my throat; then abruptly he stepped back so I couldn’t see his face in the shadows, just his dark shape behind me.

  I could see my face, though, in the mirror. My cheeks were flaming red, and my eyes had gone black with desire, darker even than his. It felt as if I were melting from the inside out. It was all I could do to stay upright.

  “Sorry,” he said indistinctly. “You just smelled so . . . nice.”

  “ ’S fine.” My voice sounded faint, even to me.

  “Are you ready for dinner?” He retreated back to the bed, then seemed to think better of it, and crossed the room to lean against the mantelpiece. “The dining room looks pretty spectacular. Someone’s been in to light the fire, and Mhairi’s been bothering the dining table with beeswax all afternoon.”

  Oh, God, the table.

  “Can we not . . . you know. Don’t spoil tonight.”

  “We’ll talk in the morning. Well,” he corrected himself, “afternoon. No one gets to bed before five, so don’t expect signs of life before lunch. Although, as Dougie Graham always says, that depends on how your evening ends!”

  “Really?” I said, matching his bantering tone. “Should I watch out for him scuttling in and out of the rooms later on?”

  “That depends,” said Robert. “Mum said that if the roads are too bad for the taxis to get through from Coldstream, she’ll let everyone camp out in the spare rooms, so who knows? You might just get some traditional country-house bed-hopping yet!”

  As he said it, we both turned pink, and I had to look down at my gloves.

  “What time are you planning to leave tomorrow?” he asked.

  “After lunch,” I said. “Roads permitting.”

  “Sure.” He nodded. “But I’ll see you before you go?”

  “Depends how your evening ends,” I said, then realized what I’d said. “Um, I mean, I don’t know how the evening’s meant to pan out for the heir, if he, you know, finds himself celebrating . . .”

  I trailed off and looked at him. He knew what I meant. If he got engaged to Catriona. We both knew it. I wondered if he had the ring in his tailcoat.

  “Don’t wish the evening away,” he said softly. “It’s going to be a big night for everyone.”

  So that was it; he didn’t deny it. He was going to propose to her.

  I felt a sudden drop in my stomach, like being on one of those fairground rides that holds you at the top and then plunges you just when you’re not expecting it.

  “No,” I said, pushing it away. “I want to enjoy every moment of tonight.” If this was the only chance I was ever going to get to go to a ball and indulge myself in a mad crush, then yes, I was going to wallow in every tiny detail.

  Robert extended the crook of his arm with a mock-formal flourish. “Fraser has the honor of the first dance—might I have the honor of escorting you down to cocktails? If you’re ready.”

  “That would be wonderful,” I said. “Let me just get my things together.”

  Quickly I shoved my phone, my lipstick, my powder compact, and some hair grips into the tiny evening bag. The shell only just clipped shut.

  “Weren’t ladies once trained to travel light?” he observed.

  “What do you thi
nk all those pockets in your jacket are for?” I gave my hair a last tweak in the mirror and stood up. “Right, then.”

  Robert smiled approvingly and said nothing as he opened the door for me, and I stepped out into the dark corridor. Then he tucked my arm into his and walked me to the stairs.

  There was a strange atmosphere in the hall: it was echoey-quiet, but the bustle of the caterers in the kitchens drifted up from the spiral staircase, and the faint chink of glasses could be heard in the drawing room. The past McAndrews on the walls around us seemed to be waiting impatiently for the guests to arrive.

  I was sweeping along now, the long dress adding to my sense of stepping back in time. I wanted to savor every single second, as if this were our house and we were heading down to dinner with all the McAndrews of the past, slipping out of the shadows, from behind closed doors.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my and Robert’s reflection in the mirror as we descended the stairs—him endlessly tall in his white tie, and me punctuated with a puff of ostrich feather at the top of my long navy dress.

  I tried to conceal my sideways glance, but he leaned over to me and muttered, “What music’s currently playing in your head?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve got a soundtrack going, haven’t you? You’re descending the stairs in time to some kind of soundtrack.”

  “I am not!” I started indignantly, then confessed, “Something orchestral.”

  We’d reached the bottom of the steps.

  This was probably the last moment we’d get on our own. A mad panic gripped me. Tell him he’s making a mistake about Catriona! yelled a strange voice in my head.

  I pressed my lips together more firmly and felt my deep-red lipstick smear.

  “Right,” he said, more to himself than to me. “Here we go. Ready?”

  Gently I disengaged my hand from his arm, and he looked down at it.

  “Much as I appreciate the compliment of being escorted into the party by the Great Prize Bachelor himself, your date’s probably in there already,” I said. “This is Catriona’s night. You’re her boyfriend.”